Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

One - JANUARY

Two - MARCH

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Epilogue

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition / January 2010

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Coughlin, Patricia.
The lost enchantress / Patricia Coughlin.—Berkley Sensation trade paperback ed.
p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-15981-1

1. Magic—Fiction. 2. Talismans—Fiction. 3. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.O7755L67 2010
813’.54—dc22
2009039321

http://us.penguingroup.com

To my sister and brother-in-law, Kathie and Mark Walaska,
with love

Prologue

What is history but a fable agreed upon?

—NAPOLEON BONAPARTE

In summer, when Grand’s roses spilled like scarlet blankets over the high stone walls, filling the air with their unique, almost unbearably beautiful scent, our yard was the talk of the neighborhood. As opposed to the house itself, which was year-round fodder for gossip and speculation of a far less complimentary nature.

Cars slowed when they passed the ramshackle yet somehow still regal old Victorian where my parents, my younger sister, Chloe, and I lived with my grandmother. Time and nature had conspired to batter the once brightly painted clapboards to the color of faded orchids and turn the ornate trim smoky rose. In another place and time, Oz perhaps, the house might have blended in, but in a sea of homes wearing staid coats of white or gray, it was a beacon of weirdness. Kids would pedal their bikes for blocks to check out the moat of prickly, overgrown shrubs, gargoyle-crowned downspouts and the portentous weather vane—a black iron raven with red-jeweled eyes and outspread wings—perched atop the turret. They were careful to restrict their ogling to the other side of the street, not even the bravest daring to venture too close to what was commonly known as “the witch’s house.” Of all the crazy rumors that circulated about my grandmother, that was the most ridiculous of all. As anyone who bothered to research the Celtic protection symbols set in paving stones at each entrance could have told you, 128 Sycamore was clearly the house of an enchantress.

Few people have heard of, much less understand, the power of enchantment. Say the word “enchanted” and most folks think of a favorite Disney movie; say “enchantress” and it’s likely that one of two visions will dance in their heads: the first, pure slinky evil, dressed in black spandex; the second, an ethereal beauty with long golden tresses and a swirling rainbow of gossamer veils.

I’m not evil. I’m also not a blonde, and the only time I wore a gossamer veil was when I was seven and the veil was lime green and attached to my fairy princess Halloween costume. And sadly, while I like to think that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I’m sure whatever beauty I might possess doesn’t come close to the “ethereal” classification. I am, however, an enchantress. A genuine, honest-to-goodness, nonpracticing enchantress . . . emphasis on the “nonpracticing.”

The power of enchantment isn’t something you learn or acquire . . . or, I might add, ask for. It’s a blood right, meaning you’re either born with it or you’re not. In the case of my family, this rare power has been passed in T’airna blood from mother to daughter since . . . well, brace yourself because as incredible as it sounds, since forever, also known as “the time before time.” Of course, I can’t prove any of this with legal documents or carbon dating or historical accounts, but then, I don’t have to. Those who know the truth know, and those who don’t are better off that way.

An enchantress’s power is pure and inimitable, rooted not in witchcraft but in ancient magic now very nearly extinct. It comes from within. You’re probably wondering if there are spells involved. Sometimes. There’s also an assortment of other magical trappings to call on: crystals and talismans and amulets, special incantations and rituals; but all these are mere tools designed to enhance and channel the power that flows from deep within. And then there is the Book of Enchantment, the magical equivalent of a family Bible. It’s there that I first encountered the Winter Rose Spell, one of my family’s oldest and most treasured.

The spell is said to have inspired the romantic folk legend, which in turn inspired poet John Keats to write The Eve of Saint Agnes. According to legend, if a maiden performs a certain painstaking ritual she will be granted a vision of the man destined to be her one true love. The particulars of the ritual varied with time and place, everything from fasting and glancing backwards into a looking glass at bedtime, to weaving a lover’s knot and sleeping with it tucked beneath a silken pillow. In time the folklore came to be associated with Saint Agnes’ Eve, but never did it come close to matching the power of the spell itself.

The actual spell calls on the four elements of nature to fuse spheres of positive and negative energy into a single, seamless and very potent flow of time and space. Like I said, I can’t prove it. Hell, I can’t even explain it. All I can tell you is that it’s not something that happens every day. In fact, it’s only possible on a single night, and then only if the spell is executed flawlessly, down to the most miniscule detail. That night is January 20, Saint Agnes’ Eve and, according to family legend, the coldest night of the year.

I came across the spell by chance, if you believe in such a thing, written in a flowing, ornate hand on yellowed parchment and tucked deep inside the Book of Enchantment. Back then I loved everything about the heavy, oversized book with its worn-soft leather binding and the mysterious, heady aroma that wafted from its delicate pages; most of all I loved the solid comforting weight of it in my lap when I curled up in the overstuffed chair in Grand’s turret hideaway.

The only time I got to pore through it to my heart’s content was when my parents weren’t around. My mother wanted no part of what Grand insisted was our sacred birthright. She’d spent her entire life hiding the truth from others, desperate to fit in, to be “normal.” She even managed to keep my father in the dark until after their whirlwind courtship and elopement. They were married nearly a year before she ran out of plausible explanations for Grand’s sometimes, shall we say, unorthodox behavior and was forced to come clean.

In my mother’s mind, being normal meant having normal children, and she made it clear she didn’t want Chloe and me contaminated by magic, insisting it would only lead to trouble and ruin our lives. My father was even more irrational about what he referred to as Grand’s “wacky hocus-pocus crap.” Magic was a constant source of arguments and stress, and so for the sake of household harmony all things magical were kept pretty much under wraps when he was around. Which, for one reason or another, wasn’t always that much. To be honest, my folks were usually too caught up in the drama of their own lives to pay much attention to ours.

That was a good thing, since it wasn’t easy for Grand to censor herself, especially under her own roof; she was an extremely strong-willed woman who would have greatly preferred to turn her irksome son-in-law into a cocktail olive and drive a plastic toothpick through his heart. Grand and my father shared what you might call a mutual disdain society. It was only his frequent threats to move out—or more accurately, to move out taking my mother, my sister and me with him—that forced her to reluctantly walk a fine line between pacifying him and doing whatever she damn well pleased.

On the day I found the spell, my folks had taken Chloe, who was nine, to see Cinderella, which meant I had Grand and the Book of Enchantment all to myself for the afternoon. Even before I finished reading it, I knew the spell was going to change my life forever. It was as if the simple act of unfolding the fragile parchment permitted the words to float free and become part of me, like a promise written on my heart.

Ancient power burning bright,
Illuminate thru time this night,
The path of passion twined with fate,
That my heart might see the love who waits.

The path of passion twined with fate . . . The words set fire to my fifteen-year-old imagination. It wasn’t hard to persuade Grand to help me with the spell. It broke her heart that her only daughter had turned her back on magic, and it was no secret she had high hopes for me. She was convinced my birthmark, a Celtic cross over my heart, was a sign of destiny and foretold great things for my future.

I found the spell in late November, which meant I had only seven weeks to master it. Grand and I spent hours secreted away in the turret while she taught me to cast a sacred circle and to weave an infinity knot from twigs of willow and red ribbon so fine it slipped through my fingers like warm honey. In spite of my parents’ efforts to “protect” me from Grand’s magic, I’d seen her float teacups across the room, start fires in the hearth or change the color of the clothes on my back with no more than a glance and a few musical phrases. Now, for the first time, she actually spoke to me about magic and what it meant to be an enchantress.

I was like a dry sponge tossed into the ocean; I absorbed every word, and the more I learned and understood, the more mystified I was about my parents’ opposition to something so utterly, amazingly cool. And the more convinced I became that they were dead wrong about magic, the more eager I was to embrace it with a vengeance. I would make up for their shortsightedness. In fact, I would single-handedly prove to them how wrong they were about magic and our family heritage and everything. Who knows? That might even be one of the great deeds Grand was so certain I was destined to perform.

Until then my parents remained Obstacle Number One on my road to successful spell-casting. With January 20 rapidly approaching, I needed a foolproof plan to get them out of the house for the entire evening. I considered and rejected a dozen ideas before hitting upon the perfect solution. Cats. My Christmas present to them that year was a pair of front-row seats to see Cats in Boston. The tickets cleaned out my meager savings, but it was well worth it. I figured dinner, a two-hour performance, plus the fifty-minute drive each way would buy me more than enough time to do what I had to do.

As the night drew closer, Grand’s lessons focused on the spell itself.

One for magic. One for power. One for seeing in this hour.

One for seeing in this hour . . . The prospect of glimpsing my one true love excited and terrified me in just about equal parts. But I was ready. I just hoped he—whoever and wherever he was—was ready for me. My mother had traded who she was—or could have been—for love, and I was determined not to make the same mistake. I refused to believe her warning that it was an either-or proposition. I fully intended to claim my power and find true love.

Of course, historically the odds were against me, something else my mother was quick to point out at every opportunity. When it came to romance, T’airna women had been plagued by broken promises, broken vows and broken hearts. The only man Grand had ever loved died on the battlefield without ever knowing she carried his child. And while I never doubted my parents loved each other, in their own stressful way, their relationship was more about passion and melodrama than genuine happiness and understanding. It was a bad-luck streak that stretched back as far as anyone could remember, and it was one family tradition Grand was reluctant to talk about.

I intended to change all that as well. No weak, close-minded, unadventurous soul mate for me. I wanted a man strong enough to accept and love everything about me, a man willing to understand and deal with the fact that the world isn’t always exactly as it appears on the surface. A man who believed in destiny as much as I did. And I couldn’t wait to sprinkle rose petals into the circle of candlelight and see his face.

For the record, I never stopped believing in destiny, or magic for that matter. I’ve simply stopped thinking about them and allowing them to influence the choices I make. Of course, when I say I’ve stopped thinking about them, I’m referring to conscious, intentional thoughts only. Memories are an entirely different matter and much harder to control. Memories are stubborn and subversive; they laugh in the face of willpower and determination, hunkering down, making a home for themselves in some tiny, out-of-the-way corner of your heart, always waiting for a quiet moment when you lower your guard so they can claim center stage.

I remember what happened with icy clarity. All I have to do is close my eyes and I’m back on Sycamore Street on that crystal cold January night.

It had been storming on and off all day, and I remember looking out the kitchen window at the snow-clad cedars strung like hulking snowmen across the back of the yard and, for the first time since undertaking the spell, contemplating the all-too-real prospect of frostbite. In keeping with tradition I would wear a white robe and walk barefoot through the snow to pluck a rose from the bush that grew at the very heart of my grandmother’s garden. Thoughts of my toes and how much I enjoyed having five of them on each foot were suddenly foremost in my mind.

As I watched the drifts grow higher, I recalled Grand’s instructions and wondered how I was going to manage to concentrate and focus inward when all I could see outward was snow, a fluffy, sparkly, icy white reminder that this was Providence, as in Rhode Island, as in New England, land of Robert Frost and Jack Frost and every other kind of frost known to man, a place where roses do not bloom in the middle of January. Not even roses wild and headstrong enough to survive being uprooted from the rugged terrain of western Ireland and carried across the ocean in the bottom of Grand’s trusty valise.

Not in the snow. Not as a rule.

“And whose rule would that be?” was her response when I nervously broached the subject.

Whose rule indeed?

That night, as always, Grand radiated self-assurance that was effortless, bone deep and as genuine as the brogue that still laced her speech. To me, her voice had always been like a magic carpet; all I had to do was close my eyes and listen to be whisked away to places other people couldn’t even imagine, to a world she alone could conjure. In the whole universe, only Grand could have convinced me that if I truly believed there would be a single, freshly bloomed white rose waiting for me in the garden that night, there would be. And that nothing, not a sky full of snow or the coldest New England winter on record or all the laws of nature and physics combined, would interfere.

As the day wore on, I began to worry about more practical matters, such as my parents coming down with a sudden case of severe common sense and deciding not to risk the drive to Boston. That would ruin everything. My father was especially restless, even for him, chain-smoking and pacing around the house, stopping every few minutes to glance out a different window. But in the end, he was the one who overrode my mother’s qualms, insisting that instead of canceling their big night out, they should get on the road early. I could barely keep from dancing in happy little circles as I stood in the doorway with Grand and Chloe and waved good-bye to them. My biggest worry was out of the way, and all I had left to do was shovel the path and count the seconds until the clock struck nine.

At last the appointed hour arrived and I stepped alone into the snow-covered backyard. It took an immense amount of sheer will to ignore the biting cold—not to mention scary thoughts of what was rustling in a nearby bush—and concentrate instead on the moment at hand. Among the zillion and one things Grand had drilled into me was that for the spell to succeed, I had to totally surrender to the intention of each individual moment. If I tried to hold on to the moment before or anticipate the one to follow, it would fail . . . I would fail.

And I flat-out refused to fail.

Intention, I reminded myself over and over, think intention.

Reality bends to desire.

That’s really what it was all about; four simple words that encompass the timeless mystery at the core of an enchantress’s power. Grand told me to think of it as a portal that would open within when the alignment of heart and head and hour was right. I had only one teensy problem with that scenario; I needed the alignment to be right on a very tight schedule. Assuming there was a rose to be found, I had to pluck it, get upstairs to the turret room where Grand and Chloe were waiting, cast the spell—with all the flawless intention, chanting and focusing required—and still have the house aired out and every last trace of incriminating evidence cleared away before my parents got home.

I paused at the top of the frost-kissed gravel path leading to the rose garden and drew a deep breath, fighting to clear my mind and overlook the snow squishing up between my toes. It was all up to me now. If something was going to happen, it would be because I willed it to, because I wanted it and wanted it badly enough to bring it about.

“Reality bends to desire. Reality bends to desire.”

I spoke the words aloud, slowly and emphatically and with my teeth chattering. I closed my eyes, and as Grand had taught me I imagined my thoughts gathering like a funnel cloud, which I then directed toward the path ahead. When I opened my eyes the snow was still there, but the sensation of stinging cold was gone. I took a step and the ground beneath my feet felt solid and warm. I felt warm.

Reality bends to desire.

It was true! That amazing realization propelled me forward, past the frozen frog pond and sleeping patches of foxglove and wild mint. I carried a white candle, anointed with coriander oil and encircled with the infinity knot I’d woven that afternoon, to light my way.

I remember that the knot was perfect. It was all perfect, and just like the day I’d discovered the spell, I knew even before I reached the garden’s innermost circle that the rose would be there. Waiting. Glowing as softly as the pale moon that had suddenly appeared and hovered between clouds directly overhead.

Hanging at my waist was a silver-handled athame, a family heirloom I used to cut the stem with a single stroke, as effortlessly as if I’d done it a thousand times before, and it was in that instant that I felt it for the first time, flowing around me and through me. Power. Pure. Dazzling. Mine. I could hear it, smell it, taste it.

Time flowed as well, carrying me up the stairs to the candlelit turret room, where with the same ease and grace I cast the sacred circle and did what I had been waiting so long to do, what I’d dreamed of doing, what I’d been born to do.

Fire, Water, Earth and Wind.
End to beginning, beginning to end.

In this place and in this hour,
I call upon your grace and power.

With winter rose and candle fire,
I seek true sight and heart’s desire

As petals fall, this spell’s begun,
As I say, let it be done.

And that’s where my memory stops. Fade to black. I know I cast the spell and saw a vision in the flames. I know my parents arrived home earlier than expected, and that Grand and Chloe and I had to scramble to cover our traces and make it into our beds before they walked in. I know all that because I’ve been told; I just don’t remember any of it. Whatever memories there might have been are gone, burned to nothingness by what happened afterwards.

A matter of self-preservation? Or guilt? Maybe. Probably. I don’t know. I only know that if my life was a book, that long-ago night put an end to the chapter titled “Innocence.”

One

JANUARY

He parked in the shadows between streetlights and got out. He was wearing the usual: black leather gloves, black cashmere overcoat and a black look. The look, guarded and not quite a scowl, had been described as everything from dispassionate to demonic. On another man the effect might not have been quite so regally off-putting, but Gabriel Hazard wasn’t like any other man.

Physically he was just the tall side of average, his rangy build more bone than flesh, belying a fierce, sinewy strength that, combined with uncanny quickness and an aptitude for ruthlessness, made him a match for men twice his weight and girth. It was an advantage he was seldom called upon to substantiate. Most people were quick to pick up on his stay-the-hell-away-from-me attitude and smart enough to do exactly that. Men let him pass with relief; women were often a bit more reluctant, wondering what it was about him that made their pulse quicken and what it would take to unleash what their hormones told them was caged beneath those iceberg cheekbones, eyes as gray and bleak as winter skies, and chiseled lips that seemed to have forgotten how to smile.

He’d been told he was handsome, too handsome in fact, and though it had been years since he’d looked in a mirror, he assumed it was as true as ever. And he couldn’t have cared less. As far as Hazard was concerned, his face was simply one more weapon in his arsenal, to be used whenever and however it suited his purpose.

The door of the Mercedes S600 closed behind him with the solid thud befitting a car engineered to withstand attack by hand grenades and small arms missiles and things that go bump in the night. It was falling prey to those night things that most concerned him, not because he didn’t want to die, but because he didn’t want to live on anyone else’s terms.

Somewhere in the darkness a dog barked. Hazard instinctively tipped his face to the starless sky, letting the cold night air wash over him as he took the time to carefully absorb his surroundings. He didn’t like surprises. The dog was at least a block away and likely tethered since the barking hadn’t drawn any closer. The scent of burning wood was nearer. He closed his eyes and sniffed. Hickory, and much nearer.

He glanced around and saw smoke curling from the chimney of the house behind him. The lights in the house were on, the curtains open, and from where he stood he could see children scurrying about as a plump woman cleared dishes from the table. An equally plump man, his necktie loosened, newspaper clamped beneath one arm, appeared at the front window and peered into the darkness, frowning.

Hazard stood still, trusting his dark hair and clothing to render him one with the shadows. He had every right to be there, but he liked complications even less than he liked surprises. Having the police summoned to investigate a suspicious stranger lurking about would be a tedious complication of the sort he preferred to avoid. It would require talking to others and explaining himself, two things he generally abhorred doing. He waited patiently as the man surveyed the street in both directions and apparently satisfied that all was well with his little piece of the world, returned to his comfy chair by the fireplace, giving his wife’s round bottom a little love pat in passing.

The simple gesture set off a strong and unexpected twinge of yearning, and Hazard quickly turned away, cursing under his breath. God, he had no stomach for domestic bliss. And if he had ever yearned for a plump wife and comfy chair of his own, he’d long since gotten over it. Irritated with his little dip into sentimentality, he shifted his full attention back to the matter at hand, the reason he was out there freezing his ass off, his purpose in coming to Providence in the first place.

The quiet street, located on the city’s genteel east side, was lined with stately elm trees and painstakingly restored older homes. Older, that is, by American standards. Age was relative, after all. And the past had a way of losing its allure when you’d accumulated enough of it. He should know.

Not that he permitted his own past to burden him overmuch. Most of the time it existed only as shadows and ghosts, hazy memories of memories locked deep inside him, as deep as he could bury them. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow anything he’d once thought or felt or was interfere with what he was now.

A hunter.

First, last and only.

It wasn’t always so. Once he’d been something more. Something better. But that was ages ago. Once he’d been a loyal son, a passionate lover, a good man. Once he’d fought for a cause greater than himself and been glad for the privilege.

Now all he cared about was the hunt. It was, quite literally, his life. It dominated his every waking thought, and at night it filled what passed for dreams. And, if the hairs that had lifted at the back of his neck the instant he got out of the car were to be trusted, it might soon be over.

If his sources—and his gut—were correct, the hunt would end there, at 128 Sycamore Street, in the gracious Victorian-style home with its ample front porch and beguiling turret and who knew what dark secrets locked inside.

Even now a subtle but unmistakable current of excitement told him that this was it, that this house held the key to success. He wasn’t sure how—yet—but he had faith it would provide the missing piece of a centuries-old puzzle. He’d followed enough false leads and blind alleys to have learned not to get his hopes up so early in the game, but for reasons he couldn’t fathom, tonight, for the first time in a long time, he couldn’t stop himself from hoping. He couldn’t suppress the thrill of knowing the prize was in sight and all that remained to do was make it his own.

He’d intentionally arrived early for his appointment with Ms. Darden of East Side Realty. He’d wanted to be alone when he saw the house for the first time. He knew his limitations and that he would need time and silence if he was to pick up on any sense of connection with the old house. And he had picked up on it, quicker than he’d hoped. It was faint, but it was there.

Reaching to his inside coat pocket, he pulled out the Realtor’s report that had been delivered to him that afternoon at the hotel and moved closer to the circle of light from the street lamp to read it once again. According to the report, the house had been built in 1902 on an oversized parcel of land and had been largely rebuilt following a fire twenty years ago. Hazard paused to mull that over for a moment, just as he had the first time he read it, wondering how any damage done by the fire might effect his search and once again concluding there was no way to know. He frowned. He didn’t like questions he couldn’t answer or problems he couldn’t solve.

He continued reading. The three-story Victorian had six bedrooms, three baths, and a turret room ideal for use as an artist’s studio or romantic hideaway. Hazard had no interest in either. What did interest him was what was described as the room’s “stunning panoramic view of the city.”

A panoramic view meant the turret also had 360-degree access to the flow of light and energy, and that fit perfectly with other useful facts he’d discovered about the house, facts not mentioned in the Realtor’s report. With good reason; the form had no little check boxes for “magical protection wards” or “lingering traces of mystical activity.”

The rest of the report was prattle. Central air-conditioning, three-zone heat, backup generator in basement. New roof, galvanized gutters and downspouts. He glanced up to assess the roofline. As if, thought Hazard, he could see a damn thing in the darkness or that anything he did see would influence his decision to buy the house. That decision had been made before he ever set foot in Providence, and any flicker of remaining doubt had now been extinguished. The meeting with the Realtor and tour of the inside was merely a formality.

He considered it a stroke of luck—or fate—that his arrival had coincided with the current owner’s transfer to his firm’s West Coast office and his decision to sell the house. It simplified matters considerably; it meant he could acquire the property using his weapon of choice, cash. Cash was quick and tidy and he had plenty of it. The timing only added to his certainty that he’d been drawn to Providence and to this house in particular because this is where his search was fated to end.

What else could it be?

Two

MARCH

The night started out like any other. At least on the surface and the surface is where Eve lived. It was her comfort zone, so much so she sometimes forgot about all the things that were hidden, some just below the surface, others in plain sight . . . if you knew where to look. Sometimes she forgot there was more to the world than most people were able to see. Or willing to believe.

Eve was definitely a believer. Given her family history, she’d be a fool not to believe, and she was no fool. She’d always known there was another world interwoven with this one, a world of magic. She wanted no part of that world, not even that which was her birthright—especially not her birthright. But unlike most people, normal people, she wasn’t blind to it. So if fate had seen fit to send some kind of sign to warn her that her life—the orderly, successful, blessedly normal life she’d worked so hard to build for herself—was about to be split into a before-and-after scenario, she would have noticed.

She was inclined to think that fate simply hadn’t bothered. She was, after all, an experienced journalist, a good one, trained to observe small details and pick up on the random snags that occur in the fabric of everyday life. There had been no noteworthy snags in her life recently: no shooting stars, no flickering lights or birds flitting through the house, not even a decent chill up her spine.

Only a night that started out like any other.

The streets of downtown Providence were busy, the way they usually were on weekends. The traffic was heavy and impatient and snarled here and there the way it always was when so many people were trying to get places at the same time. The blustery weather was typical for late March, and in spite of a fine mist in the air a few hearty souls, mostly couples, mostly young, strolled along the River Walk.

The river hadn’t always run through the heart of the city. For decades it ran below, hidden beneath a web of concrete and asphalt. Then came a mayor with a vision of what the city could be, and soon streets were being ripped up, buildings torn down and the jewel of Providence was restored to its rightful setting. The mayor even got to see the transformation completed before all that pesky business with the racketeering charges and the trial and the being shipped off to federal prison. It was a scandal worthy of the capital of a state once known as “Rogue’s Island.”

Journalists from all over descended on Providence. At the time, Eve was still a rookie at WWRI-TV, earning her stripes by standing out in the cold to report on snow storms and spending her evenings in stuffy, overheated rooms to cover school board meetings. She was desperate for a chance to show what she could really do and knew the trial was a golden opportunity to be seen. Determined not to let it pass her by without a fight, she hounded the news director until he agreed to let her hang out at the courthouse when she wasn’t working on her real assignments. As she watched seasoned reporters elbowing and tripping over each other on the courthouse steps everyday, she realized that if she was going to get any airtime at all, she had to come up with her own angle on the story, a good one.

It occurred to her that when the mighty fall, the aftershocks ripple through their circle of friends and family the same as they do anyone else’s. No one knew better than she did how rumors and half-truths and outright lies take their toll, and how maddening it is not to be able to fight back and defend someone you love. Fame and money could work a lot of wonders, but they couldn’t stop a heart from breaking. That was her angle, she decided; she would tell the story from the inside looking out.

At first the mayor’s teenage daughter and his elderly mother refused her overtures, wary of anyone with a press pass. But as the long trial ground on and the competition for headlines grew heated, the coverage got nastier and more personal and eventually her simple, honest reporting of the facts won them over. When they were ready to tell their side of the story, Eve was the one they called. The finished piece painted a picture of the mayor as a complex man, not merely a disgraced public figure. It ran over five nights and won a New England Excellence in Journalism Award. More important to her than any award, the piece had helped her find her voice and establish her own style of reporting the news. And she never had to stand shivering in the snow with a microphone in her hand again.

One of the benefits of being a first string reporter was enjoying weekends off, so instead of having to rush home or change clothes in her office, she’d had plenty of time to get ready for this evening. Though not a primper by nature, today she had primped. She wanted to look her best tonight. . . no, she wanted to look better than her best.

Not that her best was bad. She’d seen herself on camera enough to be objective and determine that the bits and pieces of her were all perfectly fine and they came together in a pleasing, perfectly ordinary way, and she was at peace with that. Tonight, however, she wouldn’t be on camera; tonight she would be on stage, as one of the celebrity presenters at the Historical Society’s annual auction, a lavish and elegant affair. There would be spotlights and a live audience, and—shallow though it might be—she wanted to dazzle. Nothing crazy, since she wasn’t really the dazzling type. “Sparkle” might be a better word; she wanted to sparkle. She rarely got the chance to dress up, and she was going to make the most of it.

No basic black tonight. Her work wardrobe was a rainbow of black that she jazzed up with jewelry and simple silk T-shirts in the jewel tones that flattered her fair complexion on camera and off. She’d put together a sensible collection of classic, well-made pieces that coordinated so well she could dress without thinking about it, which is just the way she liked it. Usually. Today she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about what she was going to wear, specifically about the dress that hung at the very back of her closet. A deep shade of teal, the soft fabric had a slight sheen that subtly reflected the light. The straps were narrow, the back low, and the calf-length skirt floated and fluttered when she walked. It was an amazing dress because it made her feel sexy and like Cinderella at the same time, and she’d worn it exactly never.

She’d come across it in the suit department after it had been returned to the wrong rack. It was the right size and marked down enticingly low, and she’d walked out of the store telling herself that buying the dress hadn’t been a whim but a smart investment. Someday she would need a knockout dress and she wouldn’t have to waste time looking for one. And now someday had arrived.

She also had a practical reason for wanting to look good. The auction wasn’t only a charity event; it was what the station’s on-air personalities referred to as a “command performance,” also known as a public appearance. Her contract required her to make four of them a year; the other dozen or so she ended up doing because she didn’t have the heart to say no to any worthy cause. She would be there representing WWRI, with the station’s owners and upper management watching from one of the pricey reserved tables up front.

The auction was held in the Biltmore’s Grand Ballroom, on the hotel’s uppermost floor. The ballroom looked out over the city through towering arched windows clad in crimson velvet. Small recessed lights twinkled like stars overhead, and vintage crystal chandeliers hung above a gleaming parquet dance floor. Whenever she was there, Eve felt as if she’d stepped back in time to a more glamorous era. She could easily imagine Bette Davis holding court at the brass-railed bar or Bogie nursing a gin and tonic in an out-of-the-way corner.

The items to be auctioned were donated and ran the gamut from original works of art to lavish weekend getaways. Local politicians and “personalities” did the presenting, which basically consisted of smiling and pointing to an item or holding it aloft from the time the auctioneer introduced it until he banged the gavel and barked, “Sold.” Eve lucked out by being assigned to work collectibles, one of the first groups on the schedule. The sooner her duty was done, the sooner she could relax and enjoy the rest of the evening.

Her first item was an autographed New England Patriots lunchbox, followed by several framed movie posters, including an original from one of her favorite films, the forties classic His Girl Friday. The final item in the lot was a limited edition replica of the original Knight Rider vehicle. The car struck a chord with the men in the audience and bidding on it was raucous, with it finally selling for what Eve considered an appalling amount, even for a crowd with notoriously deep pockets. As soon as the gavel went down on the car, she very gently handed it over to a backstage assistant and headed back to her table.

“Nice job, Eve,” Barbara Vines called to her as she made her way from the stage area. Barbara was the media spokesperson for the Historical Society and the driving force behind the auction. “Can you believe the price on that Knight Rider thing?”

Eve grinned and shrugged. “Boys and toys.”

“So damn true. Great dress, by the way. And don’t forget to pick up a paddle at the registration desk,” she called over her shoulder. “Every bid counts.”

Eve considered passing on the paddle since she’d never bid in the past and had no intention of breaking with tradition tonight. Not because nearly everything was out of her price range, though that was definitely a consideration; she just wasn’t an impulse buyer. Or an impulse anything for that matter.

She could be the poster child for the Better Safe than Sorry Society. She might be willing to follow her hunches and take leaps of faith when she was putting a story together at work, but when it came to her personal life she thought things through carefully, considering the potential consequences from every angle before making a move. She balanced her checkbook and changed the oil in her car right on schedule and saved for a rainy day.

Still, it couldn’t hurt to pick up a paddle, she decided, turning in the direction of the registration area. It might even add to the excitement to have it right there at the ready on the miniscule chance she decided to throw caution to the wind and bid on something wildly extravagant. The Cruise to Nowhere always sounded so tempting at this time of year. Of course, it was most likely a cruise for two, which meant she would have to come up with someone to bring along; “nowhere” wasn’t a place you cruised to with your grandmother or sister or fifteen-year-old niece.

“Cruise to Nowhere” conjured visions of long, hot afternoons and moonlit nights, all running together in a romantic, soft-focus-y way. And at the moment she didn’t have much going on in the romance department. Actually, she had nothing. Zip. Zero. Nada. Fortunately, she was too busy most of the time to notice.

She quickly filled out a registration form and exchanged it for a wooden-handled paddle.

“Here you go, Ms. Lockhart,” said the smiling young woman behind the desk. “Number 811 . . . I hope it’s lucky for you.”

“Thanks,” Eve replied, thinking luck would come into play only if she actually bid on something, and the only way 811 was likely to see any action was if the ballroom got hot and she used it to fan herself.

She gave that a try as she turned away, expecting to feel a small breeze on her face; instead, something closer to a gale force wind rushed over her. And only her apparently, because when she opened her eyes and looked to see how those around her had fared, everyone was still chatting and moving about as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Everyone except the man standing face-to-face with her.

A man she’d never seen before. Even windswept and slightly dizzy, Eve was certain of that. There are some men a woman just remembers, and he was one of them.

He’d been approaching the registration desk from the opposite direction when he stopped in his tracks about two feet away her. Maybe less.

Eve wondered whether he’d stopped to avoid plowing into her or because he too had felt the sudden rush of energy. The intense way he was looking at her made her suspect he’d felt it, or that he at least suspected something out of the ordinary.

She was still gripping the edge of the table with one hand, only vaguely aware of commands bubbling up from some distant, autopilot corner of her consciousness. Smile politely, murmur an apology, move, damn it, move. She did none of those things. It was as if all the neuron pathways connecting her brain to the rest of her had disengaged.

He didn’t apologize or move away either. And Eve sensed that he had no interest in polite smiles. Something about him . . . no, she thought, everything about him sent the silent message that he did not want to be bothered.

She stood there, staring into his eyes far longer and more directly than manners dictated. And he stared back, his expression caught between wonder and irritation. An odd combination, she thought, but the thought drifted away as the sounds of conversation and laughter and clinking glasses softened into a distant hum and the air around her warmed and melted into the sound. For a fraction of time she couldn’t define, the entire universe was pared down to the few square feet of space separating them and Eve felt a sudden, powerful sense of being drawn to him, body and soul.

Anyone who didn’t know better might easily mistake the feeling for love at first sight. Either that or lust: the instantaneous, anchors-away, all-hands-on-deck variety that hits like a tsunami, leaves you witless and is frequently sparked by a bottle of something eighty proof. But Eve did know better. She wished she didn’t, but she did. She didn’t know exactly what was happening to her, but she knew enough to understand it had nothing to do with lust and even less to do with love.

It had to do with magic. And magic had everything to do with danger. So if A equals B and B equals C, she needed to get away from there as quickly as possible.

Easier said than done. In spite of the deductive reasoning of her brain, she didn’t want to walk away from him; she didn’t even want to look away, and it took all her will to do it. She lowered her eyes briefly, letting her gaze slide over him all the way to the floor, and then slowly looked up again, this time refusing to be drawn in by those dark eyes that never wavered, that seemed to see everything and give nothing.

That quick glance was enough for her trained journalist’s eye to catalogue the basics. Whoever he was, he was the perfect height, with straight, darkest brown hair, worn unfashionably long and swept back from the face of a first-class heartbreaker. The gods must have been feeling exceptionally generous on the day he was born, because they’d bestowed upon him the deluxe package: cheekbones high and chiseled, eyes dark, stormy gray, and a full, brooding mouth worthy of Byron himself. She’d bet anything the body beneath the long black overcoat—designer cashmere, almost certainly Ralph Lauren—was a lovely blend of lean and muscled. If she were twenty and silly and whole of heart, she would blow off the auction and follow him anywhere.

Fortunately, there were years of hard-won, battle-scarred wisdom between her and twenty. She couldn’t say the same for him. She pegged him as late twenties, thirty tops. Not that his age mattered to her any more than his GQ looks, she told herself sternly. She didn’t even care how he was connected to the sudden hijacking of her nervous system; she just knew she had to put a stop to it.

She started by squaring her shoulders and turning away. Next she took a deep breath and ordered her feet into action. So far so good. She was moving. Slowly and in the right direction, toward the ladies’ room. She needed a few minutes alone to regroup. The pull on her senses was still so strong it felt as if she was wading through molasses. Worse, she wanted to go back, or at least to turn and look at him one more time. And the wanting was like a weight in her chest. She forced herself to keep moving, and the feeling lessened as she put more distance between them. By the time she reached the ladies’ room it was no more than a tingle and a memory.

She hurried through the sitting area with its rose-damask-covered chaises and gilt-edged mirrors and into the first unoccupied stall. Locking the door behind her, she leaned back against it and waited for her head to clear and her heart to stop pounding and the world to right itself. What had just happened didn’t make any sense. Magic had no place in her life now; it was part of her past.

And part of your blood, a voice deep inside reminded her.

Eve closed her eyes and took a long, shuddering breath. The voice was right, of course. Like it or not, magic had always been a matter of blood. Like it or not, she’d been born an enchantress, with all the wonder and all the complications that entailed.

Once, before she knew better, she’d accepted that as easily as she accepted having green eyes and long legs. She’d opened her life and her heart to that birthright as if it was a blessing instead of a curse, and she paid for that mistake with a piece of her heart. When she turned away from magic, there was another hard price to be paid, and she paid that as well. That’s when she vowed she was never going to pay again. And, far more important, neither was anyone she cared about. She made sure of that by never, ever messing with magic, and in turn, it never messed with her.

Until tonight.

There was no doubt in her mind that magic was responsible for what had just happened. What she didn’t understand was why. Could it have been simply a fluke? A mystical glitch of some sort? Or was it something more personal, something meant for her? And what about the guy in the black coat . . . was he responsible for what had happened or on the receiving end of it the same as she had been?

If it was a fluke, a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time and getting caught in a stray energy field, she’d be more than happy to shrug it off. But if it was more, if someone, or something, had targeted her, then . . . then she probably wouldn’t have gotten off so easily, she acknowledged grimly.

Unless, Eve thought, she wasn’t being targeted so much as tested.

Frowning, she turned that possibility over in her mind. It didn’t make any sense. But then, she thought with a flash of resentment, magic didn’t have to make sense any more than it had to play by the rules laid out by man or physics. Magic had rules of its own; it was a world of ancient, arcane laws and mysterious, obscure prophecies, a world where knowledge was power and power was everything. Eve had neither, and she was certain—at least as certain as you could be about magic—of only two things. If she was a target, she was in trouble. And if she was being tested, it was in her best interest not to fail.

For that reason alone she refused to give in to the so-strong-it-hurt urge to plead a headache, call it an early night and get the hell out of there. That had been her first instinct, and it was still clamoring to be heeded. But running smacked of weakness, and that wasn’t the signal she wanted to send.

Her initial surprise had turned to resentment, and as she thought more about it, resentment gave way to anger, a controlled simmering anger that edged aside her fear. She could handle this. She would pull herself together and go back out there and enjoy the rest of the evening. Or at least pretend to. If anyone was watching, they weren’t going to see any cracks in her armor.

She waited until she was breathing normally and her hands had stopped trembling before she left the stall, and then she purposely took her time freshening up, combing her hair as if it were a matter of national security that each and every copper strand was perfectly aligned, applying a slow dusting of shimmery translucent powder and two careful layers of Wicked Roses lip gloss. Only then did she stroll back to her table, smiling and pausing along the way to greet friends, her manner so relaxed and unruffled no one would ever suspect how very ruffled she was on the inside.

She was sharing a table with other presenters, most of whom were also in the news business in one way or another. That meant there would be no shortage of opinions and friendly arguing to distract her and she was grateful for that.

She slipped into her seat beside Jenna Jordan, who hosted a popular radio talk show. They’d started in broadcasting around the same time, with Jenna working for a competing television station before finding her true calling in talk radio. She listened as Jenna finished delivering a typically colorful soliloquy on people who drive and talk on their cell phones at the same time. She had everyone at the table laughing, even though most of them—Eve included—had been guilty as charged at one time or another. That was Jenna’s gift; she made people laugh . . . at her, at themselves, at life.

“I mean it. I’m going to have bumper stickers made that say ‘Hang Up and Drive’ . . . and you’re all getting one,” she warned, giving her straight, shoulder-length black hair a toss.

As the laughter faded and the conversation moved on, she turned to Eve and grinned, her dark eyes dancing with excitement. Their friendship went back a long way, long enough for Eve to be wary when Jenna looked that excited.

Jenna was dramatic and energetic, a softly rounded woman with no shortage of strong opinions and no reluctance to share them, which is why her show was the top-rated in its time slot. Her husband seated on her other side taught classical literature at Brown. Richard Jordan had thinning brown hair and thoughtful eyes. He was the yin to Jenna’s yang, the calm to her storm. After ten years of marriage they still held hands and exchanged secret smiles, and once, at a party, Eve had turned her head at just the right moment and seen Richard do the impossible: he’d whispered in Jenna’s ear and made her blush.

Seeing them together stirred a yearning deep inside that most of the time Eve managed to forget was there. She had a good life, a full life, a safe life that she had chosen and worked hard to create. But every once in a while she was caught off guard by a glimpse of the kind of love and intimacy she could only imagine, and for one endless beat of time her heart stopped and her breath stuck in her throat and she wished she could do it all over again.

“Guess what,” Jenna said to her. “I think you have a secret admirer.”

Instantly the image of the man at the registration desk popped into Eve’s head and she tensed. “Really? Who?”

“Howard.”

She eased back in her chair. “Howard who?”

“Howard what’s-his-name, you know, from the governor’s budget office. Sandy hair, square jaw, not too short; he couldn’t take his eyes off you when you were on stage. And I heard him tell someone that you have shoulders like Angelina Jolie.”

Jenna arched her brows and nodded conspiratorially. She fancied herself a matchmaker and Eve a challenge to be conquered.

On stage, Ben, the auctioneer, was opening the bidding on a watercolor by a local artist.

Jenna leaned closer, her voice low. “I mean it. I think he has a thing for you.”

“What kind of thing?” Eve countered, only half listening as she looked around and tried to follow the bidding.

“You know, a thing thing. He’s smitten, besotted; he has the hots for you. Good God, Eve, how long has it been that I have to go all the way back to Getting Laid 101 to explain this to you?”

Good question, thought Eve, and again the mystery guy’s image flashed before her. She blinked him away and did the math. And winced inwardly. Had it really been that long? There was no way she was admitting that to Jenna. It would only encourage her. Shrugging offhandedly, she replied, “Not long.”

The watercolor went for five grand. Curious to see who bought it, Eve leaned sideways and peered between heads. It was a very nice watercolor, but still, five grand was . . . well, five grand. Half a semester’s tuition at the private academy her niece, Rory, attended.

She turned back to find Jenna still eyeing her with one silently arched brow, obviously waiting for a better answer to her question.

“Okay. So it’s been a while,” Eve conceded.

Jenna’s other brow went up as well.

Eve sighed. “A long while. Satisfied?”

“My satisfaction isn’t really the issue.”

“What can I say? I’ve been busy.”

“Not to mention the fact that when you do find time to let a man into your life, and he makes the ungodly mistake of showing some potential, you always find a way to sabotage the whole thing.”

“Potential,” Eve retorted, “is in the eye of the beholder. I give you my word of honor that the minute I behold a relationship with true potential, I’ll jump its bones.”

Jenna rolled her eyes. “Provided you remember how.”

Eve laughed. “I hear it’s like riding a bike . . . oh look, jewelry.”

Jenna had a passion for jewelry, the bigger and bolder the better. She immediately sat up straight and shifted her full attention to the stage. Eve’s love life temporarily back-burnered.

What she’d told Jenna was the truth, but slanted so it didn’t reveal more than she wanted to. Ironically, she couldn’t tell Jenna the whole unvarnished truth for the same reason she never allowed a relationship with a man to get to the serious, you-bear-your-soul-and-I’ll-bear-mine stage. She’d tried that once; it didn’t work. Being a fast learner, she knew once was enough.

She took a sip of her wine and joined Jenna in checking out the necklace being modeled by a young actress from the local repertory theatre. Ben was just slipping into high gear with his description.

“. . . a real beauty, ladies and gentlemen, a piece with true old world charm and most assuredly not the kind of thing you see everyday. Both the twenty-four-inch braided chain and the hourglass pendant are crafted from the finest gold, and our esteemed appraiser tells me that while he can’t verify it without breaking the glass, he believes the sparkly stuff inside to be diamond dust. Diamond dust,” he repeated slowly, an old hand at capturing the imagination of his audience. “Why, next to stardust, there’s nothing more magical in the entire world.”

Eve was riveted.

“And the magic doesn’t end there,” he said. “This magnificent piece has what we in the business refer to as ‘significant provenance .’ It comes to us through the generosity of the late Dorothy Dowling, who acquired it at a private auction of items recovered from the wreck of the good ship Unity. As those of you who are local history buffs know, the Unity was a grand old British vessel that went down right here off the coast of Rhode Island in . . . let me see now, I believe it was . . .”

Eve knew the date as well as she knew her name. October 23, 1898.

The tale of the Unity and her sole survivor, the “miracle baby,” as the press at the time dubbed her, was the first family story her grandmother told her, and she’d begged to hear it over and over again. The infant found floating in a wooden tub was Eve’s great-great-aunt Lydia. Lydia’s mother had been a kitchen maid, her father first footman, and they were traveling aboard the Unity with their wealthy employer to begin a new life in Providence.

Today, news of the disaster would be flashed around the world practically before the ship hit bottom and Child Protective Services would commandeer the miracle baby as soon as she came ashore. They would check the Unity’s online manifest to locate her next of kin and have her on the first flight back to Dublin.

A hundred years ago, things worked a little differently. With her parents dead and no next of kin on this side of the Atlantic, six-month-old Lydia was adopted by a local family—one of dozens that were touched by her plight and reached out to offer her a home. Decades passed before she had any contact with her relatives in Ireland.

Lydia’s son was a pilot stationed in England during World War II. On a lark one weekend he traveled to Ireland, hoping to surprise his mother with a picture of the small village where she’d been born, and when he found Glengara, he found a family. Afterwards, Grand and her aunt Lydia exchanged letters, and by the time the war ended, Lydia, a widow, had lost her only son, and Grand, who was pregnant, had lost the love of her life before they’d had a chance to marry. Lydia needed someone to help fill her empty house and empty days, and Grand needed a place to make a fresh start. In her grandmother’s words, it worked out splendidly all the way ’round.

“1898,” Ben continued after consulting his notes. “Over a century ago. And that means that what we have here is a piece of history, a genuine bit of long-lost sunken treasure. This is history and elegance and diamond dust all rolled up in one beautiful pendant. So, which of you proprietors of fine taste will start the bidding at a paltry five hundred dollars?”

Instantly a dozen paddles around the ballroom shot into the air; Ben pointed and acknowledged each in turn.

“Five hundred, six hundred, seven hundred,” he called out. “Eight hundred, nine hundred, and there’s lucky one thousand, over there by the coffee cart, the little lady in blue.”

“It’s pretty, in an old-fashioned way,” Jenna said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “But really, how often can you wear an hourglass?” She held the auction catalogue, open to the pendant, so Eve could see it. “And what on earth would you wear it with?”

Eve didn’t reply. She barely heard the question, her attention riveted on the gold hourglass the actress was holding up to catch the light. As the young woman twirled the pendant, delicate white beams flashed from it, slicing through the air like shooting stars. Eve was captivated, struck by a sudden sense of longing that made her fingers itch to pick up her paddle.

The bid amount was climbing steadily higher, and the number of bidders was dwindling, dropping to six, then five, then four.

Any minute, she thought, any minute there will be a winner. The auction would move on to the next item and the pendant would belong to someone else. Something deep inside her rebelled at the prospect.

Her heart was pounding and Ben’s words were spinning in her head.

Don’t be a fool, cautioned her common sense.

Any minute, any minute, any minute.

“Two thousand six hundred,” said the auctioneer.

Next to stardust, there’s nothing more magical in the whole world.

And just like that, the night that had started out so unremarkably, suddenly became something else.

Three

Later, she couldn’t recall actually reaching for her paddle or lifting it into the air, but suddenly it was high in the air, doing an excited little “Look at me, look at me” dance. Clearly her innate bidding style was not from the school of subtle sophistication.

It didn’t take long for Ben to notice and nod in her direction. “Ah, a new player. A bid of three thousand from the lovely Eve Lockhart.”

Three thousand dollars. Somewhere at the far outer reaches of consciousness, Eve understood that she had lost her mind. It didn’t stop her. Hell, it didn’t even slow her down. The bidding continued to climb and she climbed with it. What difference did it make? She’d blown through her rainy-day fund with her first bid. Now her vacation savings, Christmas account, and even Rory’s college fund were all lined up at the chopping block, waiting to be kissed good-bye.

Eve didn’t care. For the moment the only thing she cared about was walking out of there with the pendant. When the bidding reached five thousand, a woman seated a few tables in front of her shook her head and lowered her paddle and Eve felt a surge of glee that she knew was totally irrational.

“And then there were two,” announced Ben. From his podium onstage, he smiled at her and rubbed his palms together. “Do I hear five thousand two hundred and fifty?”

The bid increments had jumped from one hundred dollars to two-fifty, and for the first time she hesitated, wavering, but the auction warrior princess who’d commandeered her body refused to entertain the notion of quitting. Eve took a big swallow and nodded.

“Fifty-five hundred?” he asked, his gaze sliding to the opposite side of the ballroom.

And back to her.

“Fifty-seven fifty?”

Swallow. Nod.

“Six thousand?”

“Sixty-five hundred?”

Five-hundred-dollar increments now. This was crazy. She nodded.

“Seven thousand?”

“Seventy-five hundred?”

Each time the bid was tossed to Eve, she nodded quickly, before she had time to think. If she allowed herself to think, sanity might squeeze back in. She recalled reading somewhere that you should never bid at an auction without firmly fixing in your mind beforehand the maximum amount you were willing to part with. She had no such figure in mind. How could she when one didn’t exist?

She didn’t care how high the bidding went; she wasn’t going to stop.

She wasn’t going to lose.

She wasn’t leaving there without the pendant.

“Nine thousand five hundred?”

“Ten thousand?”

This time when Ben swung his attention to the other side of the room, Eve looked too. Her vision was pretty good, but ordinarily even “pretty good” wouldn’t be good enough for her to identify someone standing at the far end of a crowded ballroom. Tonight it was. Tonight she had no trouble at all recognizing the dark hair and long black coat of the opposition. And it didn’t surprise her in the least to discover that the man bidding against her was the man she’d encountered earlier. It didn’t surprise her, but for some reason she didn’t have time to stop and ponder, it made her even more determined to win.

“Twelve thousand?”

She heard someone, Jenna maybe, ask, “Are you crazy?”

You need to ask? thought Eve.

“Thirteen? Do I have lucky thirteen? I do. I have thirteen thousand on my far left. Do I have fourteen?”

She nodded with gusto, her gaze steady across the sea of tables and elegantly clad guests. She was staring directly at him when he turned his head and stared back, and she felt it for the second time that night, the sudden, unmistakable change in the energy patterns in the room. Only much stronger this time.

Things were getting weirder. And weird was never good. Weird attracted the wrong kind of attention and went against everything she stood for. Weird invited rumors and gossip. It had the power to ruin reputations, and lives . . . hers in particular. In the news business, a good reputation was built upon being honest and levelheaded and—it went without saying—sane.

She still wasn’t giving up on the pendant. What she wanted was for him to give up. She wanted him to just drop his paddle and give the hell up.

In the end it was as easy as that, as easy as riding a bike or falling off a log or making a wish . . . as easy as if so much time hadn’t passed and fate was still something she could trust.

She wanted the hourglass pendant, badly, and without planning to or intending to she gathered her thoughts together until they narrowed into a single unwavering beam focused on that one simple objective. Reality bends to desire. Grand’s words came to her from out of nowhere. And in that instant a pale, iridescent glow materialized, forming a misty triangle that stretched from the pendant to her to the man standing all the way on the other side of the ballroom.

Eve braced for a collective gasp from the crowd, but it never came, and she understood that just like the gust of wind in the lobby, no one else saw the mysterious mist hanging in the air; no one else felt the peculiar shifts in energy. Whatever was happening, she was completely on her own. Just she and . . . she looked across the ballroom in time to see his arm drop abruptly to his side and stay there.

“Sixteen thousand?” called Ben. “Sixteen thousand?”

Her rival didn’t nod; he didn’t even move. He simply glared. At her. If looks could incinerate, she’d be ashes. She turned away so she didn’t have to see it.

“No?” Ben prompted. “All done at fifteen thousand then? Fifteen thousand once . . . twice . . . and sold for fifteen thousand to Eve Lockhart.”

The sound of the gavel coming down might have been a shot from a starter’s pistol. That’s how quickly she was on her feet and yanking her purse from the back of her chair to make her getaway. The possibility that leaving early might be construed as a sign of weakness was no longer her number one concern.

Jenna was shaking her head in amazement. “Eve, my God, I can’t believe you . . .”

Eve couldn’t believe it either, and she wasn’t about to hang around and try to come up with a plausible explanation. “Sorry, Jenna, I really have to run. I’ll call you,” she promised without stopping.

She kept walking, responding with quick nods and smiles to the congratulations and surprised looks coming at her from all sides, until she reached the area set aside for payment and pickup. Several payment lines had already formed, all of them long. Considering how the evening was going so far, she wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of standing around waiting to see what freaky thing might happen next. Her public image would take a serious hit if she were to suddenly breathe fire or be pelted by a rain of toads. And so she did something she never did: she played the journalist card.

Barbara Vines was still rushing around. Eve caught her eye, waved her over and hurriedly fabricated something about a work-related crisis. Barbara immediately led her to the last table and discreetly beckoned to a young woman who appeared to be returning from a break. “Mandy, can you please help get Eve on her way as quickly as possible?” she asked quietly.

“Of course,” replied Mandy, reaching for the American Express card Eve already had out.

“Thanks, Barbara.”

“Happy to help,” she told her. “Breaking news waits for no woman.”

Eve soothed her conscience with the thought that it would be breaking news if puddles of toads suddenly appeared all over the ballroom or every tuxedoed man in the place turned into a penguin.

In a matter of minutes Mandy had completed the paperwork for the sale and retrieved the pendant from the locked holding area.

“I really love this piece,” she said as Eve signed for it. She glanced around and added, “Are you alone this evening? We have extra security guards standing by, and I’d be happy to page one to escort you to your car.”

Eve shook her head. “Thanks, I’ll be fine. I’m parked in the hotel garage, and I can probably be at my car before you can page someone.”

She made it a point to sound more confident than she felt. For all she knew she wouldn’t be fine. Considering the way the night was unfolding, there could very well be trouble lurking out there with her name on it, but not the kind of trouble that could be scared off with a nightstick or a gun, and she wasn’t about to endanger the life of some innocent security guard with a wife and kids waiting at home. This was her problem and somehow she would deal with it.

She slipped the jewelry case into her purse and looked up to find her bidding nemesis watching her. And making no secret of his interest. He was standing alone, away from the crowd, and if he was upset about losing, it didn’t show. In fact, considering how he’d lost, he looked a tad too serene to Eve. She didn’t trust him, and she didn’t like being watched, and she breathed a little easier when she was safely inside the elevator with the doors closed.

As soon as she was alone, her impatience took over and she pulled the black leather jewelry case from her purse. She couldn’t wait to get her first good look at her prize. Or maybe booty was a better word, seeing as how it came from a sunken ship. Her fingers shook a little as she untied the ribbon, opened the case and braced for fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of buyer’s remorse to come crashing down on her.

It didn’t happen. Not so much as a penny’s worth. In fact, she couldn’t recall ever feeling so right about anything in her life as she felt about buying this pendant. She’d never seen a piece of jewelry so beautiful, much less owned one. The gold gleamed both more softly and more brightly than any she’d ever seen. And Ben had been wrong about the miniscule crystals inside the hourglass; they sparkled far more brightly than either diamonds or stars.

Just looking at it made her feel good, happy and warm all over. She touched it, tracing the graceful curve of the hourglass with one fingertip, and the feeling blossomed. Excited, she lifted it from the case and slipped the chain over her head, tucking the hourglass inside the neckline of her dress, where the solid weight of it against her skin was immediately reassuring.

There was a melodic ting as the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors opened directly across from the enclosed walkway to the garage. Eve quickly shoved the empty case back into her purse and glanced in both directions before stepping out, relieved that there was no one in sight. She still couldn’t quite shake the antsy feeling, and halfway across the walkway she looked back over her shoulder to see if anyone was following. No one was.

She blew out a breath of relief and turned left at the first row of parked cars, glimpsing a sliver of her trusty old white Volvo parked in the very last spot. It was like the smile of an old friend, easing some of the tension that had turned her spine to stone.

That’s when she saw him.

He was leaning against her car, smoking a cigarette and watching her approach with the same enigmatic, oh-so-cool demeanor with which he’d just watched her leave. Which raised an interesting question: how could that be? She supposed it might be possible, if he’d bolted the very instant she was out of sight and taken the stairs. And if he then raced the elevator down nine flights without breaking a sweat, and if he made it across the walkway and all the way to her car without becoming the slightest bit winded and without her catching so much as a glimpse of him along the way.

That was a whole lot of ifs. Her left brain was telling her it was flat-out impossible for him to have beaten her there. And that it was also impossible for a human being to be in two places at the same time. So either he had an identical twin brother or . . . she wasn’t ready to connect the rest of those dots just yet. Suffice it to say she didn’t think he had a twin.

If there’d been a way for her to get to the driver’s door without passing him or, better still, acknowledging his existence, she would have. There wasn’t. Option two: take the initiative.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

He came away from the car and straightened to his full height, which was taller than she’d realized, a good head over her own.

“What do you think?” He spoke with a subtle British accent, in a voice that was smooth and deep.

“What I think is that it’s very interesting how I left before you and yet you made it here first. How do you explain that?”

“I don’t.” He flicked the cigarette to the pavement and ground it out with one black leather boot heel.

I don’t. Not I can’t. Not even I won’t. I don’t.

“What are you?” she asked, looking directly into his eyes and not bothering to hide her suspicion.

“My name is Hazard.”

“I didn’t ask who you are. I asked what you are.”

“Hazard,” he repeated. “Gabriel Hazard. And let’s just say I’m a collector.”

“Of what?”

“This and that.”

“Specifically.”

“Rare books. Antique firearms. And unique treasures such as the pendant you purchased this evening. It so happens I’ve been searching for that particular piece for a long time.”

“Why?”

He hesitated before shrugging. “The answer to that is complicated. Very complicated.”

“Then you’re in luck.” She ignored the sardonic lift of his dark brows. “Because complicated is not a problem for me. It so happens I’m clever. Very clever.”

“I’m relieved to hear that. It means you’ll accept the exceedingly generous offer I’m about to make for the pendant without a fuss.”

“No fuss. And no deal. Sorry.”

She took a step toward the car and though Eve didn’t actually see him move, he was suddenly there, blocking her path. She felt the energy around her stir, just as it had when they crossed paths earlier.

“You haven’t heard my offer,” he pointed out.

“I don’t need to hear it. The pendant’s not for sale.”

“That hardly seems sporting. Considering.”

“Considering that I won it fair and square?”

He smiled. It wasn’t a genuine smile, of course, but it was still plenty effective, more than enough to make her heart do a little stutter step.

“Define ‘fair,’ he challenged.

Ouch. Best not to let the conversation veer in that direction.

“Look, I’m very sorry to disappoint you,” she said, trying to sound reasonable but firm, “or seem uncooperative, but this discussion is really a waste of time.”

“That’s a matter of perspective. As I told you, I’ve already invested a great deal of time searching for the pendant.”

“And as I told you, it’s not for sale.”

He hesitated, his expression clouded, as if she were a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. “What if I told you it was a matter of life and death?”

Everything inside her went still. Was that a threat? Belatedly it occurred to her that remaining there alone with him hadn’t been the smartest move she’d ever made. She’d chased down interviews with enough unsavory types to know better than to let herself be manipulated into such a vulnerable position. It was more evidence—as if she needed any—that she’d been thrown way off her game.

“I suppose I’d ask whose,” she said in her calm and even reporter’s voice.

“Mine.”

It wasn’t the answer she expected, and she immediately suspected it was a trick. Before she had a chance to find out for sure, someone spoke from the shadows behind them.

“Not so fast there, pal. If you want to be real about this, both your lives are on the hook here.”

They both turned in that direction, Gabriel Hazard as startled as she was.

Eve would have bet the night couldn’t get any stranger. She would have lost. Standing in front of the concrete wall ten yards away, wearing shiny black suits, dark glasses and black felt fedoras, were the Blues Brothers, or at least a damn good facsimile.

Whoever they were, they definitely had not been there when she arrived a few moments ago. Eve was certain of that. Well, as certain as she was about anything that had happened in the past few hours. The relevant point was that they seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, which she knew enough to know meant they had appeared from somewhere else . . . another dimension or world or someplace equally fantastical.

That couldn’t be good.

“So,” said the shorter and rounder of the two, “that being the operational situation, why don’t you just do yourself a favor, doll, and toss that pendant my way?”

“What pendant?” she asked with what she hoped was a credible aura of utter cluelessness.

The Blues Brothers chuckled and elbowed each other.

Brother Small adjusted the tilt of his fedora. “What pendant, she says. Everybody’s a joker these days.”

Their laughter stopped abruptly, as if someone had jerked the needle off an old record album.

“I hate jokers,” said Brother Tall. “But just on account of I also don’t go for messing up a dame if I don’t have to, I’m going to give you one more chance to play nice and hand over that pendant. A little something I call the three-second chance. Three . . . two . . .”

He skipped one and both men started toward her. So much for chivalry.

Acting on instinct alone, Eve grabbed the pendant right through her dress and held on to it as tightly as she could. She had no idea what prompted Hazard to grab her and try to shove her behind him and no time to think about it. As soon as he touched her, the same iridescent glow that had materialized in the ballroom appeared again, this time forming a dome over the two of them so that they were cocooned inside a bubble of highly charged mist.

Hazard scowled suddenly and pressed his fingertips to his forehead as if his head ached, but still managed to keep his body angled protectively in front of hers.

“Nice trick,” said Brother Tall, his smile smug as he examined the mist. “Too bad for you I got a nicer one.”

They kept coming, their hands raised in front of them, palms open flat. When they were just inches away, blue lasers shot like blades from the center of their palms.

Terrified, Eve cringed backwards and came up against Hazard’s arm; it curled around her like a steel cable. She fully expected the evil-looking lasers to slice and dice their way through the mist and then do the same to them. Instead, there was an explosion of white sparks and a screeching sound so high-pitched it was painful, and the lasers were deflected with enough force to send both brothers flying backwards in a blue-black blur. They slammed into the concrete wall ten feet away and came to rest on their butts.

For a few seconds they just sat there, stunned. A very few seconds as it turned out. Rolling to their feet, looking all too resilient, they began moving forward once again, but this time there was more caution than swagger in their approach. Brother Tall even seemed to hold back half a step and let Brother Small take the lead as he lifted his right arm and moved it over them slowly, without actually making contact with the mist. Instead of the lethal-looking blue lasers, his outstretched palm glowed with a soft white light. It seemed to Eve that he was checking for something. She had no idea what it might be, but she was in the business of reading people, and whatever bizarre breed these guys were, they were close enough to people for her to read them. The look they exchanged was one of surprise-laced fear.

The laser boys were afraid of . . . what? Hazard? The mist? She couldn’t tell, but something had sure spooked them and that was good enough for her.

Brother Small muttered something under his breath that Eve decided must roughly translate to “Let’s get the hell out of here,” because Brother Tall quickly reached out with one gangly arm and made slicing motions in the form of an X. At once the air in that spot rippled and separated, creating a dark opening that both men tumbled into and disappeared.

Eve saw it happen and she still had to look around, twice, to make sure they were really gone and not just lurking in the shadows, waiting for the mist shield to come down so they could strike again. Only when she was convinced they were nowhere around did she allow herself to sag with relief, thankful for the strong arms and solid chest supporting her. Her relief lasted only seconds, and then she remembered who owned those strong arms and solid chest. She wrenched free of Hazard’s hold, which wasn’t difficult since he seemed more than willing to let her go.

The mist disappeared as well, melting back into the atmosphere and leaving them eyeing each other across several suspicion-laden inches of space.

They spoke at the same time.

“How did you . . . ?”

“How did you . . . ?”

“Me . . . ?”

“Me . . . ?”

Their scintillating conversation was cut short by a security vehicle rounding the corner at the opposite end of the garage with its rotating yellow spotlight on.

Hazard grimaced.

Eve wasn’t sure, but he might have also growled.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said through clenched teeth.

She wanted to fire off a clever comeback, but there wasn’t time in the fraction of a second it took him to vault to the top of the garage wall in a single fluid motion and—as she looked on in disbelief—drop out of sight on the other side . . . leaving her to deal with the security guard.

Fortunately, years of arriving at a news scene and being told she was going live in sixty seconds had prepared her to think fast and run without facts. She told him a group of teens had hit her up for spare change and taken off when they saw his lights. Strange loud noises? No, she hadn’t heard any noises. Nor had she seen anyone leap over the wall behind her.

“Wouldn’t that be dangerous at this level?” she asked him.

“Dead dangerous,” he declared. “And dead is what you’d be if you tried it. I guess my eyes were playing tricks on me, because I could have sworn I saw a fellow . . .” He shook his head.

Then he told Eve that he and his wife watched her all the time and asked her to sign his cap.

After making sure she was safely inside her car, the guard drove off, probably to see to it the phantom gang of kids weren’t hassling anyone else within his domain. Eve wasted no time doing the same. She was anxious to get home, to whatever safety there was within those walls. And to Grand, the only one who could answer the questions rioting inside her head.

But first she made one small detour. She pulled out of the garage and turned right, circling around to check out the spot where Hazard had pulled his disappearing act. She carefully counted to the level where she’d been parked.

Dead dangerous was right. It was a fifty-foot drop from where he’d taken off, straight down, ending in blacktop. Even if a man was lucky enough to survive a jump from that height, he’d be left broken and bleeding. But there wasn’t a body or a drop of blood in sight.

Just a collector my ass, she thought.

Four

“Dest—” “No! Please don’t say it. Not the D word.”

Ignoring Eve’s exasperated plea, Grand continued to regard her with regal serenity, something she did exceptionally well. “If you want a different answer, my darling Eve, ask a different question.”

Eve settled for making a small, disgruntled sound and staring at the teacup in front of her. It was fine bone china, its color the soft white of heirloom pearls. The gently curved handle fit her hand perfectly, and there was a sprinkling of hand-painted red roses just below the rim. It was simple and elegant, like everything in Grand’s home, like Grand herself. She was eighty but looked and acted younger, something Eve attributed to her fiery spirit and magical T’airna genes. Her white hair was cut in an asymmetrical bob that played to her great bone structure and beautiful eyes, and she’d always had a strong, intrepid sense of style. All the color and adventure lacking in Eve’s closet could be found in Grand’s.

They were sitting at the old, polished oak kitchen table in Grand’s kitchen. She lived in a cozy three-room addition to the brick Tudor Eve shared with her sister and niece. It was a perfect arrangement. Grand had a place where she could retreat for a bit of peace and quiet, and there was a solid door equipped with dual dead bolts to keep whatever magic she chose to conjure on her own turf, out of sight and out of mind for the rest of them. Eve would have preferred to keep magic out of the house entirely, but a deal was a deal.

The door connecting their kitchens was usually left open, and that’s how Eve found it when she returned home after the auction. It was late, and as she pulled into the garage, she was afraid her grandmother might already be sleeping. She wasn’t sure she could stand to wait until morning to talk to her. But she found Grand still up and waiting with a pot of tea steeped to perfection; two teacups and a plate of lemon shortbread sat on the table. It was as if she’d known not only that Eve would come rushing in, shaken and bewildered, and in need of her special calming brew, but also the precise moment. How she always seemed to know such things was something Eve didn’t want to think about just then. She had enough magical mystery to deal with for one night.

Words usually came easily to her. She made her living stringing them together in logical order. But when she opened her mouth to tell her grandmother what had happened, out poured a jumbled tirade about magic and strange men and wild, irresistible impulses. While Eve rambled, Grand calmly nudged her to sit and tucked her favorite shawl around her shoulders. Faded blue and soft as feathers, the shawl smelled of sweet rosewater and a thousand happy memories. And all the time Grand was soothing her and pouring tea, she listened.

That was one of the wonderful things about Grand; she always listened and understood and told you exactly what she thought, even if it wasn’t exactly what you wanted to hear. Or even close to what you wanted to hear.

Like tonight.

Eve sipped her tea, letting the sweet warmth and spicy fragrance relax her until she was able to consider Grand’s explanation with a reasonably open mind.

“Fine,” she said, “let’s assume you’re right and destiny is responsible for everything that happened. Why now? Why tonight? And why, for pity’s sake, in front of hundreds of people?” Her voice took on a disgruntled edge. “Hasn’t destiny ever heard of discretion . . . you know, the ‘better part of valor’ and all that?”

Grand’s smile was gentle. “Ours is not to reason why . . .”

“Of course ours is to reason why,” Eve argued. “If we don’t, we’re like . . . like balls in a pinball machine, getting randomly slapped around for no good reason. And for the record, “do or die” was nowhere on my To Do list for today.”

“So it is with destiny.”

“My point exactly,” Eve said. “I need answers, and as answers go, ‘destiny’ falls in the cosmic, big-picture class of explanations. I was hoping you could give me something a little more specific and small picture. Like a snapshot. More focus, less hocus-pocus. I want to know why, after years of détente, destiny suddenly decided to rear its ugly head and steamroll my life tonight.”

“Oh dear, I suspect the only thing sudden about it was your own sense of awareness . . . or perhaps I should say lack thereof.”

“Lack thereof? Me?” Eve shook her head emphatically. “I’m all about awareness. It’s what I do . . . it’s who I am.”

Grand looked bemused. “Now don’t be getting all miffed. I wasn’t talking about your job. Of course, you’re very good at what you do, but your work calls for awareness of a different sort . . . one might even say more focus, less hocus-pocus.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Not a bit. To be sure; it’s a fine quality to have. It just won’t help you to understand what happened tonight.” She paused and it seemed to Eve that she was choosing her words very carefully. “Tell me, Eve, do you remember anything of what I taught you about magic?”

The question took Eve by surprise.

“Of course I do. I remember everything, Grand. How could I not?”

Grand looked so pleased that Eve didn’t even consider spoiling the moment by mentioning how often she wished it weren’t the case. Or how many nights she’d lain awake fantasizing about how different her life would be if she’d never opened the Book of Enchantment and found the Winter Rose Spell.

“Then you remember that magic is all around us, always. It’s the energy of life itself, and it’s present in the wind and the tides and—”

“And in the tallest tree in the forest and the smallest wildflower growing in the shade below.”

Grand smiled approvingly. “Then you must remember that all that magical energy trapped in nature can be called forth; why even a drab with enough knowledge and persistence might learn to coax out a wee bit of it.”

Even a drab. Eve had to smile. It had been a very long time since she’d heard the word “drab” used that way. It was the name the magical world gave to mortals who possess no magic. Drab, as in colorless and boring. There was a time when a drab was the very last thing she wanted to be. That was before she understood that in the great cosmic carnival that is the universe, drabs are really the lucky ones. They get to sleepwalk through life blissfully unaware of the mystical danger lurking just out of sight. They can tuck their kids in at night and tell them that of course there are no such things as monsters or ghosts or goblins with a clear conscience, never knowing how wrong they are. And if they’re really lucky, they never find out.

“But the greatest magic,” Grand continued, “is the magic inside you, the magic you were born with. That’s what sets us apart as enchantresses. It’s always with you, Eve, and it always will be, as long as there is blood running through your veins.”

“But I haven’t used magic in years. I don’t even think about it.”

“It’s still there,” Grand countered. “The magic within us is different from the magic around us, and far greater, but it’s also one with it. And like calls to like. You were born with a connection to the magic of the universe, and I suspect it’s draining you more than you know to try to suppress what is meant to be.”

She took a sip of tea while Eve considered that. Could Grand be right? She’d always assumed that when she made the decision to reject magic, that was that. End of story. Could it be that instead she’d been unconsciously suppressing it all this time? And if so, what had changed tonight?

“You’ve been working much too hard,” Grand continued. “Such dreadful long hours and deadline on top of deadline, there seems no end to it. And with Chloe away, you take it on yourself to see to Rory even more than usual.”

There was no denying that. After years of flitting like the free spirit she was from one job to another, her sister seemed to have found her bliss as a wedding planner. Not ordinary weddings naturally, but one-of-a-kind weddings in exotic, far-off locales. It was the perfect career for a diehard romantic with boundless creativity and a wanderer’s soul. The downside was that Chloe was away from home for weeks at a stretch. At the moment she was on a private island somewhere off the coast of Greece. And when she was away, Eve picked up the slack at home. She didn’t mind; she shared a special bond with her only niece, and it had been that way since the day Rory was born. Actually, since before she was born.

Chloe was only seventeen when she announced she was pregnant, father unknown, and that she intended to keep her baby. A senior in high school, she was still living with their paternal grandparents, who had taken them in after the fire that killed their parents and destroyed their home. The Lockharts were horrified by Chloe’s pregnancy. Wealthy and prominent in the community, they were as concerned with appearances as Grand was totally unconcerned with what anyone else thought or said about her. Their response to the situation involved equal parts shame and secrecy. They wanted to pack Chloe off to give birth somewhere far, far away, arrange for a private, sealed adoption and never speak of the matter again. Ever.

Eve’s father had been their youngest and most troublesome son. They’d strongly disapproved of his marriage and had little to do with his family when he was alive. That changed upon his death. They had more money, more influence and more friends in high places than Grand did, and they’d used all of them to elbow her aside and claim full custody of Eve and her sister. In true Solomon fashion, Grand had elected not to fight them, legally or otherwise, though she surely could have prevailed had she chosen to do battle on her own unorthodox terms. She’d stepped aside because she believed the girls had been through enough.

The Lockhart name made the fire front-page news locally, and Grand’s long-standing reputation as the neighborhood’s resident witch provided the media and the public with plenty of scandalous details. Rumors and half-truths attributed to anonymous sources were twisted and exaggerated, with vague insinuations of animal sacrifices and black masses. When the state fire marshall’s final report said that the fire was caused by candles left burning unattended in the turret room, it was taken for granted that Grand was to blame. Whispers about a charred crystal ball and silver pentagram found among the ruins fanned speculation about what she had been doing that night.

Grand rose above it all, neither denying nor explaining the rumors, and not allowing a custody battle to incite more hurtful publicity and prolong the public ordeal for Eve and Chloe. Instead, she made do with only occasional visits with the granddaughters she loved, and it was years before Eve learned about the sacrifices she’d made.

Eve was out of college and living in New York when Chloe called to tell her she was pregnant. She had just been awarded a prestigious fellowship to study international journalism; it was the next step on her carefully planned path to becoming a foreign correspondent. Those were heady days when it seemed that every piece of her life was falling into place.

Her immediate response to Chloe’s announcement was to return home and try to negotiate a compromise. She reasoned and pleaded and cajoled, but her grandparents stood their ground and her sister stood hers. More than once Eve wanted to throw up her hands and walk out. She wanted to go back to New York where she had a real life tied to a real future, a future she’d dreamed of and worked to make happen. The reason she didn’t was because when she tuned out the arguments and threats and accusations being hurled all around her, and listened instead to her heart, one truth stood out above all else: Chloe needed her. That came before everything else.

The night after their parents died, she and Chloe slept in the same bed. Huddled beneath the covers, they had linked pinkie fingers and sworn they would always be there for each other, no matter what. It was a childish gesture made by children desperate for comfort and reassurance wherever they could get it. But Eve had meant every word. It wasn’t simply a sense of obligation that brought her home to stand by Chloe. She wanted to be there for her sister. No matter what the price.

There had been a quick trip to New York to settle matters there. Eve salvaged what she could and said good-bye to what she couldn’t, and she moved on. When she got back to Providence, she called Grand to broach an idea she had, and the three of them—Grand and Chloe and she—banded together and forged the arrangement that had worked pretty well ever since.

“I know you’d do anything to help Chloe and that you love Rory as if she were your own,” Grand was saying now. “But a schedule as hectic as yours takes its toll on a body. I should think it was only a matter of time before something like this happened.”

Eve shot to her feet, ignoring the chill on her bare shoulders as the shawl slipped from them. “Something like this? What are you saying? That more things like this could happen?”

“I’m saying that when a body’s resistance to anything is low—”

Eve cut in. “My resistance isn’t low. When it comes to magic, I’m as resistant as hell . . . I’m every bit as resistant as I ever was.”

“If you say so,” Grand returned, her dubious tone saying something else.

Eve crossed her arms, defensive, not wanting Grand to be right. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking the proof is in the pudding. That tonight happened because I somehow dropped my guard and that if I don’t get more sleep and take more vitamins it could happen again.”

“Oh, I don’t think vitamins have a thing to do with it. And what I was thinking was that you have a peculiar bump inside your dress. Just there,” she said, pointing.

Eve glanced down. “That’s just the pendant.”

Grand was suddenly still. “What pendant might that be?”

“This one,” Eve replied, starting to pull the pendant from inside her dress only to have the chain get caught on the material.

“I’m sure I mentioned it.”

“I’m certain you didn’t,” Grand countered, reaching behind her for her reading glasses. “I surely would have taken notice if you had.”

“Sorry. It must have gotten lost in the babble. The pendant is what started the whole thing,” she explained, trying to loosen the link without tearing her dress. “No, that’s wrong. It really started with the guy in the lobby. I know I mentioned him and how I felt so drawn to him.”

“That’s not so unusual; you did say he was quite handsome.”

Eve shook her head. “It wasn’t that. This feeling was different, and much stronger; it was like being hypnotized and fully aware at the same time. I never felt anything like it, and I knew even then something strange was going on. But when I walked away, I assumed the spell was broken. I thought I had things under control and that if I just kept my head, I could make it through the rest of the night.”

She finally managed to free the chain and slip it over her head.

“This man . . . he would be the same man who jumped off the roof of the garage?”

“It wasn’t the roof, but yes, he’s the one.”

“And you think he’s the mage who cast the spell?”

“I have no idea what he is,” Eve said as she placed the pendant in Grand’s outstretched palm. “I’m not even sure it was a spell. But it was definitely something; I felt it. And whatever it was, he was connected to it . . . to all of it. He wanted the pendant every bit as badly as I did, and that’s saying something. As soon as I saw it, I went into some kind of mad shopaholic trance. Everything just . . .” She made an exploding sound and threw her hands up in the air to illustrate. “It was like a Bewitched episode . . . minus Darren and the laugh track.”

“Saints be praised!”

Grand’s cry commanded Eve’s full attention. When Grand was a girl, the only school in Glengara was run by nuns, and her beliefs were a comfortable mix of magic and Christianity. Through the years, Eve heard all manner of colorful exclamations delivered in that musical brogue, but “saints be praised” was reserved for things of real significance.

“What is it, Grand?”

“The answer to your question . . . the reason for everything that happened tonight. Now I understand.” She lifted her gaze to meet Eve’s, cradling the pendant in both trembling hands. “Oh, Eve, do you have any idea what this means?”

Before she could admit that she didn’t, Grand was up and hurrying toward her bedroom, still clutching the pendant. Eve watched from the kitchen as she went straight to her dressing table and opened the ancient silver box that held things she cherished. Returning, she handed Eve an oval frame a little smaller than a deck of cards. It held the image of a woman, a girl really, with dark hair, a sweet smile and eyes as blue as Grand’s.

“That is your great-great-great-great . . . I lost count, was that three greats or four?” Her hand fluttered impatiently. “Never mind that. The girl is Maura T’airna; she sat for that portrait in 1790. She was seventeen.”

“It’s so tiny,” Eve remarked, examining it closely. “Tiny and perfect.”

“It’s a miniature. Before cameras came along, they were all the rage among people of means. It took quite a talented artist to capture such detail on so small a canvas. Look closely . . . do you see what she’s wearing around her neck?”

Eve brought the painting closer and squinted, and then slid her gaze to meet Grand’s look of watchful anticipation. “She’s wearing the pendant. Well, a pendant anyway. Do you really think it could be the same one?”

“I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life.”

Grand sat, cradling the gold hourglass in her hands as if it were the most valuable and fragile of treasures. She gently curled her fingers around it and closed her eyes.

“I can feel it,” she said softly. “It’s so warm to the touch.” She opened her eyes and her sharp gaze pinned Eve’s. “You must have felt it too.”

When Eve hesitated, Grand reached for her hand and placed the pendant in her palm. Then she covered it with her own hand.

“Close your eyes,” she instructed. “Close your eyes and let yourself feel.”

Eve closed her eyes. “I’m not sure what it is I’m supposed to be feeling.”

“Power. Blood. Kinship.” Grand’s voice was strong, a matriarch’s voice. “But you’re fighting it; see how stiff your spine is. Listen to me, Eve. This is not simply any pendant. This is the lost T’airna talisman . . . our talisman. I’m as sure of that as I am that the sun rose this morning.”

She drew her hand away, leaving the pendant with Eve.

“The lost T’airna talisman?” Eve echoed the words slowly, as if they were spoken in a language she’d never heard before, which in a way they were. “How come I never heard anything about a lost family talisman before now?”

“I suppose because when you were very young, I did my best to abide by your parents’ wishes where magic was concerned. I did,” she insisted when Eve looked askance at her. “That was my very best. Anyway, I always thought there would be plenty of time later, when you were older, to tell you everything. I expected there to be time for so many things, and then . . . and then there wasn’t.”

Eve nodded, understanding. “How long ago was it lost?”

“Centuries. It disappeared just after Maura sat for that portrait, stolen by the man she later married, never to be seen again. At least the family suspected it was he who stole it, and he who caused poor Maura’s death only months after they were wed. Neither was ever proven; Phineas Pavane was too slippery, all charm and smiles when it suited him.

“T’is said he learned of the talisman from Maura, who was a bit of a flibbertigibbet. Who knows how she might have bragged to impress a suitor she fancied? But in truth Maura was a silly little thing with scant power of her own and no interest in learning how to control even that. If Pavane married her thinking she was his key to unlocking the talisman’s power, he would have soon found out differently and had no use for her.”

“And so he killed her? That’s horrible.”

“Indeed, for poor Maura and for all of us who followed. With the talisman gone, everything changed. T’airna fortunes dwindled, and their power too.”

Grand’s expression hardened. Her sharp blue gaze was fixed on a point over Eve’s shoulder, but Eve surmised that whatever she was seeing was an ocean and several lifetimes away.

“The T’airnas were once the toast of Glengara. They were beloved by their neighbors, and for very good reason; there wasn’t a soul who hadn’t turned to them for help, and help they always got. Whether it was a potion for a sick child or a charm to save a failing crop, they could be counted on in a time of need. And then there were the other matters they tended to, matters on a far grander scale, matters of life and death that their neighbors never thanked them for, because they never knew. They were spared having to know because the T’airnas were among those who kept watch against the darkness.”

Kept watch against the darkness . . . The words stirred Eve’s imagination, and her curiosity, and sent a shiver dancing along her spine.

“Our legacy is a proud one of duty and destiny,” Grand told her. “For all of time, enchantresses of the house of T’airna made life better and safer in ways no one else could. And then, in the space of only a generation or two, everything changed, and they found themselves working as paid servants on Pavane’s grand estate or in one of his businesses; there was naught else to do since by then he owned the village whole.”

“And you think this . . . reversal of fortune was all because of a lost pendant?”

“Because of a lost talisman,” Grand corrected indignantly. “Even if Pavane couldn’t access its true power, its loss tipped the scales and he took full advantage. It was only years later, after he’d gathered all the wealth and power a man could want in this world, that it became known he was a necromancer, calling on the darkest of magics to work his will.”

She held her hand out and waited for Eve to return the pendant to her. “This talisman is our heritage. It holds the wisdom and power of every woman who’s ever possessed it. And it is our future, a link to magic purer and more potent than any in this realm, a link to the divine magic of the Everrealm. That’s why Pavane wanted it so badly and why the likes of him could never make use of it on his own.”

Eve bit her bottom lip, unsure what to say. She didn’t want to say “That sounds crazy,” though it did. It was hard to believe a simple piece of jewelry could hold such power, but the spark in her grandmother’s eyes and the stubborn set of her jaw made it clear she believed it. And that meant something to Eve. She might have given up on magic, but she still trusted Grand.

Besides, who was she to judge? She wasn’t even sure exactly what a talisman was. Sure she’d heard the word before, but she understood its meaning in only the most general terms. And she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to know more.

She liked her life the way it was. It wasn’t perfect, but there was nothing so bad she needed an ancient good luck charm to fix it. If it even brought good luck. You could never be completely sure with magic. To her thinking, that was the big disadvantage to playing a game without rules: there were no rules.

She liked rules. And she was good at following them. She liked that along with rules came consequences. So if you should decide to break one, you knew right up front what to expect. For instance, you didn’t go to bed one night believing you had the world figured out and wake up to find your world broken and turned upside down and with pieces missing. Important pieces that you could never get back, or replace or forget.

That’s why she didn’t want to know more about the talisman.

It’s why she didn’t want her pulse to quicken the way it did when Grand spoke of power and blood and kinship. And why she didn’t want to feel a small burst of excitement and something else—pride—when she realized that long before there were historians around to record such things, her ancestors had stood against the darkness in the world.

Most of all she didn’t want to feel the warm, urgent pull of energy stretching inside her and around her when she held the pendant in her hand.

The problem was that what she wanted seemed less important when she considered the look of wonderment on her grandmother’s face and heard the excited lilt in her voice. She remembered both from those long-ago days when Grand had helped her prepare for the Winter Rose Spell.

I expected there to be time . . . and then there wasn’t.

Telling herself it couldn’t hurt to listen, she sat back down and reached across the table to cover Grand’s hand with her own. The older woman’s skin was wrinkled but silky and dear to her touch.

Their eyes met and Eve smiled.

“We have time now, Grand,” she said. “Will you tell me about it?”

Her grandmother gave her a nod, the corners of her mouth lifting with pleasure as she took a minute to gather her thoughts before speaking. “The pendant was a gift from the Goddess Danu to a T’airna woman,” she told Eve.

The Goddess Danu. Incredibly, in a single sentence the story had moved back in time from Maura and late-eighteenth-century Ireland to the era of the Tuatha de Danaan, a divine race descended from Danu herself in the time before time.

“You know about the Danaans?” she asked.

“Yes,” Eve replied.

She knew enough. She knew that according to Irish mythology the Danaans conquered and ruled Ireland long before the Celtic tribes arrived. They had powers and abilities beyond those of men and were said to be the predecessors of the sidhe, or fairies. As a race they were revered as both warriors and goldsmiths, but what they were best known for was their penchant for dallying with humans. According to Grand, T’airna magic originated with the union of a besotted Danaan prince and the daughter of Irish hero Finn mac Cool.

“The legend is that this brave woman risked her life and used her magic to stop the overthrow of the High King of Ireland by his own knights,” Grand recounted. “T’airna men among them, I’m shamed to say. To reward her for her loyalty, the goddess enhanced the woman’s power and decreed that it be carried forth in the T’airna female line for all time.”

“So that’s where it all started,” Eve murmured.

“T’airna women have always been creatures of great passion and reckless hearts, and the goddess knew that to safeguard their new power and ensure it was carried forth, they must choose mates with hearts as true and courageous as their own. That’s the reason she created the talisman.”

“So it’s sort of like a good-luck-in-love charm?” she ventured.

Grand straightened in her chair, indignant. “Not at all. Quite the opposite in fact; the talisman was created so that for a T’airna woman, matters of the heart would never again be left to mere luck. Do you recall the legend of Lia Fáil?”

“I think so. Lia Fáil is what’s known as the ‘stone of destiny,’ right?”

Her grandmother nodded. “It stands at Tara still. In days gone by it was used as the coronation stone, and when the rightful king would put his foot upon it, the stone would give a shout of joy.”

“So says Irish mythology . . . emphasis on the ‘myth.’ ”

“Are you so sure of that?”

She shrugged. “You know what? I’m not sure what I’m sure of at this moment. So I guess you could say no, I’m not a hundred percent sure it’s only a myth.”

“Good, it will be easier for you to believe what I’m about to tell you if you understand that Lia Fáil is no more a myth than . . . than this pendant in my hand. In fact, in a way, the two are one and the same. You see, the goddess used crystals from Lia Fáil to fill the hourglass, and gold from the throne at Tara to cast the pendant itself. She intended for it to serve as our own stone of destiny, with its pure white crystals empowered to glow red as a sign that a man’s heart is true.”

“Literally?”

“Quite. All a man need do is touch the talisman and we can read his heart and know if he is the one.”

“Like Cinderella’s slipper,” Eve mused.

She’d say one thing for Grand: when it came to drama she had the auctioneer beat all day. Ben’s claims of diamond dust paled beside her version, with its high kings and gifts bestowed by goddesses. Part of her didn’t believe a word of it, of course. But another part, the part she could never completely silence or escape, no matter how much she pretended she had even to herself, that part of her knew that what Grand was telling her was not only possible but also, just maybe, the stunning, absolute truth.

Did she want to admit that and open, even slightly, a door she had shut and locked long ago? And for very good reason. While she was making up her mind, Grand added to her quandary by turning the hourglass over so that she could see the engraving on the base.

“And then there is this,” she said, and Eve’s breath caught in her chest.

The engraving on the hourglass was a cross within a circle; it was an exact match of the birthmark over her own heart.

Five

The witch had green eyes. Soft, smoky green eyes that could suddenly flash like emerald fire, eyes that spoke to a man in a silent language all their own.

Cat’s eyes, thought Hazard, recalling how the outside corners tipped upward ever so slightly. He hadn’t noticed that when she first stopped him in his tracks outside the ballroom. He’d been so taken, he noticed little except the color of her eyes.

And that she’d cast a spell on him.

In those few minutes or seconds, she’d held him bound to her, quieting everything around him and in him until there was only her, and the sudden, inexplicable willingness to grant her every wish.

She hadn’t made a wish, however. She’d walked away without a word of explanation or the slightest hint as to what she wanted with him. And he, hardened man of the world that he believed himself to be, had been left standing there, helpless to do anything but watch until she was out of sight. Only then did his head clear and his will become his own again. He hadn’t discovered what she was up to until later, when she used her magic to cheat him out of the pendant.

He was still chafing about the loss when he walked into the house . . . his house, the house he’d bought for one reason only, after coming to Providence for one reason only, and that was to get his hands on the pendant. And now, after all the searching and planning and waiting, he’d been tricked out of it by a damn witch.

He slammed the front door behind him and was immediately sorry; his head was throbbing and had been ever since their little standoff in the garage. Since before that actually; the first sharp pain came at that point in the auction when she had him rooted to the floor like a damn tree. Shrugging off his coat, he tossed it over the banister on his way to the bar in the study. The granite-topped bar was well stocked with the finest Irish whiskey money could buy, and nothing else. Whiskey was the only thing he drank, and no one else mattered since there was no one else around.

“You’re back,” exclaimed an eager voice behind him.

No one except Taggart, that is, and he wasn’t particular.

Damn. He tightened his grip on the bottle, sorrier still he’d slammed the door. He should have known better than to announce his return. A little self-control then might have bought him a few more minutes of peace now. Taggart would expect a full report on the events of the evening. And who could blame him? He was part of this; indeed, Hazard couldn’t have gotten this far without his useful connections and myriad skills.

Gabriel Hazard possessed all the knowledge of magic that a wealthy, highly motivated—some might say desperate—man could acquire over time, but no power of his own. Elden James Taggart was a halfling, his mother being human and his father fae; he had his fair share of power, but no money. The dichotomy made for a mutually beneficial association.

Of course Taggart had another good reason for sticking around and being helpful, but the less said about that the better.

He finished pouring and took a generous swallow before turning to face Taggart with a glower and a curt, “Yes. I’m back.”

“And celebrating, I see.” There was a trace of the back alleys of London in his speech as he grinned and nodded at the glass in Hazard’s hand, happily oblivious to his dark mood. “I’ll be glad to join you in toasting our success, but first I’ll see the prize.”

He looked around, still sporting that irritatingly bright smile. A few inches shorter than Hazard, he had a wiry build and medium brown hair and clever hands. Quick to laugh and slow to anger, he was the sort of man people didn’t notice, the sort who could easily get lost in a crowd, and that could be a great asset.

“Well, where is it?” he demanded.

Hazard took a gulp of the finest whiskey money could buy and found that tonight even it left a bitter taste in his mouth. “If you’re referring to the pendant, I imagine that at this very moment it is safe at home with the happy winner.”

“Right, safe as houses with the winner.” He chuckled and rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation. “Enough stalling. Let’s see this treasure we’ve chased around the world and back again to find.”

Hazard ground his teeth together. The mucker was going to force him to say it. He tossed back more whiskey. “I don’t have it. I didn’t win.”

The grin melted from Taggart’s face, replaced by a look of disbelief.

“Didn’t win? You mean you . . . didn’t win?” He appeared as flummoxed as if Hazard had just told him the world was flat after all, then his eyes went wide with shock. “You lost? How the bloody hell could that happen? You’ve more money than Zeus, for God’s sake. How could anyone possibly outbid you?”

“No one could. Not fairly.”

Taggart’s head jerked back and his voice lifted an octave. “Cheated? You let yourself be cheated out of it?”

“I don’t know as I’d say I let it happen, but yes, ‘cheated’ is as good a word as any.”

“How do you cheat someone at an auction? It’s all aboveboard and out in the open for all to see.”

“Yes, and everything was going fine until . . . until I was incapacitated by a green-eyed witch.”

“Incapac—” Taggart broke off, his gaze narrowing. “What kind of witch did you say it was?”

“A green-eyed witch.”

“How would know what color eyes they were?”

“Because I saw them.”

“Thought you couldn’t see colors?”

“Well, tonight I did.”

Taggart’s eyes narrowed; he plucked at the front of his shirt. “All right then, tell me what color shirt I’m wearing. Or my socks . . .” He grabbed his pants leg and yanked it up a few inches. “What color are my socks?”

“I don’t know,” Hazard snapped. “I don’t see you in color . . . or anything else for that matter. Only her.”

“All of her?”

He shook his head, wishing he could hold on to and study the images that flickered in his mind and were gone, flashes of her hair like a swirl of sunset, and her dress, not blue, not green, but both, and dark as a midnight sea. “No. Not at first anyway, and never as clearly as I saw her eyes. The rest of her was . . . hazy and faded, like an old photograph. But her eyes . . . her eyes were . . . remarkable.”

“That’s bloody odd if you ask me,” declared Taggart.

It was odd. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen anything in color. He hadn’t been born color-blind; he’d chosen it. He’d taught himself not to see color by blocking it out bit by bit, day after day, willing the colors to fade and bleed together until the world around him was nothing but shades of gray. It hadn’t been easy, or quick. But he’d learned that a man could train himself to do almost anything if he had enough time and determination.

And his theory had been right; drained of color, the world around him was a little less tempting, his days a bit easier to get through. It worked well, until tonight, when he’d come face-to-face with the witch. Somehow she had reached inside him to undo what he’d worked so hard to do, and he didn’t like it.

“So just how did this green-eyed witch manage to incapacitate you?”

“With a spell of some sort. I’m sure of that much.” He scowled at the amber liquid in his glass, remembering. “She may have cast it earlier in the evening, but it didn’t take effect until the bidding had come down to only the two of us, and then she turned and stared at me, straight at me from all the way across the room. That’s when I felt it.”

“What? What was it you felt?”

He shrugged. “Something. My arms suddenly dropped to my sides and stayed there. I couldn’t raise them. I couldn’t move a finger or speak a word until the bidding was over and she’d been declared the winner. And then it was too late.”

Taggart pressed his lips together, his expression bleak as he mulled that over. Then he sighed. “All right, what’s done is done, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be undone. It may be this witch just got carried away. Happens all the time at auctions. People get caught up in the excitement of bidding and buy things they don’t even want. Bidder’s remorse they call it. You should have sought her out afterwards and struck a deal, made it worth her while to let you have the thing.”

“I tried. She wasn’t interested.”

“You should have tried harder.”

“I would have,” he retorted, “if not for being interrupted by a pair of warlocks. Black hats. Dark glasses. Power to spare. Sound familiar?”

Taggart paled. “Vasil’s dogs.”

He nodded, his gaze hard and pointed. “My thought exactly.”

Vasil was a loan shark who specialized in wagers of a mystical nature. If there was a mage duel or hellhound race happening anywhere in what was commonly referred to as “the otherworld,” the world of magic that existed alongside the everyday world of mortals, Vasil had a piece of the action. Taggart, who’d happily bet on which of two raindrops would hit the ground first, was a longstanding client. More than once Hazard had been forced to step in to cover his losses and save his hide from Vasil’s army of hired muscle.

“Did they . . . say anything?” Taggart inquired, the picture of innocence. “Mention what they were doing there?”

“They were there for the pendant. And they’d have gotten it if the witch wasn’t so powerful.”

“She bested them?” Taggart countered, clearly impressed.

“She conjured a protection shield. They ran.”

He snorted. “I’d like to have seen that.”

“They wouldn’t have been there in the first place unless Vasil gave the order. And as contemptible as he is, Vasil is no common thief. That means he must believe he has a valid claim on the pendant. Any idea why he would think that?”

“Maybe . . .”

“The truth,” Hazard ordered.

“Fine. It so happens I did run into Vasil not so long ago, and I guess it’s possible I could have mentioned that I expected to be coming into a certain valuable piece he might find interesting.”

Hazard folded his arms and said nothing as Taggart shifted his gaze to the ceiling and his weight from one foot to the other.

“All right, all right,” he said finally. “I suppose I might have let slip a bit about the pendant, or maybe even offered it to him, you know, to settle a few outstanding debts.”

“Let’s see if I’ve got this straight. When you say you ran into him you mean that Vasil tracked you down, and by offered you mean you promised it to him.”

“Only after you were done with it,” Taggart hurried to add. “You can bet I made that clear right up front. I didn’t think you’d mind since if everything went right, which I was sure it would, you’d be standing there with the pendant right now and we could finish this business and you wouldn’t be needing it again, now would you? How was I to know you’d come out the loser?”

Loser. The word rankled. He could live with defeat if he was beaten in a fair fight, but this hadn’t been a fair fight. It never was with magic.

“You’re right. You couldn’t have known ahead of time that I would lose. And neither could Vasil,” he added, thinking aloud. “He assumed I’d come away with the pendant, and he didn’t trust you to deliver. He sent the warlocks to take it from me; the witch just got in the way.”

“Didn’t trust me to deliver,” Taggart muttered under his breath. “And after all the business I’ve given that sod through the years.” He shook his head and folded his arms across his chest. “All right then, spilt milk and all that. What’s our next move? Find the witch and get it back, right? It’ll take some doing, but with the right supplies and a little time, I’d venture I could work a spell to turn the tables and incapacitate her.”

Revenge would be sweet, he thought, entertaining a vision of those green eyes flashing up at him, temper heating her cheeks and pulling her full bottom lip into a pout. Maybe too sweet.

“Tempting,” he said to Taggart. “But no. Let Vasil make the next move. He and his henchman can have the pleasure of dealing with the clever little witch. Once they’ve managed to take the pendant from her, Vasil can name his price for it and I’ll pay.”

Taggart’s brows lifted. “You’d rather do business with Vasil?”

“Any day. Vasil can be bought. I’m not so sure about the witch.”

He was recalling the way she’d looked when she told him that the pendant wasn’t for sale, with her shoulders squared and her chin high, determined and magnificent. For a heartbeat of time, his resentment had slipped and instead of a deceitful witch, he saw before him a beautiful woman. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen or ever hoped to see, in fact, and something wild inside him had responded fiercely. It was something he hadn’t felt in a very long time and hadn’t expected to feel again. The witch had found her way past defenses he’d thought impenetrable, and that was another good reason to do business with Vasil instead.

Still, he couldn’t help thinking about how the warlocks would respond to such a show of spirit on her part. Violently no doubt; the image wasn’t pretty. He pushed it away and reached for the whiskey, pouring some for Taggart before carrying the bottle with him to a high-back leather chair by the fireplace.

On the way by, he flipped the switch that started flames dancing in the hearth, fed not by wood but a stream of gas. It wasn’t a proper fire; a fire ought to smell of wood that you carried and arranged yourself, carefully placing the logs so that the hardest woods, those that would burn longest, were on the bottom; elm and hickory to start, with birch and poplar next, or maybe maple. Pine went last, placed on top for a fast burn that would give off sparks to ignite the rest. That kind of fire would burn through the night and warm a man body and soul. What flickered before him now wasn’t a real fire anymore than this was a real home or his was a real life. But it warmed well enough and tonight he’d settle for that. He’d become very good at settling.

“To victory delayed,” he said, lifting his glass in a mock toast. “When this is done, your debt will be paid, I’ll have the pendant and Vasil will no doubt have pocketed an outrageous profit. Everyone wins.”

Everyone except the witch, and she wasn’t his problem.

And if the warlocks should inflict any damage while retrieving the pendant, well, that wasn’t his problem either. Any bumps and bruises she suffered wouldn’t be on his conscience.

He tried not to think about the long flawless line of Eve Lockhart’s throat and the pale curve of her shoulders. That was her name, Eve Lockhart; he’d troubled himself to learn that much, and he knew that a few minutes at the computer would reveal a great deal more. Research was simply another kind of hunting, and it never failed to amaze him how a few of the right keystrokes could unlock worlds of secrets. He could easily learn a few of Eve Lockhart’s secrets before the night was through if he were interested. Which, he reminded himself, he was not.

The witch didn’t warrant his concern, and she certainly didn’t need his protection; she’d proven she could take care of herself. Look how quickly and efficiently she’d managed to conjure a protection shield strong enough to keep both of them from being shredded and send the warlocks into a full retreat.

He swirled the liquid in his glass and stared at it. Why had she bothered to protect him when she could just have easily conjured a shield for one and left him to fend off the attack on his own?

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was laying claim to the pendant as quickly and simply as possible, and that meant not tangling with the witch. She’d managed to manipulate him with her magic . . . twice. He’d be a fool to risk it happening again. Let her try her hand with the warlocks; she was more than a match for them.

Unless, of course, they brought along reinforcements. Or took her by surprise. Which was entirely possible since she had no way of knowing their assailants had been sent by a brutal and tenacious loan shark who would keep sending them until he got what he was after. She wouldn’t know to take extra precautions or to watch her lovely back, unless someone warned her. And again, not his problem.

There was a time when he would have made it his problem without a second’s hesitation. Witch or not, she was still a woman and that used to mean something to him. She was a woman facing something bigger than she was, in what promised to be an unfair fight. Once upon a time that would have been more than enough to send him charging to her rescue no matter the odds, no matter the cost.

Once. But not now.

That time, and that man, no longer existed.

She felt him before she saw him.

There was a flutter of awareness along her spine and a quick stirring in her blood and Eve knew. Instinctively. Irrevocably.

Gabriel Hazard had entered the building.

And that, she told herself, was as far as he was going to get.

The WWRI studio and offices occupied the top three floors of the Pelham Building. Like anyone entering without an employee ID, Hazard would have to stop at the front desk so the security guard could check for his name on the day’s list of approved visitors. When he didn’t find it, he would call to get her okay before allowing him up.

She wouldn’t give it.

I’ll be in touch. Those had been his parting words to her last night, and she had no doubt he’d meant them. She just didn’t know where, or when, to expect him. Considering how many questions and suspicions she had about him, Eve wouldn’t go so far as to say she was prepared for their next meeting, but she’d thought about it long into the night—at least for as long as she could keep her eyes open—and had decided on a few ground rules.

If he showed up at work, her first objective would be to keep him from traipsing through the newsroom, attracting attention and inviting speculation. Hazard wasn’t the type to go unnoticed. She also wanted to avoid being alone with him in her office, hoping to preempt another incident like the one in the parking garage. The smart thing to do was to go down and meet him in the lobby where there were always plenty of people coming and going, and where she could walk away whenever she wanted to.

Those who dealt in magic—both light and dark—sought to avoid exposure. Not out of fear; a mortal was no match for a mage, even one with minimal skill and power, and whoever had attacked them last night was definitely not in the minimal weight class in either category. Discretion was simply a matter of convenience. The less drabs knew, the less chance there was of them getting in the way and causing complications or unforeseen consequences. It never ended well when mortals tried to interfere with the intricate and arcane world of magic.

Leaning back in her chair, she stared at the oversized map of Rhode Island hanging across from her desk and waited for the phone to ring. The map was dotted with Post-it notes and colored pushpins relating to stories she was currently working on, but work was far from her mind at the moment. She felt anxious, which she supposed was normal under the circumstances. More troubling was the other feeling that had bubbled to life in the pit of her stomach when she realized Hazard was there, a feeling of anticipation bordering on outright excitement. She was like a jittery sixteen-year-old, perched on the edge of her seat, heart pounding, palms sweaty, waiting for her date to ring the doorbell.

It was ridiculous. Hazard was not a date; for all she knew, he wasn’t even human. At least not entirely.

A minute passed. Then another.

Eve rolled a pencil beneath her fingertips, counted to ten and wondered what on earth was taking so long.

Maybe there was a backlog of visitors in the lobby. It was Monday morning after all. Mondays were always busy.

Any second now the phone would ring.

It had to, because there was no way she had imagined or misread what she’d felt. Hazard was close by; the hair on the back of her neck was sure of it. To convince the rest of her, she closed her eyes and cleared her thoughts of everything else, and sure enough, she felt it again, the same buzz of warmth and heightened awareness she’d felt a few minutes ago, only stronger now.

A quick knock made her jump and swivel around in her chair.

Hazard was standing in the doorway holding a bouquet of red roses, lots and lots of roses, enough, it seemed to Eve, to deck a parade float or the winner’s circle at the Kentucky Derby. The long stems were wrapped in dark green tissue and tied with a wide ribbon in a paler shade of green.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he said, the words at odds with his dry and distinctly nonapologetic tone.

“You didn’t. I just closed my eyes to . . . think. It helps me concentrate.” Ignoring the silent, sardonic lift of one dark brow, she glanced at the roses. “Are those supposed to soften me up?”

“Would it work?”

“Definitely not.”

“Then no. Actually, they’re more of a ruse. May I come in?”

She wanted to say no, but she knew the newsroom staff well enough to know that the arrival of an attractive man bearing roses, lots and lots of roses, would have them already craning and straining to see and hear as much as they could. Since her goal was to reveal as little about her dealing with Hazard as possible, she reluctantly waved him in.

“How did you get past the security desk?”

“I told the guard it was the six-month anniversary of the day we met and that I wanted to present you with a suitable token of my affection. Hence a hundred and eighty roses.”

She quickly did the math. “One for every day of the six months. How wildly romantic of you.”

“The guard thought so too. Turns out he’s a sucker for romance. He said you’re a very nice lady and that he couldn’t remember you ever getting flowers at work before. I think pity may have factored into his decision to allow me in unannounced so I could surprise you.” He held the monster bouquet out to her with a faintly mocking expression. “Surprise.”

“It certainly is,” she said, folding her arms across her chest in a show of nonchalance. Inside she was bristling. So she never got flowers at work. Big deal. That was no reason for some busybody guard to go discussing her floral history with a complete stranger. “But you know what’s even more surprising? The fact that you would throw away whatever a hundred and eighty long-stem roses cost these days on a stupid ruse.”

He shrugged. “It worked. I’m standing here instead of being relegated to a few hurried moments of your time in the lobby. Educated guess,” he offered in response to her quick look of surprise. “Although it would help if I actually could read your mind. Then I’d know if the roses also succeeded in underscoring the point that when it comes to getting what I want, money is of no consequence.”

“Consider it underscored.”

“Good.”

“And in the interest of expediency, you should know that when it comes to refusing to sell the pendant to you, money is even less of a factor now than it was last night.”

It was Hazard’s turn to be surprised.

“Duly noted,” he murmured, glancing around for a place to put the flowers and settling on the top of the small file cabinet in the corner. “Although expediency doesn’t matter to me nearly as much as results.”

“Well, it matters to me. I get paid to report the news. And since money is very much of consequence when it comes time to pay my bills, I should get back to earning it.”

“I promise not to take too much of your time,” he told her, settling himself all comfylike against the deep window ledge, one leg hitched up so that his coat fell open, revealing a white shirt open at the throat and loosely tucked into a pair of impeccably tailored black slacks.

He seemed bigger than she remembered, his shoulders broader, his thigh distractingly well muscled. And with the morning sun slanting across his face, he also seemed harder somehow. It wasn’t a matter of lines or creases, but attitude. He might be younger than she was, but she’d bet he’d packed a lot more living into his years.

“So, what’s changed since last night?” he asked.

“I’ve learned a few things about the pendant that I didn’t know. When I got home, I showed it to my grandmother and she recognized it right away.”

His expression didn’t change, but the wariness that flickered in his eyes wasn’t lost on Eve. “Recognized it in what way?”

“From an old painting of one of our ancestors in Ireland,” she told him, filtering the details she shared. “It turns out the pendant has family associations that go back generations. I guess you could call it a long-lost family heirloom.”

“And you knew nothing about it when you decided to bid?”

Eve shook her head. “Not a thing. I just knew I wanted it. Now that I do know, of course, there’s no way I could part with it.”

“I’ll pay you ten times the auction price,” he stated in a cool, no-nonsense voice.

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“Fifty times.”

Eve rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Sorry. No.”

“One hundred times. I’m offering you a hundred times what you paid. You do realize how much that is?”

It took her a little longer to do the math this time. When she finished, she stared at him, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m very serious. Think about it; you could quit your job.”

“I like my job.”

“You’d never have to worry about paying bills again.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t say I was worried. And even if I was drowning in debt I could never sell the pendant knowing it would break my grandmother’s heart. When she saw it, she was like a kid on Christmas morning.”

He didn’t even attempt an understanding smile. He just looked annoyed, and impatient, and the way he pressed his lips together made Eve think he was biting his tongue to avoid saying something he would later regret. Straightening from the window ledge, he moved unhurriedly across the office, taking his time checking out the impressive collection of framed certificates and awards hanging on the wall and paying particular attention to the one that meant the most to her. It was one Rory had made for her when she was in the first grade; in painstakingly drawn letters and a rainbow of bright colors it proclaimed her “The World’s Best Aunt.”

Finally, he turned toward the desk, glancing first at the photo of Grand, Chloe and Rory taken last summer on the beach in Newport, and then at her.

“I was wrong,” he told her. “I assumed that if I kept increasing my offer that eventually I would reach a figure you couldn’t resist. But you’re not interested in money.”

“Oh, I’m interested,” she countered, visions of Jimmy Choos and trips to Europe and Rory graduating from an Ivy League college dancing in her head. “Very interested. It’s just not the most important thing in the world to me.”

“I see that now.” He reached for the photo. “This is what’s important to you. Family. Your grandmother and your sister, Chloe, and niece . . . Rory, isn’t it?”

Eve stiffened, unsmiling, her gaze sharp. “That’s right. You know an awful lot about my family.”

“Only what’s a matter of public record, and not for any nefarious purpose.”

“Then why?”

“Because the most important thing in the world to me is that pendant . . . your newly discovered family heirloom. I’ve spent several fortunes and more of my life than you can possibly imagine searching for it. I came here to make a deal with you, and I wasn’t about to come without arming myself beforehand with as much information as possible. That’s just good business.”

“Fine. But I’m the one you’re dealing with, not my family. Leave them out of this.”

“It’s not me you should be worried about. You said the pendant has family associations; it also has other, darker associations that you know nothing of. There are others who do. And that can be very dangerous. As long as it’s in your possession you’re at risk. And so is your family.”

“Are you talking about the men who attacked us last night?”

He shook his head. “The warlocks won’t bother you again. I can promise you that.”

“Warlocks. So that’s what they were. I wondered.” She eyed him uncertainly. “How do you know they won’t come back?”

“Because I know the man who sent them. Unlike you, money is what matters to him . . . all that matters. Before I came to see you I paid him a visit and made it worth his while to keep his lackeys away from you.”

“Why would you do that for me?” she asked, not sure whether she should be appreciative or suspicious.

“I didn’t do it for you,” he returned, lifting one shoulder in a careless shrug. If a shrug could be elegant, his was. “I did it so they wouldn’t get in my way again. But there are sure to be others who may not be so easily dealt with.”

“Thanks for the warning.” She managed to sound more confident than she felt as she stood and reached for the photo he was still holding. She put it back where it belonged. “I’ll be sure to lock my doors.”

“You’ll need to do more than that. A protection shield like the one you conjured last night would be a good place to start.”

“The one I conjured? I had nothing to do with it.”

“I was there. Remember?”

“So was I. And the only conjuring I saw was coming from you and the warlocks.”

There was an uncomfortable stretch of silence as he studied her, his gray eyes narrow and frankly skeptical. He ended it with a smile that barely lifted the corners of his mouth.

“Far be it from me to call a lady a liar.”

“How gallant of you,” she drawled, hoping he caught the touch of sarcasm in her voice. “I’ll walk you out.”

For a second she thought he was going to ignore the sledgehammer hint that it was time for him to go. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his coat and handed her his card.

“Call me when you change your mind,” he said.

Eve dropped it in her purse without looking at it.

“Thanks,” she said.

Don’t hold your breath, she thought.

Six

Eve walked him to the elevator and waited until he got in and the doors closed behind him. She wanted to make sure he left and that no one stopped him along the way to chat. People who were drawn to the news biz liked to ask questions, and they were good at eliciting answers. She had no idea what might come out of Hazard’s mouth if he were asked who, what, where, when or why, and as much as she’d love to find out more about him, she wasn’t crazy enough to let it happen in public.

The trek back to her office was a gauntlet of surprised smiles, speculative stares and knowing winks from the newsroom staff. The communal reaction was galling, not to mention unwarranted. It wasn’t as if she were a nun, for heaven’s sake. True, men didn’t stop by to see her unannounced or unrelated to work, but for all anyone knew Hazard’s visit could have been business. And the fifteen dozen roses he brought her could have been . . . all right, maybe it was a stretch to expect anyone to believe the roses were strictly business. Still.

Peggy, a sweet, sixtyish secretary from Human Relations gave Eve’s elbow a squeeze as she passed. “Morning, Eve. Your new boyfriend is so handsome.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Well, whoever he is, I’ve got just four words for him: va, va, va, voom.”

Tiffany, assistant to a production assistant and nearly forty years Peggy’s junior, needed only three. “Hot. As. Hell.”

“Ditto,” agreed the young woman beside her who Eve seemed to recall worked in sales, one floor down and all the way over on the other side of the building. With a look of grudging admiration she added, “Men are suckers for you uptight, brainy types because they think you have a hidden wild side only they can unlock.”

While Eve considered whether to be flattered or offended, Tiffany growled, and the two women giggled wickedly.

Sobering, Tiffany crossed her arms to study Eve with a critical frown. “You should lose the glasses when he’s around, though. A little of that smart-girl look goes a long way.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Eve muttered. “Did you by any chance have time to find those transcripts I asked for?”

Tiffany shuffled some papers and came up with a folder. “Voila.”

“Thanks,” Eve said as she turned away. She was a few feet from her office when her phone started to ring, and she hurried to grab it.

“Eve Lockhart.”

“You’ve been holding out on me,” said a familiar voice.

“Hey, Jenna. What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the man who just left your office. Mr. Tall-Dark-I-Come-Bearing-Roses.”

“I don’t believe it. I know news travels fast, but you don’t even work in this building for pity’s sake.”

“Honey, how many times do I have to tell you that when it comes to romance Jenna sees all, knows all? Actually, I had to call over there to talk to Cindy in archives about some cuts I want to use from that piece on underage drinking you guys ran a while back, and she told me all about it. She said that Tiffany somebody-or-other put out the word that your mystery man strolled in like he owned the place and brought you a gazillion red roses.”

“Tiffany’s an airhead. It was nowhere near a gazillion.”

“Really? How many was it?”

Eve hesitated and then gave a resigned sigh. “Only one hundred and eighty.”

“Lordy. That’s close enough. Any particular significance to that number?”

“Long story.”

“I have time. Dish.”

“Can’t. I’m taping an interview with the dean of Newberry College at one, and we’re planning to shoot some walk-and-talk around campus first . . . which I still have to write script for. And before that I have to return calls and squeeze in a meeting with Angela.”

“Lucky you.”

Eve smiled at the way Jenna’s tone soured at the mention of her boss. Angela Beckett, the station’s straight-shooting, hard-driving and very glamorous news director was not on Jenna’s list of favorite people. Eve sensed the chill was mutual and that it had something to do with it being impossible for two larger-than-life personalities to hold center stage at the same time.

“Why don’t we have lunch sometime this week and I’ll fill you in?” By then she should be able to come up with a story that would satisfy Jenna’s craving for details without revealing too much of the actual truth.

Jenna sighed theatrically. “Oh, all right. But at least throw me a crumb to hold me till then. Who is he? Where did you meet? Is he really as young as he looks? Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“I honestly don’t know how old he is. And it doesn’t matter, becau—”

Jenna broke in. “I totally agree. In fact, I say the younger the better; that way they don’t have time to form any annoying bad habits. And besides, no one bats an eye when men date younger women. Turnabout’s fair play. Go, cougars. Hey, wouldn’t this make a great topic for my show? I can already hear the phones ringing off the hook. You could be my star guest!”

Eve winced at the thought. “What I was going to say was that his age doesn’t matter because this . . . thing is no big deal. Really. In fact, there is no thing. He’s just someone I met last night at the auction.”

“I knew it,” Jenna crowed. “As soon as Diane described him, I knew it had to be the same yummy guy who was checking you out last night. I was going to mention it to you, but you took off in such a hurry I didn’t have a chance. And speaking of, I still want to hear what gives with you and that necklace. I mean, good God, that was a lot of money. Anyway, when I saw him follow you out I thought to myself, hmmm. And now he shows up with a hundred and eighty roses. Hot damn, Eve.”

“Like I said, it’s no big deal.”

“If you say so.”

Eve could hear the grin in her friend’s sing-song tone. “I’ll check my schedule and get back to you about lunch. Try not to let your imagination run amok in the meantime.”

“Sorry, amok is my imagination’s natural habitat. As for lunch, sooner works for me.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Eve hesitated before saying good-bye. “Hey, Jenna, you’re a good judge of people. Would you describe me as brainy and uptight? Be honest.”

“Brainy as in smart and insightful? Yeah, that’s you all day. As for being uptight, well . . . ‘uptight’ is such a harsh word, with really negative connotations. If you think of it as being careful and highly structured, then I suppose some people might consider you a teensy, tiny bit uptight . . . in a charming sort of way,” she hastened to add.

“Charmingly uptight,” Eve muttered. “Terrific. I have to run.”

“Lunch. Soon. Don’t forget.”

Around the station, the news director’s spacious corner office was known as “the fishbowl.” Exterior windows overlooked the bustling center of downtown Providence, and a wall of glass provided a view of the newsroom, where the tempo ranged from busy to frenetic depending on how close it was to broadcast time. Phones rang, police scanners hummed, printers spit out an endless stream of fresh copy and everywhere there were monitors to monitor the local and national competition.

There were more monitors inside the fishbowl, a half dozen of them mounted in a row close to the ceiling. At the moment they were all muted, but at regular intervals Angela scanned them, and Eve knew that if anything exploded, crashed or declared war anywhere in the known world, her boss would have the sound up in one heartbeat and a reporter working the story in two.

Angela was a master of the game of television news. The average tenure for a news director in a midsize market was eighteen months; Angela had been at WWRI for nearly three years and things were still rosy. Her arrival had been akin to tossing a live grenade into the studio. With management’s support, she’d overhauled the existing sets, played to the stations’ strength by focusing resources on local news, and defied convention by axing such formula relics as the one-two punch of running an attention-grabbing prime-time tease followed by the irritatingly coy “details at eleven.” Angela had little in common with average viewers, but she was shrewd enough to get them; she understood what interested them and what pissed them off, and she proceeded accordingly.

Initially, she and Eve were wary of each other. Eve didn’t want the new boss trying to clip her wings, and the new boss didn’t want Eve thinking longevity entitled her to coast. However, it didn’t take long for each of them to recognize a kindred spirit in the other. They were both ambitious, unafraid to take chances and willing to do whatever was necessary to get the job done right. On the personal side, neither of them had to balance her career with a husband and children. And neither of them lived with one eye on the next rung of the ladder, a rarity in the world of television journalism.

Most journalists and news directors were always looking ahead to the next job in the next biggest market, ready to pounce on any opening that would bring them more exposure and more money, with the ultimate prize of being tapped by one of the major networks. Eve had never viewed her job as a stepping stone. She’d always intended to stay put in Providence. In the beginning it was because Grand and Chloe and Rory were depending on her and she wanted to be there for them, even if it meant letting go of her own dreams. But as time went on she discovered other reasons to stay. Not that a fatter paycheck wouldn’t come in handy; Rory’s college tuition was right around the corner, and for all she knew there were other expensive family talismans to be rescued. But there were things that mattered more to her, personally and professionally.

Providence wasn’t simply her hometown; through the years and through her work it had also become an old friend, one with quirks and flaws along with all the things that made it shine, a friend with the power to make her laugh and make her cry. She knew Providence the way you came to know a cherished friend; she knew its hidden pleasures and its dark alleys and its secrets, and that gave her an invaluable edge as a journalist.

It was a perfect fit. Her home beat was big enough to continue to interest and challenge her professionally and small enough that she could see the effect her work had, small enough that every once in a while something she reported made a difference. Not a huge difference and maybe only a difference in a handful of lives, or even in just one life, but that was enough. Because when it happened, for just a little while, she felt like Superman, champion of the little guy, able to right wrongs and leap buildings in a single bound.

It was an amazing feeling, one most folks never got to experience and that even the most lucrative job offer couldn’t promise to deliver. And even if it could, she wouldn’t leave. She felt too strong a connection to the city; if she could do good through her work, she wanted to do it there.

It was the reason she’d become a journalist in the first place, to make a difference. Once, she’d dreamed of doing it on a grand scale. That wasn’t meant to be. But even if she wasn’t reporting from a war zone or famine-ravished country, she stilled needed to know that what she did mattered somewhere besides her bank balance, that she wasn’t simply marking time at WWRI or temporarily filling a space on a giant chessboard. If she felt an occasional stab of restlessness, a niggling sense that there was something else, something more she could be doing, or should be doing, she tried not to let it bother her. Most of the time, she was too busy for prolonged navel-gazing or soul-searching.

And her dedication had paid off. After years of honing her own style and approach to the news, she was no longer hostage to the daily assignment desk; instead, she was in charge of Special Projects, which meant freedom to enterprise her own ideas for longer, magazine-style stories that ran over several broadcasts and allowed for more nuanced coverage of a subject.

Practically speaking, she didn’t just head the Special Projects Department, she was the department, and that was just fine with her. She liked having control of every aspect of a story, from inception to broadcast. And she had free rein to tap whatever support staff and equipment she needed as long as she kept Angela up-to-date with what she was working on, brought the package in on time and continued to deliver in the all-important ratings department.

Today’s meeting was of the keep-Angela-up-to-date variety.

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” Angela said, with brisk nods of approval as she ran down Eve’s list of bullet points for a follow-up that was the biggest of several projects she had in the works. A year ago, fire had ripped through the top floor of a Newberry College dorm, claiming the lives of six students and leaving a dozen others seriously injured. Fire stories were something Eve usually avoided; that brand of pain and loss struck too close to home. But something about this story had drawn her in. Or rather, someone.

Freshman Allison Snow, one of the burn victims, also lost her twin sister, Cassidy, in the fire. She was struggling to survive an avalanche of trauma and grief and physical suffering that would crush most people when the fire marshall’s report delivered another blow. The report concluded that the fire had started when sparks from a frayed electrical cord ignited flammable decorations hanging nearby, decorations Allison had hung for a party that weekend. The revelation touched a deep personal chord in Eve and she’d been unable to turn away.

The first time they met, Allison was still hospitalized with second- and third-degree burns from face to knee on her left side. She was past the early stages of treatment, the agonizingly painful scrubbing and removal of dead tissue, but she still faced months of skin grafts and surgery and physical therapy, and then, in all likelihood, a lifetime of scars, physical and psychological, to remind her of that night. Eve was working on a series of reports on the aftermath of the fire, intended as a tribute to those who’d been lost and to show how the entire community had been touched by the tragedy. She started with the victims and their families, then the firefighters who’d saved lives and the doctors and nurses who’d worked around the clock to keep the injured alive, and she followed the ripples outward, through the Newberry faculty and student body, and finally to the community at large.

She wanted Allison and Cassidy’s story to be part of it; she wanted to give Allie a chance to memorialize her sister as only she could. But she made it clear from the start that it wasn’t her only reason for reaching out and that even if Allie never agreed to an interview, she would keep coming back. It was important to Eve that Allie know there was someone around who wouldn’t try to brush aside what she was feeling, someone in a position to understand in excruciating detail because she knew firsthand what it was like to be trapped inside that tangled web of grief and guilt and regret.

The instant she walked into the hospital room, Eve had recognized the look in the girl’s eyes. It was the same lost and haunted look she’d seen in her own eyes for years after the fire that killed her parents and laid waste to life as she’d known it. She knew that behind that look an endless loop of “what if?” and “if only” was running inside her head. She knew what a dark and lonely feeling it was to hold yourself responsible even when no one else did.

Angela finished reading Eve’s notes and looked up. “I like it. I especially like your idea of fading from clips of earlier interviews to new tape of the same subject. Have you been able to get in touch with everyone you spoke with last year?”

“Pretty much. One professor retired and moved to Florida, and a few kids have transferred to other schools. I have someone trying to get new contact info for them, but it’s nothing I can’t work around if I have to.”

“Good. I’ve checked out some of the raw tape you’ve logged. You’ve developed quite a rapport with Allison Snow.”

“Unfortunately, we have a lot in common.”

Angela nodded without comment. She knew a little about Eve’s background, but she wasn’t given to extraneous prying or sentiment and Eve blessed her for it.

“When do her bandages come off?” she asked Eve.

“Next week. She wants me to be there. For moral support.”

A gleam appeared in Angela’s dark eyes. “Any chance she’d let you bring along a photog?”

“I wouldn’t even ask.”

Her boss shrugged. “Just a thought.”

Eve sometimes thought that if Snow White had an evil twin, it would be Angela. She had the right look—wavy black hair, pale porcelain skin and ruby red lips—and, at least when it came to business, a heart of pure, calculating ice. And she’d made good use of all of it to get as far as she had on a playing field that still pretty much favored men. Angela didn’t pretend to be one of the boys. Far from it. Like Eve, she preferred to do things her way. In Angela’s case that meant wielding her femininity like any other weapon at her disposal, ruthlessly and with a style all her own. She dressed for the daily battle in defiantly girly colored suits, raspberry and lavender and lemon yellow, with jackets nipped at the waist and skirts that were straight and narrow, showing off a figure many younger women would covet. A hint of cleavage was not unheard of . . . but comfortable shoes definitely were. Comfort, her own and others, was not a priority for Angela.

“We really don’t need anything sensational to hype this anyway,” she assured Eve. “The latest viewer survey shows there’s still mega interest out there. I don’t want to sound . . . callous, but we really lucked out having the one-year anniversary fall during sweeps. We’ll tease it—tastefully—during every broadcast the week before. With any luck we’ll pull a forty share on at least a couple of nights.”

A forty share meant that forty percent of households in the viewing area were tuned in. Once that had been a fairly common occurrence, but with all the competition from cable networks and online news sites—including their own—pulling a forty these days was like hitting a grand slam. That made Angela’s expression of confidence even more significant, and Eve made a mental note to remember it when contract negotiations rolled around.

“Tell me more about this other idea,” Angela said, moving on. “What do pets have to do with finance and foreclosures?”

“Pets cost money. If you get laid off and have to cut expenses to the bone, pets sometimes have to go. Or if a family loses their home and has to crash with relatives for a while, the invitation might not include the family pooch or kitty and so they end up in a shelter. It was a volunteer at a local animal shelter who tipped me off to it. I made a few quick calls to other shelters and heard the same thing over and over; they’re filled to capacity—and beyond—and more animals arrive daily.”

“So do they . . . ?” She made a slicing motion across her throat.

Eve gave a grim nod. “Eventually. But most of them are trying to hold out as long as they can to give owners a chance to get settled somewhere and come back to claim them. It’s heartbreaking—these aren’t strays with health problems, three strikes against them and no place to go; they’re members of the family.”

“We had a little black poodle when I was a kid,” Angela recalled. “Mitzi. She chased the mailman until the post office threatened to cut off delivery if it didn’t stop, and whenever it thundered, she’d get nervous and throw up on our feet.” She sighed, as close to misty-eyed as Eve had ever seen her. “She was a real pain in the ass, but I still would have hated to have to give her away.”

Eve nodded. “Some shelters have started Foster Friend campaigns, asking for volunteers to help ease the overcrowding by taking in an animal—or two—on a temporary basis. Best-case scenario, the pets get reclaimed by their owners. Worst case, they get a few extra weeks, or months. And maybe, if they’re lucky, that’s enough time for their foster friend to fall in love with them and they get a new home.”

“Hmm. It has possibilities. And it’s sure as hell timely. Maybe we could spin it off the financial segment . . . give the C block a softer edge. Or maybe . . . maybe . . .” She paused, her gaze sliding past Eve to focus on the clear blue sky outside the window. Eve could almost hear the wheels turning inside Angela’s head. “Maybe we could do a version of the Tuesday’s Child spot, only instead of featuring a kid each week; we spotlight a pet in need of a foster home. We could get an existing advertiser to sponsor it . . . or better yet, pick up a new sponsor. One of those big pet-store chains would be perfect.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Eve told her. “Just getting the word out is bound to spur adoptions . . . and hopefully donations too.”

“And create good word of mouth for us,” added Angela, cutting to the heart of the matter from her standpoint. “I mean, who the hell doesn’t love snips and snails and puppy dog tails? This could be big. I say we toss it to Promotions and see what they come up with. Okay with you?”

Eve sort of nodded and murmured agreement. A second earlier she’d glanced at the monitors and her attention had been instantly shanghaied by the image on one of them. A square-jawed, sun-bronzed, tawny-haired man was being interviewed by the ladies of The View. And, judging by the fawning expressions on the faces of all four women, he was charming the pants off them. It was, she recalled, something he was very good at.

She couldn’t be sure how long she sat there, staring up at the screen, heart pounding, chest constricting, memories popping in her head like tulips in springtime. It finally penetrated that Angela was speaking. To her. And she managed to drag her attention away from the monitor. Slowly, as if freeing herself from mental quicksand.

“Hmm?”

“Friend of yours?” Angela inquired, the measured cadence of her words suggesting she’d asked once or twice already and wanted to make sure she got through this time. She supplied a visual aid by aiming a crimson-tipped finger at the monitor. “Nick Trevino. Is he a friend of yours?”

The sudden warming of her cheeks when his name was spoken out loud was enough to snap Eve back to full awareness. She had a feeling her face looked as ridiculously red hot as it felt, and was appropriately mortified.

Angela wanted to know if Nick was a friend of hers.

“Sort of. Maybe. A long time ago,” she stammered. “I mean, we went to school together. So, yeah, I know him . . . knew him. In school.”

God, now there was stammering to go along with the blushing; was she thirty-six or sixteen?

Angela eased back in her big leather chair, raised her perfect brows ever so slightly and said nothing. The silence was more unsettling than a string of questions. Eve recognized the technique; she’d used it herself hundreds of times during interviews. Let the silence stretch long enough and most people would grow uncomfortable and try to fill it, and in the process end up revealing more than they wanted to.

She checked her watch, stood abruptly and tugged on the hem of her sweater. “Wow, it’s later than I realized. I have to go. To do an interview. This time I am bringing along a photographer. Naturally. Since it’s for television.” She snatched the paper from the center of Angela’s desk. “Thanks for your input. I’ll just drop this off at Promotions on my way out.”

She went straight from the fishbowl to her own office and closed the door tightly behind her so she wouldn’t be interrupted. Her office didn’t have a row of monitors, only one perched on a file cabinet in the corner, but one was all she needed.

She quickly tuned in to The View. Good. The interview was still running. She backed up until she hit the chair at her desk and sank into it as she turned up the sound. She was curious to hear what Nick had to say, and irritated with herself for being curious and . . . something else. Something subtle.

The caption below his smiling face read, “Nicholas Trevino, Journalist, Author of When All Else Fails: Memoir of a Life Well-Traveled .”

Memoir. Give me a break, she thought, recalling that besides being charming, Nick Trevino—journalist, ex-friend, ex-lover, ex-fiancé—was also exactly one year, two months and six days older than she was. What kind of self-aggrandizing know-it-all writes a memoir before he even turns forty? The answer was obvious, and also irritating. The kind who led an adventurous, dangerous, fascinating, globe-trotting life as a famous and highly respected foreign correspondent. She supposed the fact that he looked and sounded like Indiana Jones’s smarter, braver, more dashing brother probably wouldn’t hurt book sales either.

Nick Trevino was living his dream, just as he always said he would. What bothered Eve was that he was also living hers.

Or maybe it would be more accurate to say he was living their dream, the dream they’d once shared, the dream they’d created together. She and Nick were working as summer interns in Washington when they met and clicked. They dated long distance until graduation, and then they both sought, and won, the prestigious Wyler Fellowship to study international journalism. Their plan was to finish grad school and then follow the story wherever it took them. They were ambitious and idealistic and in love. And they were certain—the kind of certain you can be only in your early twenties—they weren’t going to simply write about the world; they were going to change it.

They’d lay awake long into the night talking about marriage and forever and how they were going to make it work, no matter what. And about how, someday far, far away, after they’d seen everything and been everywhere, they would write a book about it. Together.

It was more than a dream for Eve; it was a chance for a fresh start, and she had never believed in or wanted anything so completely.

Then Chloe called with the news that she was pregnant. Eve remembered the drive back to New York to collect her things and how certain she’d been that Nick would understand her decision to return home. He hadn’t. She’d been certain he would get over his initial surprise and disappointment and remember their solemn vow to make it work, forever, no matter what. But that hadn’t happened either.

Nick stayed angry and she struggled to explain and they argued, long into several nights. The more they talked, the more it became all-about-Nick . . . about how his plans were being trashed and how inconvenient it would be for him not to have her around and how draining it would be to have to drive back and forth to Providence to see her. It was as if she and Chloe were nothing more than remote satellites revolving around planet Nick, useful only as long as they remained on course. But with all the debris flying around at the time, all those jagged pieces of her plans and her dreams and her heart, Eve didn’t see that clearly until much, much later.

Eventually Nick had cut off all discussion and issued an ultimatum: he needed her with him, and if she left, even for a year or two, if she put Chloe’s needs ahead of his, they were finished, done, kaput. And Eve, hurt and desperate not to see her dream disappear completely, had done the only thing that made sense to her at the time: she told him the truth.

She’d always intended to tell him, of course. She’d sworn not to follow in her mother’s misguided footsteps and spring it on him after they were already married. She’d simply been waiting for the perfect moment. That plan seemed to have blown up in her face, leaving her no choice but to tell him everything right then.

Everything. Complete and unvarnished and as totally preposterous sounding as she knew it was. She told him things she’d never told anyone, truths buried so deep it hurt to drag them up and say them out loud. She told him the reason she felt not simply obligated but honor bound to help Chloe in any way she could was because it was her fault their parents weren’t there to do it. She told him about the Winter Rose Spell and the candles and the fire. About blood magic and enchantresses and the time before time.

Nick had listened to it all, his expression impassive throughout, like a good journalist’s should be. And when she was finished, he told her he’d changed his mind and she could forget about the ultimatum. It was off the table. And then, before she had time to make the mistake of feeling relieved, he told her to pack her stuff and leave, because she was a liability he couldn’t afford.

He had to think about his future, he told her. If she was telling the truth, if magic was real, then she was like a time bomb that could at any moment detonate and destroy his credibility and reputation, and he wanted no part of it. And if it wasn’t real, then she was either lying or crazy, and he wanted no part of that. Either way, he wanted no part of her.

Looking up and seeing Nick on the monitor had been like a sudden, hard punch to her gut. Not because she still had tender feelings for him. She didn’t. Watching him on screen, hearing him talk about his recent marriage to a pretty young photographer who traveled with him and was clearly the maraschino cherry on top of his perfect life, the only thing Eve felt was grateful that whatever she and Nick shared had ended when it did.

For as long as she could remember she’d dreamed of sharing her life with a man who understood and accepted and loved everything about her. At fifteen she’d been so sure he was out there, somewhere, waiting for her just as impatiently as she was waiting for him, that she’d cast a spell to catch a glimpse of his face. That hadn’t ended well. Then along came Nick, breathing new life into her battered dreams, and in the end providing a glimpse of hard, cold reality. For the second time, magic won and she lost. Big time.

Eventually, as her heart slowly—very, very slowly—mended, she reconciled herself to the truth. That even if the man of her silly, romantic fantasies did exist, and they did someday, by some miracle, stumble across each other, there was no way she could ever know for certain it was him . . . not without getting closer and risking far more than she intended to ever again. And she needed to be certain. Before she opened her heart to a man again she needed to know he was the right man, the man destined to love her the way she longed to be loved. She wasn’t any more willing to settle for less now than she was at fifteen. Resigning herself to the truth was one thing; resigning herself to the wrong man was out of the question. And Nick Trevino had proven himself to be the wrong man.

As she watched Whoopi thank him and toss to commercial, she was suddenly able to put a name to the other, subtle feeling that had been tugging at her heart since she walked out of Angela’s office. Sadness. The kind of sadness you sometimes feel when looking at old photographs or reading old love letters.

Seeing Nick had sent her hurtling back to a time filled with endless possibilities and grand flights of fancy. But time is always moving and shifting to let you see things from a different perspective, whether you want to or not. She could see now that nothing in this life was truly endless, and that even the highest soaring flights eventually had to come back to earth and be grounded in something more solid than a young girl’s hopes and whimsy.

She wasn’t quite cynical enough to entirely rule out the possibility of finding love, or having it find her. She supposed it was still possible. She supposed anything was possible. But these days she was a much harder sell. It would require a pretty spectacular twist of fate for her to believe it was really meant to be, and she wasn’t counting on that happening or holding her breath waiting for it. And it certainly wasn’t the reason she refused to part with the pendant for any price.

She might not be entirely convinced it was as powerful a talisman as Grand claimed, or that it could change the family’s historically dismal record in finding true love, but the more she considered the possibility, the more she found herself wanting it to be true. Not for herself. She wanted it for Chloe and for Rory. She wanted them to have all the possibilities she’d lost or surrendered along the way. With all of her own heart, she wanted it to have enough magic to safeguard theirs.

Seven

Eve arrived home to an empty house and the blinking of the small red New Message light on the telephone.

She hit Play and smiled at the sound of Chloe’s voice.

Things were going absolutely, fantastically well in Greece, she reported. And even if they weren’t, thought Eve, her perennial optimist of a sister would say they were out of utter confidence in her ability to fix everything and make them that way. She had finally found just the right musicians for the traditional prenuptial walk through the historic streets of the village, where the locals would applaud and shout “Na zisete” to the bride and groom, which, according to Chloe, meant “long life.” Now she was on a mission to round up enough native sea daffodils to satisfy the very temperamental bride. She described the island as “too beautiful for words,” and the luxury hotel where they were staying as being carved into the hillside overlooking a white sand beach and turquoise sea, and she said she loved them all very, very much, kiss, kiss.

There was a slight hesitation and what sounded like a tiny tremor in her voice when she spoke again.

“I’m just missing you all a lot right now,” she said. “I mean, I always miss you when I’m away, but today, for some reason, you’re on my mind even more than usual and I just wish I were there with you.” She laughed softly. “Silly, I know. Anyway, I miss you and I’m thinking of you and I just wanted you to know. So there. And I’ll be home before you know it. Bye for now . . . and Rory, extra hugs for you, baby.”

Eve hit the Save as New button so she wouldn’t forget to tell Grand and Rory about the call. She wondered where they were. Usually when she got home the lights were on, there was music coming from Rory’s room and, if she was lucky, something heating in the oven. Not tonight.

“Grand? Rory?” she called, not really expecting a response. In a strange way the house didn’t feel just empty, it felt really empty, and she tried to shrug off a creeping uneasiness.

She knew where Grand was . . . sort of. Which is to say she knew as much as she wanted to.

“I have something to take care of tomorrow,” Grand had told her last night, just as Eve was heading off to bed, exhausted.

Through the years, by unspoken agreement, the phrase “something to take care of” had come to signify any activity of a magical nature, and when she heard it, Eve didn’t ask for details. Grand could pretty much take care of herself; she was more concerned about Rory.

Had she mentioned plans for after school? Eve couldn’t recall any. But then, she had been just a tiny bit preoccupied with her own thoughts this morning, replaying the events from last night and wondering what might happen next. And she hadn’t had to wonder for long. She was suddenly sidetracked by images of Hazard with his arms filled with roses and Hazard leaning against the window ledge in her office, watching her in that intent, bewildering way of his, as if he was suspicious and captivated in equal parts. Just as she started to wonder exactly what that look meant, she caught herself, stopped and shook her head to clear it. The last thing she should be doing right then was wasting time trying to figure out what made Hazard tick.

She checked the front of the fridge, but there was no note clipped to any of the magnets there. Next she checked Rory’s room. No Rory; also no clothes tossed on the bed and no book bag in sight. That might explain the lack of a note. Maybe she hadn’t come home after school. Maybe something came up on the spur of the moment and Rory was off studying or hanging with friends.

It just wasn’t like her not to check in or at least call to leave a message.

They didn’t have a lot of house rules. They’d never needed them. Rory was a good kid. If anything, she’d always tended toward being too mature and levelheaded for her age. In Eve’s amateur-shrink estimation that was a direct response to her mother’s head-in-the-clouds, pie-in-the-sky approach to life and love and the universe in general. Chloe—at least the old, a-little-too-free-spirited Chloe—might get caught up in the moment and take off without thinking to let someone know where she was going, but not Rory.

It was still too soon to worry.

But not, she decided, too soon to risk appearing overprotective by giving her cell phone a call. It went straight to voice mail, which told Eve exactly nothing. Rory could have turned her phone off because she was at the library or watching a movie with friends or for any one of a dozen other innocuous reasons.

Or, thought Eve, recalling the sound the warlock’s laser made as it slashed the air inches from her head, she could be in serious trouble.

Another wave of uneasiness, this one stronger and more tenacious, propelled her to Grand’s kitchen to check on the pendant. They’d agreed it would be safe in the small hidden compartment beneath Grand’s sink, but Eve had a bad feeling even before she opened the cabinet door, reached inside and came up empty. The pendant wasn’t there and something dark crept along her spine.

Grabbing a flashlight, she knelt and checked again, straining to see around the pipes and running her fingers back and forth over the place it should be, as if it might have become invisible overnight. Stranger things, she thought. But all she felt were the remnants of Grand’s protection wards fluttering against her hand like torn silk.

The wards, the magical equivalent of an alarm system, would have prevented anyone who wasn’t a family member from touching the pendant. That limited the possibilities considerably. If Grand had taken it, she would have let Eve know. And Chloe was thousands of miles away. That left only Rory, who had no idea the talisman even existed, much less that it was hidden beneath Grand’s sink. The odds of her happening upon it accidentally were somewhere in the range of nonexistent.

Someone would have to have lead her to it. Someone who knew Eve had the pendant and could have found out where she lived as easily as where she worked and random details about her family. The house itself was warded against intruders—more of Grand’s handiwork that she’d ignored because no one else knew about it—but the wards wouldn’t have prevented Rory from letting someone in, someone glib enough to talk his way around any obstacle, someone attractive in a brooding rock-star way sure to appeal to a fifteen-year-old, someone who might even have claimed to be a friend of the “World’s Best Aunt.” And if that someone was able to sense where the pendant was hidden and had the power to either charm or force Rory to do his bidding . . .

Now it was time to worry. Eve banged the cabinet door shut and hurried back to where she’d dropped her things when she arrived home. She pulled Hazard’s card from her purse to find his address and went cold inside, suspicion mushrooming into full-blown fear.

Hazard lived at 128 Sycamore. That was Grand’s old house, the house she’d grown up in, the place she’d first tasted the thrill and power and deadly evil that was magic. After the fire, the house had eventually been sold and the damage repaired, but Eve had never been back to see it. She made a point to never even drive down Sycamore Street, in spite of the fact that it wasn’t far from where she lived now.

She was afraid to go back. She feared that seeing the house again would set loose a torrent of memories of that night, memories of heat and panic and the awful sounds of sirens and screams and tears. Chloe’s. Grand’s. Her own. It had taken years to build a wall strong enough to hold back those memories and keep them from crushing her. She never wanted to go back there and risk having that wall crumble around her.

Now she had no choice. She had no idea how or why he’d come to live in that house, but she refused to believe it was mere coincidence. Her fear that Rory was in danger ratcheted up another notch. She had to find her and the obvious place to start was with Hazard.

She drove to Sycamore Street as if there were no speed limit, parked across the street from Grand’s house, his house now, and stared at it. She fully expected to be bombarded by bad memories and wanted to get the ordeal over with right away, preferably while sitting in the relative privacy of her own car.

Outside was twilight, inside was silence and she could feel dark thoughts hovering all around her. But to her surprise instead of closing in, they were held at bay by all the other memories that came flooding back, happy memories, a long sweet, unexpected rush of them. She remembered sitting on the front porch steps and blowing soap bubbles with her mother, and learning to ride her first bike along the long narrow driveway, her father trotting alongside, pink plastic streamers flying from her handlebars, and the rainy-day joy of curling up with a book in the window seat in the sunroom.

And she remembered how Grand’s roses looked in summer and the quiet buzzing of the honeybees they attracted and how the sweet, safe scent of them saturated the air so that even with her eyes closed she could have found her way home.

Home.

Suddenly the scent of roses was all around her, calming and comforting her. Olfactory recall, she thought with a smile as she closed her eyes and drank it in until there was no room for fear.

“Thanks, Grand,” she whispered, releasing a final breath and reaching for the door handle.

She crossed the street slowly, wanting time to study the house.

The cosmetics had changed. Gone were the peeling paint and overgrown hedges of her childhood. But the bones of the house, all that the fire had failed to turn to ash, were the same. And achingly familiar to her. There was the same wide, wraparound front porch and the same lofty windowed turret standing sentry to all of Providence. She let her gaze climb higher, to where the raven should have been perched and was disappointed to see that the weather vane that had stood guard through blizzards and hurricanes was also gone. But even that loss was balanced by the paving stone remaining in place by the front steps, the Celtic protection runes chiseled into its surface, a bit worn by time and nature.

She’d once asked Grand what the ancient symbols meant.

“Enter here in peace or not at all,” Grand told her.

Apparently the stone’s power to ward off danger had also worn a little thin over the years, noted Eve, reaching for the heavy brass knocker on the front door.

Because she definitely had not come in peace.

Hazard answered the door too quickly, making her suspect he’d seen her coming. Or maybe he’d sensed she was near the same way she’d sensed him earlier. Whatever the reason, he didn’t look surprised to see her.

He greeted her with a small nod and a slow, satisfied smile that made Eve feel like the silly little canary to his big, shrewd cat. It was galling, and she purposely drew herself up and lifted her chin.

“Miss Lockhart. I’m glad to see you’ve decided to be sensible about this. For both our sakes.”

“Don’t get too excited, Hazard. I’m not here to sell you anything. I’m here to take back what’s mine.”

She stepped past him and kept going, crossing the foyer in a few long strides to peer into the sunroom that ran along the front of the house.

“Please, do come in,” he drawled in a sardonic tone as he closed the door. “And tell me what you’re talking about.”

Eve ignored the question, and him, and started down the hall in the direction of the living room, still moving quickly in case he was of a mind to stop her. Thankfully the layout of the house hadn’t changed, although even a quick glance revealed that the look was entirely different. There was no flowered wallpaper or drapes or comfy overstuffed seating. The walls and woodwork had been painted the same mellow shade of white, and the only window coverings were white pleated shades.

The furniture—what there was of it—was tasteful and understated, low-slung sofas dressed in crisp white slipcovers and dark, highly polished wood tables and accents. Except for the liquor bottles lined up on the marble bar, it felt more like a Pottery Barn showroom than a home. And what she found even more interesting was what wasn’t there: no photos, no books, no knicks or knacks of any kind anywhere. The Pottery Barn actually had more warmth and personality.

Most significantly, there was also no Rory. Eve wasn’t naive enough to think Hazard would stand by and allow her to barge in so easily if he had a kidnap victim sitting around in plain view, but she thought she might spot something belonging to Rory. Maybe even something she’d dropped intentionally as a clue for when Eve came looking for her. And Rory had to know that she would come looking . . . and keep looking until she found her. All she needed was one little clue to tell her she was searching in the right place.

And she wasn’t going to find it standing there. She was impatient to keep moving and search the rest of the house from top to bottom, but there was only one way out of the living room and Hazard was blocking it. He stood with his shoulder resting on the doorjamb, the sleeves of his black sweater pushed to the elbow, presenting a picture of calm indifference that was a stark contrast to her own tightly wound nerves. Then she noticed the tension in those nicely muscled forearms of his and the rigid set of his jaw and she realized he wasn’t as relaxed as he appeared. He reminded her of a tiger, still and silent and poised for the kill; she put her odds of sashaying past him a second time at negative something.

“Shall I roll back the rug so you can have a look under there as well?” he inquired, indicating the black and gold and burgundy Oriental. It was funny how his British accent made sarcasm sound so much more . . . sarcastic.

“Thanks, but that’s not necessary.”

“Beneath the seat cushions? Inside the chimney perhaps?”

Hmm. Either would make an excellent hiding place for the pendant, but the fact he’d suggested them meant it wasn’t there. Unless, she mused, he was using reverse psychology and intentionally dangling the truth in an attempt to mislead her.

Eve caught herself mid-conjecture and stopped. It didn’t matter what he was or was not dangling. All that mattered right now was Rory, and she wasn’t going to find her under a rug or a seat cushion.

She shook her head firmly to decline his offer.

“Good. In that case, perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me what’s going on.”

“The pendant is gone,” she announced, and took careful note of the reactions that flickered rapid-fire across his face: surprise, confusion, disbelief. They all appeared genuine, but he might just be a good actor, delivering a clever, even magical performance.

“What do you mean it’s gone?” he demanded, his deep voice taut. “Gone where?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me. That’s why I’m here.”

“Why would you think . . . ?” He stopped and frowned. “Are you saying you lost it? It’s been in your possession for less than a day and you’ve lost it?”

“Of course I didn’t lose it. It was taken from me. There’s a difference.”

“Not one that matters a rat’s ass,” he shot back. “What matters is that you don’t have it.” He bit off the last word, his expression darkening as if the reality of the situation was settling on him in stages. “And you think I do. That’s why you came here . . . you think I took it.”

“I think it’s possible. Either you or the warlocks; for all I know you’ve been working together all along.”

He glared at her in icy, arms-folded, jaw-clenched silence.

She folded her own arms and glared back. “The pendant’s not my biggest concern. I think whoever took it also took my niece.”

“I see. So you’re accusing me of not only breaking into your home and stealing from you, but also kidnapping a child while I’m at it.”

“Not a child exactly. Rory is fifteen.”

“Trust me,” he growled, “as far as I’m concerned that’s close enough. Do you really believe I’m capable of that?”

“I have no idea what you’re capable of,” Eve snapped. “I don’t know you. And I really don’t want to.”

Hazard stiffened, her words striking like darts. Emotions he hadn’t felt in a very long time were stirring inside him and he didn’t like it. Some of them he wasn’t sure he could even put a name to anymore; others, like anger, he knew intimately. Anger was both familiar and useful, though admittedly his usual brand was cold and controlled, not the seething, wild thing straining at the bit inside him now. Over the years he’d nourished his anger until it was more than a feeling, it was armor and motivation and, in a perverse way, comfort.

It was failing him now, however, because he didn’t feel either comforted or protected. He felt raw and exposed, with nothing to buffer him from the accusations that Eve Lockhart’s fiery green eyes were shooting at him. And nothing to shield himself from the maelstrom of other feelings she unleashed.

Damn witch.

This ridiculous ruckus inside him was her fault. She was to blame for the peculiar heaviness around his heart and the odd lump in his throat and the completely asinine way he was standing there as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him for no better reason than that she thought ill of him.

I don’t know you. And I don’t want to.

That was plain enough. And what did it matter that her reasoning was dead wrong? He hadn’t taken the pendant, and he certainly hadn’t kidnapped her niece . . . though he was thinking now that he should have. The pendant, not the niece.

Instead of wasting the morning tracking down Vasil and paying him to stay away from her, and then going to the trouble of bluffing his way into her office to try again to appeal to the common sense he now realized she was clearly lacking, he should have gone straight to her house, stolen the pendant and put an end to his misery. And spared himself all this nonsense in the bargain. But no, for some ungodly reason he hadn’t wanted to leave her with the belief that he was no better than Vasil’s henchmen. The longer he’d laid awake thinking about her, the more he’d found himself wanting to deal with her . . . honorably.

A fool never learns.

All that was irrelevant now. He knew he hadn’t stolen anything from her and that would have to be enough to satisfy his honor. In fact, when you got right down to it, she was the one who stole from him. If not for her bloody magic tricks he would have been the high bidder and walked away with the pendant. Instead, she’d pilfered it from him and then turned right around and lost it before he could pilfer it back. He was the injured party in all this. So why should it matter to him if she thought him a liar and a thief?

It shouldn’t. It didn’t. He refused to let it. It simply rankled to know that she was standing there, toe-to-toe with him, green eyes blazing and chin high, thinking exactly that. It rankled nearly as much as the ease with which she managed to twist him up inside and throw him off his game. It was humiliating. Not to mention dangerous. He couldn’t afford to be distracted now. Too much time and effort had gone into planning this, and everything hinged on him getting his hands on the pendant. He might never get a second chance, so the prospect of failure ought to be enough to command his undivided attention.

Witch, he thought again, wishing it were that simple. Unfortunately, his turmoil had nothing to do with Eve Lockhart being a witch and everything to do with her being a woman.

The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, he thought for the second time. Others might disagree, but he knew it to be true. Everything about her pleased and tempted him. Just looking at her made him want to touch, and he knew that touching her would make him want everything. Would make him want all of her.

He wouldn’t take it all at once. Not that he would ever get the chance, but if he did he wouldn’t ravish her in a greedy rush, as much as his senses would rage and clamor for him to do just that. If he could, he would claim her in a hundred, no, a thousand small, excruciatingly slow bites. He would savor her as if they had all the time in the world, as if they had forever.

He would slide his fingertips over her face and throat to discover if her skin could possibly feel as smooth and flawless as it looked.

He would press his palm gently to her cheek and feel the warmth that rose there when she grew flush, the way she was right now.

He would slip his hands beneath the gold and copper silk of her hair and lift it so he could kiss the back of her neck and the enticing curve of her shoulder, slowly, until he found the spot that would make her shiver and sigh with pleasure.

He was thinking of other hidden places he would kiss her when he suddenly became aware that something about her expression had changed. She still looked intense and watchful, like some magnificent warrior princess from a fairy tale, but one who was less accusing, more uncertain. How long, he wondered, had he been standing there staring at her, lost in his own foolish thoughts? Long enough for her to surmise what he was thinking? He thought not. She seemed too consumed with thoughts of her own to care about his.

He took a few seconds to try to think of the right thing to say, gave up and tried to think of anything to say. It didn’t help that at the same time he was trying to not look at her sweater, and finding it no easier now than it had been that morning in her office. The sweater was soft and snug and he had no idea what sort of lacy feminine thing she might be wearing under it, but in his rusty—not to be confused with amateurish or unskilled—opinion, it looked as if the only thing under there was her, and the mere possibility he was right made it nearly impossible for him to think about anything else.

There was a name for the color of her sweater, but he hadn’t been able to remember it. The colors all had names, a different one for every shade and hue. It had been so long since he’d spoken or even thought those words that they didn’t come to him readily. He hadn’t needed them. Part of him didn’t want to need them or think them now.

It had been a conscious choice to banish color from his world, and he’d made it for a reason. Color had become a double-edged sword, bringing him as much pain as beauty. Something as simple as a rainbow hanging in a summer sky or the amber promise of a pint of freshly drawn ale brought with it the memory of a day or a night or even a single moment in the life that was once his, the life lost to him forever, and as quick as the slash of a razor he would want it all back . . . want it so badly it hurt. To see things drained of color made the memories duller, the wanting less . . . disruptive. It made it easier to live without.

Apparently he was to have no such say about the return of color to his world. It was happening whether he liked it or not. Although everything else was still gray, he was able to see Eve Lockhart in full, glorious color and he liked it. And he hated it. And he wouldn’t change it now even if he had the choice.

He suddenly remembered the name for the color of her sweater: lavender. Lavender, like the fields near the village where he grew up and the fragrant sprigs his mother used to slip between fresh linens in the linen press.

Eve cleared her throat, and Hazard’s gaze shot up to meet hers.

“And I’m also here because I’m desperate and I didn’t know where else to go. I only know I have to find her.”

She said it fast, as if to get the words out before she changed her mind. It was as awkward and roundabout a plea as he’d ever heard; but then, being a mighty witch and accomplished news-woman, she probably didn’t get much practice asking for help.

When she finished, her bottom lip trembled just a little and she drew a deep breath, deep enough to lift her chest. But he was no longer looking at her sweater; he was staring into her eyes instead. And seeing a woman with her guard down, a woman who was worried she was in over her head and afraid someone she loved would suffer because of it. The resentment he’d felt at being falsely accused faded away, along with his anger over the lost pendant.

The unexpected glimpse of vulnerability didn’t fit with his first impression of her, but it did tug hard enough on what was left of his heart to make him forget he’d sworn off damsels in distress. He suddenly felt like moving a mountain or slaying a dragon or doing whatever it would take to make her world right again.

That’s why he abruptly turned and strode to the bar to grab a bottle of whiskey. God knows he didn’t need a drink, but he did need time to pull himself together and stop himself from thinking the kind of crazy thoughts that could ruin a man’s life if he wasn’t careful. He needed time to clear Eve Lockhart from his head.

He filled the glass and then left it sitting on the bar when he heard movement behind him. She was almost out of the room.

“Stop,” he ordered, and was surprised when she did. “I know where you’re off to and I’ll save you the trouble. Your niece isn’t here. Neither is the pendant. Not that I wouldn’t steal it. You were right to suspect me. I assure you I’m capable of that and worse. I want it that badly. I fully intend to have it, and when all is said and done I really don’t care how I get it. To be honest, I wish now I had just stolen the damn thing from you. But even if I had, I would never have touched your niece or taken her or harmed her in any way.” He met her gaze unflinchingly and saw the dark suspicions still lurking there. “That’s beneath even me. I give you my word on it. You can trust that I’m telling you the truth, or you can waste more time searching the rest of the house. It’s your choice.”

He waited and watched as she studied his face and considered his claims. It wasn’t until she finally nodded that Hazard realized he’d been holding his breath to see what she would do . . . if she would choose to believe him.

“If you don’t have her,” she said, “the warlocks must. Either them or whoever it is they work for. Can you tell me how to find them?”

“I could. But you don’t want to go chasing after them.”

“Because they’re dangerous?”

“No. They are dangerous, but that’s not the reason. I think we both know you could hold your own with them.”

She looked surprised. “We do?”

“After last night? Absolutely. Which is why tracking them down would only waste more time. They don’t have your niece.”

“You sound very sure of that,” she said, her tone making it clear she wasn’t.

“I am. In order to get to her, or the pendant, they would have to break into your house, and they would never do that.”

“Why not? Because you paid off their boss? Don’t take this the wrong way, Hazard, but maybe he wasn’t as easily bought as you thought. Maybe he duped you. Or maybe he doesn’t even know about it . . . maybe they did this on their own time so they wouldn’t have to split the proceeds.”

“None of that changes the fact that they wouldn’t go anywhere near your house. They’re too afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of you.”

“Me?” She laughed. Then frowned. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? At least one of them is a reader. You saw how he moved his hand over you very slowly. What else could he have been doing but reading you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is that an aura thing?”

He couldn’t tell if she was serious. Though it hardly seemed she would be joking at a time like this. “Something like that.”

“And here I thought he was just trying to slice me in half.”

“He was. This was later. After they ran into the protective shield and got knocked flat on their . . .”

“Asses?” she suggested when he politely stopped short of saying it.

“Exactly. And none too gently. I’m guessing that was enough to make them want to know just what they were up against. So they read you, and whatever they found out was obviously more than they were prepared to deal with. And also more than Vasil wanted to deal with,” he added. “That had to be the reason he was so amenable to taking my money in exchange for bowing out. He knew if they couldn’t take the pendant from you by ambushing you in a public place, they weren’t likely to do better on your home ground.”

She looked doubtful. “Why not? They can shoot lasers from their palms, for heaven’s sake. I don’t think a dead bolt or a can of pepper spray would stop them.”

“It wouldn’t,” he agreed, again not sure how to take her comment. Those were hardly the only weapons at her disposal. He knew it and she knew he knew it. Why pretend otherwise? “That’s why the mystical world doesn’t deal in dead bolts and pepper spray. It deals in power. Who’s got it, who’s got more of it, who’s got the most. Mystically speaking, someone’s home has an innate power of its own that weakens outside energies and puts intruders at a disadvantage. And that’s even before you consider wards meant to keep others out and nasty spell traps that see to it anyone who does make it inside is sorry he did.”

“That does sound a whole lot more intimidating than a dead bolt,” she said, looking as if this was the first time she’d ever thought about it. And looking dejected. Neither of which made any sense at all to Hazard. “You’re right, they wouldn’t break in if they thought all that would be waiting for them. And Rory would never invite those creeps in the way she would—” She stopped abruptly, dropped her gaze and shrugged one shoulder. “The way she might someone more . . . else. Someone else. Someone less creepy.”

“Or maybe she didn’t let anyone in because there was no one. Have you considered the possibility that your niece took the pendant?”

She was already shaking her head. “No way. She doesn’t even know it exists.”

Interesting, thought Hazard. “So it’s a family heirloom and a family secret.”

That merited another uneasy, one-shouldered shrug. “Not exactly. She was asleep when I got home from the auction, and there was really no time to get into it this morning. And even if she did know, she wouldn’t know where to look for it. It wasn’t hidden someplace where she could have discovered it accidentally. Which is irrelevant anyway because Rory would never take something that didn’t belong to her. Well, she borrows my clothes sometimes, but she wouldn’t take something like the pendant, not without asking.”

Hazard said nothing. His personal experience with children was limited to five months, two weeks and three days, many years ago, and he had none at all with teenagers. But even he knew that the best of them were capable of doing all sorts of things others believed they wouldn’t, and shouldn’t.

“I have to think,” she said, lacing her fingers together and bringing them up so her chin rested on them. “You and the warlocks were my only likely suspects. Make that my only suspects, period. I have no other leads, no other contacts. I can’t call the police. Can’t put up flyers. I don’t even know how much time I have before . . .”

She didn’t complete the thought; she didn’t have to. Seeing the color drain from her face told him all he needed to know. He wanted to reassure her. At one time he was good at that sort of thing, at putting a woman at ease. Now he grappled for the right words and before he found them, she spoke again.

“I know that in a normal, ordinary, mortal kidnapping, the first twenty-four hours are critical. But this isn’t ordinary,” she declared with an unmistakable edge of bitterness. “Who knows what the time frame might be?” She blew out a small, disgruntled breath and dragged her fingers through her hair. “I know I have to act fast. I should be doing something, but I have no idea what to do next.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” So obvious he couldn’t, and didn’t, believe she hadn’t already thought of it.

She looked at him from beneath raised brows. “To you maybe. Care to share with the slower members of the class?”

That was definitely an attempt at humor. Maybe.

“A locater spell would work best,” he told her, “but that takes time. It would be much faster to scry for her.”

“Scry?”

“You must have considered that already.”

“Not in so many words.”

He regarded her curiously. “But you do know what the word means?”

“Vaguely.” She shrugged, looking sheepish. “I sort of recall that it involves a crystal ball . . . and a mirror. Or maybe a bowl of water. Black water, that’s it. Either that or a black mirror. It’s been a while.”

“I’m sure it will come back to you once you get started.”

She seemed to flinch. “Me? I don’t . . . I never . . . couldn’t you do it?”

“I can’t.”

She slid her tongue over her bottom lip, her eyes suddenly brighter and greener with what looked like panic. “Look, I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t desperate. If you want me to promise you the pendant . . . assuming I get it back, that is . . .”

Hazard shook his head, startled and uncomfortable because she seemed about to say the words he most wanted to hear. “I didn’t say I won’t do it. I said I can’t.”

“Because I will. Promise you. If you help me find Rory, the pendant is—”

“You misunderstand. I can’t scry for her because I don’t have that kind of power.”

She hesitated, somber as she absorbed that. “How much power does it take?”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant that when it comes to magic, I don’t have any power at all.”

She made a scoffing sound. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“A lot of this doesn’t make any sense,” he agreed, his tone dry. “But now isn’t the time to try to suss it out. Do you want to find your niece or not?”

“Of course I want to find her.”

“Then you’ll have to be the one to scry for her.”

She caught the edge of her bottom lip between her teeth, looking as stricken as if he’d ordered her to walk the plank. With sharks circling below. “You don’t understand. I don’t . . . I can’t . . . I don’t even know how.”

“That I can help you with. If you want me to.” He waited. “Well?”

“I guess . . . what choice do I have?” There was an appeal in her soft voice, as if she were hoping he’d offer one.

“I’ll take that as a yes. We’ll need a map of the city, and something associated with your niece.”

“Like what?”

“Well, naturally something containing her blood or a lock of her hair would work best, but anything tied to her will do . . . a favorite book . . . a piece of clothing.” The irony of him explaining elementary magic to her wasn’t lost on Hazard.

“I can think of a dozen things,” she told him, “but they’re all at home.”

“Maybe there’s something in your car?”

“No. Wait . . .” From beneath her sweater, she pulled out a teardrop-shaped gem on a thin gold chain. A deep pink gem, Hazard noted.

“It’s a special kind of rose quartz known as the Morning Star.” She held it so he could see the delicate white star nature had embedded within. “Rory gave it to me because she’s named after Aurora, the goddess of dawn. I wear it all the time.”

“That should do. The map is upstairs in my study. We can work there. The turret is a magical hot spot. Has to do with ley lines and energy currents and—”

“No. I can’t . . . I’d rather do it down here.”

He nodded, asking none of the questions brought to mind by her sharp tone and suddenly rigid posture. “All right. I’ll fetch the map and meet you at the kitchen table.” He pointed. “The kitchen is right through—”

“I know,” she said, already moving in that direction.

When he returned with the map a few minutes later, she was standing at the kitchen sink, staring out at the backyard with a look of consternation.

“Are you worried because the sun has set?” he asked.

She didn’t turning around. “No. I was just looking at your garden.”

“I wouldn’t call that mess of weeds and stalks and overgrown paths a garden, but I guess it once was.”

“You’d be surprised,” she said softly, almost wistfully, and then whipped around to face him. “I mean you’d be surprised what a little time and elbow grease could do out there.”

“Do you like to garden?” he asked, wanting to know more about her.

“Me?” She laughed. “No. My grandmother is the gardener in our family.” She looked at the map open on the table and folded her arms tightly across her chest.

“You can do this,” he told her.

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Let’s just get on with it before I change my mind.”

Hazard handed her a cardboard canister of salt from the cupboard behind him.

“Salt?”

“For casting the circle,” he explained. “You have done that before?”

If she detected any wryness in his tone she didn’t let on.

“Yes, but not with salt.”

He shrugged. “Salt of the earth, to set your parameters . . . assuming she’s still in the earthly realm.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t even think it.”

“Sorry. I’m sure she is. Our other option would be to use actual earth, but that’s harder to clean up.” He pulled one bleached oak chair out from the table. “Once you close the circle, you sit here. You’ll need to take off your necklace so you can hold it suspended over the map and move it in a circular pattern, slowly, starting at the center.”

“And then?” Eve prompted when he didn’t say anything else.

“And then you call forth energy from wherever it is you call it from and focus it on connecting with Rory. And wait for your morning star to show you where she is at that instant.”

“I thought scrying was for seeing into the future.”

“It’s for seeing beyond what you’re able to see with your senses.”

He extended his arm in a silent invitation for her to begin and then stepped back so that he was outside the circle she was casting. She spoke quietly as she moved around the table, and with a gentle rhythm that made it seem as if her words were sliding over his skin and erasing all the tension inside him.

“I close this circle with pure intent, with hopeful heart and malice toward none.”

There was a subtle whoosh of air as the circle closed. It was different from the click he heard when Taggart cast a circle. Quieter, but somehow more forceful.

He looked on in silence as she sat and followed his instructions exactly. He counted only three slow circles before her arm jerked and there was another much louder whoosh of air; this one he felt as well as heard. It caught him dead center, just above his belt, carried him back ten feet and slammed him hard against the kitchen counter. Hard enough to make his knees buckle and force him to grab for the countertop with both hands. As soon as he’d stopped himself from landing on his ass, he swung his gaze to Eve.

Her hair looked windblown, but she’d kept her seat and he could see the chain still gripped in her fist.

“Oh my God, Hazard,” she exclaimed. “It worked.”

Eight

“If you’re upset about your map, I’d be glad to replace it.” Hazard didn’t reply. His attention remained fixed on the road ahead and a frown fixed on his face, the way it had been since they’d gotten into his car a few minutes earlier.

Eve suddenly remembered his claim to be a collector of unique treasures and her heart sank a little. “Unless it was a rare, one-of-a-kind, irreplaceable edition. Please tell me it’s not irreplaceable.”

“It’s not irreplaceable and I’m not upset about it.”

“You sound upset. I already promised to have your kitchen table refinished or whatever it will take to get rid of the scorch marks.”

“I told you that’s not necessary. I really don’t care about the map or the table.”

“Then what are you upset about?”

“I’m not upset. I’m . . .”

“Peeved?” she suggested while he searched for the right word. “Aggravated? Annoyed? Sorry you offered to help me?”

He glanced sideways at her and there might have been a flicker of amusement beneath the somber brooding. “Thinking. I’m thinking about what just happened. I’ve seen scrying before but never anything close to the show you put on.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s the first time I’ve ever been blown across the bloody room or seen a hole burned straight through the map to what’s under it.”

“Oh.” She hesitated, torn between wanting to know more and wanting to forget it happened. This time the magic hadn’t been accidental, or a surprise. It had been a matter of choice, her choice, and the fact she’d done it only because she was desperate didn’t ease her misgivings. She would deal with that later, she decided; for now curiosity won out. “What usually happens when someone scrys?”

“It takes longer for one thing. Whoever’s doing it has to keep moving the object over the map until it eventually connects with the right spot and touches down . . . gently and without any sparks or smoke.”

“Oh,” she said again. “Why do you suppose it was different this time?”

“Obviously there was a lot more power there than the circle—or the room—could hold. But then, you already know that since you were the one generating it.”

“Not really,” she protested. “Not intentionally. All I did was follow your instructions.”

She didn’t have to turn her head or see the look on his face to know he didn’t believe her; she could feel his suspicion flowing like hot lava.

“Then how would you explain it?” he challenged.

“I can’t,” she admitted. “You said yourself things have been happening that don’t make sense.”

“Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it all makes perfect sense . . . just not any kind I understand.” He took a right onto Angel Street and slanted a speculative glance her way. “Yet.”

“Well, speaking for myself, I don’t need to understand it as long as it helps with the only thing that matters right now . . . finding Rory.”

“And the pendant,” he reminded her.

“Of course.” She managed a casual that-goes-without-saying shrug to hide the fact that she was so focused on Rory the pendant had slipped her mind.

If her power scrying had gotten it right, they were about to find Rory at Prospect Terrace, a small park not too far away, though with traffic crawling from red light to red light, it felt to Eve like they were driving cross country. Hazard had followed her out of the house as if it was understood he’d be going with her, and had taken her firmly by the elbow and steered her to his car as if it was also understood he would be doing the driving. After her initial surprise Eve just accepted the fact that she was glad to have his company—even if he was only there to protect his would-be investment in the pendant—and grateful to be cocooned in the quiet luxury of his car, with its new-car smell and cushy leather seats and subtly glowing, gadget-laden dash. If she wasn’t anxious enough to crawl out of her skin any second, she might have settled in and enjoyed the drive. Instead, she sat leaning forward, hands fisted, giving directions he didn’t seem to need.

Prospect Terrace was in the area of the city known as College Hill because there were several colleges nearby. It was also within walking distance of Braxton Academy, the private school Rory attended, and as Hazard pulled to the curb and parked, Eve had to wonder if maybe Rory was just hanging out with friends and the pendant’s disappearance had nothing to do with her. Maybe she’d been too quick to link the two. Maybe whoever said there are no coincidences was wrong and all of it—Rory, the pendant, the house—was just one big convoluted coincidence. That still didn’t explain what had happened to the pendant, of course, but first things first.

She was out of the car before the engine shut off and scanning the stretch of grass about a city block wide and half as deep. There wasn’t a lot to see, only a scattering of benches and tall, old shade trees and a view of downtown. Because the park was built on a steep incline, a waist-high black iron fence ran along the back of it to prevent someone from tumbling thirty or so feet of rocky, brush-covered terrain to the street below. On a platform extending beyond the fence were a granite arch and a towering statue of Roger Williams, gazing out over the land he’d founded.

At first the park appeared to be deserted, and disappointment formed a lump at the back of Eve’s throat that made it hurt to swallow. Then she ventured down one of the paths to where there were no trees blocking her view and she saw someone silhouetted against the twilight sky. Rory . . . Eve recognized the way she stood and held her head, and she started running.

Rory wasn’t alone. There was a boy with her, a tall, lanky kid straddling a ten-speed bike. At the sound of footsteps running toward them in the darkness they stiffened and turned their heads to look in her direction. It was dark away from the streetlights, so Eve was almost beside them before Rory realized it was her. Immediately her eyes went wide with surprise bordering on horror and her jaw clenched; it was the classic how-could-you-do-this-to-me expression of a teenager unexpectedly confronted by a parent—or reasonable facsimile—in public.

“Eve! What are you doing here?”

Rory didn’t sound happy. Eve didn’t care. In fact, she hardly noticed. She was too busy being relieved and overjoyed to see that she wasn’t bound and gagged or under attack by spinning blue lasers or worse. Like a new mother counting her baby’s fingers and toes, Eve did a quick inventory: two arms, two legs, head still attached and operational. Nothing missing or bleeding. Only when she was certain Rory was all right did she remember how upset she was with her.

“Me? You want to know what I’m doing here. Do you have any idea how worr—”

“I gotta bolt,” said the kid on the bike just as Eve was warming up. He deftly wheeled around her to get back on the paved walk. “See ya, Rory.”

“Toby, wait.”

But Toby didn’t wait, and for just a second Rory looked exactly as she had when she was five and the string attached to her balloon slipped through her fingers and the balloon floated away . . . a little surprised, a little wistful, her full bottom lip trembling almost imperceptibly. She’d watched until the balloon was out of sight; then she’d blinked and put her chin up and got on with her life. Now that she was older and more self-conscious, she threw in a casual head toss that sent her long dark brown hair sailing over her shoulder and revealed the trio of small shining silver studs in her left ear, a sun, a moon and a star.

As soon as the kid took off, Hazard stepped from the shadows close beside her. “Shall I bring the boy back?” he asked.

Eve shook her head. She had no doubt he could catch the kid, but she was less certain about what he’d do with him once he had. As far as she knew, whoever Toby was, he hadn’t done anything to merit finding out.

“Bye,” Rory called after him. “Don’t forget about Thursday night.”

“I’ll be there,” he called over his shoulder.

“Be where?” Eve asked. “What’s Thursday night? Rory, who was that?”

“Toby.”

“Toby who? And what were you thinking coming here alone with him at this time of night?”

“Seven thirty?” Rory countered, rolling her eyes as only a fifteen-year-old can.

Seven thirty? It had to be later than that. Eve checked her watch and frowned. It sure felt later. And time wasn’t the issue anyway.

“I don’t care what time it is,” she told her niece. “I still want to know what you were doing here alone with him and how you know him . . . and why he was in such a hurry to take off the minute he saw me.”

“Probably to avoid the inquisition,” Rory retorted. “God, Eve, Gestapo much?”

“Don’t be a wiseass. You don’t want me to ask questions? Don’t take off without telling me or calling or leaving a note so I know where to find you. You turned your cell phone off, for heaven’s sake. What if I’d needed you for some reason?”

“Is that why you’re here? Because you need me for some reason?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It never is,” Rory retorted, sounding exasperated. “You know as well as I do that if I were home now I’d just be sitting around by myself because Mom’s away and Grand had to go to her . . .” She stopped and waved her hand in the air. “Her whatever. And you always work late on Monday nights.”

“Not always,” Eve muttered.

“I’ve forgotten to leave notes before and you never freaked out and went all Dog the Bounty Hunter on me.”

“Also not the point,” said Eve.

Rory heaved a tortured sigh. “So what is the point?”

“The point is that I’ve been worried sick about you.”

“About me?” she challenged, shoving her hand into her jacket pocket. “Or this?”

She dangled the pendant in the air between them.

“So, you did take it,” Eve said softly.

“Borrowed it,” Rory corrected. “And I thought I’d have it back before you or Grand found out. I meant to. Really I did.”

“But why would you take it in the first place? You had to know that if we hid it, it was because we had a good reason.”

She sighed, looking even younger than she was.

“I know, but . . .” She gathered the chain back into her palm and closed her fingers around it. “I just wanted to see if it worked.”

“Worked?”

“You know, if it could really tell whether a guy was your one true love, like Grand said.”

“You heard us talking?” Eve asked, cursing inwardly as colorful bits and pieces of her conversation with Grand came fluttering their incriminating little wings back to her.

Rory did a little uneasy squirming and nodded. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, honest. I just happened to wake up and hear your voice and I knew you were home from the auction. I got up to hear all about it and got as far as the kitchen when I heard Grand say something about a long-lost family talisman . . . so I sort of decided to hang out there and listen a little while longer,” she finished in a guilty rush.

“Which is the definition of eavesdropping,” Eve pointed out.

“Well, yeah, I guess if you want to get all technical about it. Anyway, that’s how I happened to hear her telling you about how the talisman was a gift from a goddess and about it being a link to divine magic. Divine magic of the Everrealm, is what she said. Is all that true, Eve?” Her voice quickened with excitement. “Is it really a magic talisman? Do you think it’s true that all we have to do is press it to a man’s heart to find out if he—”

“What I think,” Eve interrupted, suddenly remembering that Hazard was standing only a few feet away, listening to every word, “is that it’s something we should talk about later. At home,” she added pointedly.

As grateful as she was for his help finding Rory, Eve still didn’t trust him one hundred percent, maybe not even fifty percent, and the less he knew about the pendant the safer she would feel.

“All right,” agreed Rory, savvy enough to recognize a hint when her aunt dropped one on her. “I just have to grab my bag and . . .” She trailed off and glanced at the bench behind her and under it. “Oh bollocks,” she muttered, an expression she’d heard on a favorite television show and made her own.

Also one familiar to Hazard judging by the quick “heh” from his direction.

“What’s the matter?” Eve asked her.

“My bag. I must have left it with Roger.”

“Roger?”

“Williams,” she said, hitching her head toward the statue on the other side of the fence.

Eve knew that climbing over the fence and creeping along the narrow ledge to sit in rebellious privacy at the base of the stone arch was a rite of passage for local kids. She’d done it herself more than once. She just didn’t remember the ledge being as narrow or the drop as long as it looked to her now. Before she had a chance to say “Be careful,” Rory was over the fence.

She pressed herself against the flat outer wall of the arch with one hand on the stone and took a step sideways. Then she stopped and looked back at Eve.

“Here,” she said, “take this so I can use both hands.”

She stretched her right arm out to hand the pendant to Eve, and as she did, her left foot lifted off the ledge.

“Whoa, careful,” Eve cried, hurrying to reach out and take it from her. “I’m not sure this is such a good idea. It’s dark and—”

“Please,” Rory said. “I’ve done this a hundred times in the dark.”

“Oh really?” That was something else they would need to discuss later.

“Well, maybe not a hundred,” she conceded, sounding not at all concerned as she inched her way along. “But definitely enough times to know what I’m doing.”

She disappeared around the front of the arch.

“Got it,” she called and a few seconds later reappeared on the ledge with the bag.

Halfway back the strap slipped off her shoulder and the bag bounced against her hip. Rory took her hand off the wall to hitch it back up, but a step later it slipped again. This time the weight seemed to tug Rory slightly backwards and off balance.

“Be careful,” urged Eve, cringing a little. “Better yet, hand it to me.”

When she went to hold on to the fence in order to lean forward and take the bag from Rory, she realized she was still holding the pendant and looked around.

“Here.” She shoved it at Hazard and returned to helping Rory.

With both hands free she was able to hold on to the fence and reach for the bag. She was still a few inches short, so she stepped up onto the bottom rail of the fence and leaned forward, stretching her arm out as far as she could.

She almost had it when Rory’s foot slipped and she lurched sideways. Adrenalin pumping hard, Eve shot forward to try to grab her. Immediately Hazard was at her back with his arm clamped tightly around her waist, anchoring her to safety.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

Eve hung farther over the fence than she would have dared on her own and managed to curl her fingertips under the strap and haul it in.

Rory took a second to regain her balance.

Hazard bent his head.

“Nicely done,” he said, his voice deep and very close.

Eve shivered. From relief, she told herself. Either that or the cool night air. It had nothing to do with Hazard whispering in her ear or with how strong and warm his body felt against hers.

He slowly slid his arm from around her waist and extended it to Rory.

“Would you like a hand?” he asked.

Rory tilted her head to the side and stared as if seeing him for the first time. And Eve had a pretty good idea what she was thinking.

“Who are you?” she asked him.

“My name’s Hazard.”

“Hazard something or something Hazard?”

“Just Hazard will do. A hand?”

She grinned. “Sure.”

Shifting one foot to the bottom rail, she grasped the hand he offered and with him supplying momentum, vaulted gracefully over the fence.

“Are you okay?” Eve asked, succumbing to the urge to give her a quick hug.

“Of course,” Rory countered, hugging her back. When Eve let her go, she reached for her bag and fished out her comb.

Hazard met Eve’s gaze. “And you?”

“Better now,” she admitted. “Wouldn’t mind sitting down, though.”

He nodded and they started back toward the car.

Rory snagged Eve’s arm to hold her back a step and shot her a look from beneath raised brows.

Who is he?

Nobody, Eve told her with a small but firm shake of her head.

The silent exchange of looks continued behind his back.

I’m impressed.

You have the wrong idea.

Oh yeah? Well, something tells me he’s got the same wrong idea.

He doesn’t. At least I don’t think he does. No, he definitely doesn’t.

Want me to try to find out?

Want to be grounded forever?

Rory just grinned.

“Nice car,” she said from the backseat as Hazard slid behind the wheel.

“Thank you,” he replied.

“Satellite radio?”

“It seems so,” he said. “I know there are four weather stations.”

“That’s nice,” Rory said politely and waited half a beat. “So. Do you guys know each other from work or—”

“Or,” Eve said without waiting to hear the second choice.

She glanced sideways and found Hazard doing the same.

“Are you a reporter too, Hazard?” Rory asked.

Damn, thought Eve. She should have known Rory would want to know more. She wasn’t sure exactly how she was going to explain Hazard to her and wanted some time to mull it over. She was very sure she didn’t want him explaining himself.

“No,” he told her.

“A photographer? Producer? Director? Butcher . . . baker . . . somebody want to help me out? I’m running out of job titles.”

“Hazard is a consultant,” Eve told her.

“That sounds interesting.”

“Oh, it is. Fascinating, in fact,” said Hazard. He slanted a wry look at Eve and added, “At times. Unfortunately, it can also be tedious and repetitive.”

“That’s probably because you stick with one project too long,” Eve countered. “You have to know when it’s time to throw in the towel and move on.”

“I never move on until the job is done.”

When they pulled into his driveway, Eve breathed a sigh of relief and quickly got out of the car. She started to thank him, expecting him to say good night and go inside; instead, Hazard accompanied them across the street to her car and walked around to open the passenger door for a surprised and delighted Rory. He even offered her his hand as she climbed in and told her it had been a pleasure to meet her. Eve wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard him use the word “charmed.”

As if, she thought, he hadn’t made enough of an impression on her just by standing upright and breathing.

“You do realize that in a matter of minutes you have completely dazzled her,” she told him as he walked back to where she was standing.

“I have? How?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.

“By being dazzling. Holding her door, holding her hand, paying attention . . . did I hear you tell her she was charming?”

“I was merely being polite and doing what’s required of a gentleman.”

“Last century maybe. These days . . . not so much.”

He shrugged. “I was being a gentleman, nothing more. I never intended for it to be seen as anything else.”

“Well, what you intend and what a fifteen-year-old sees are not necessarily the same thing. Besides, it’s not only what you do or say, it’s you . . . the hair, the face, the accent. The hint of mystery and I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude don’t hurt any either.”

“I don’t give a damn.”

“And it’s working for you, so keep it up.”

He appeared mystified and a little bothered by her observations.

“Oh come on,” Eve said to him. “You must be aware of the effect you have on women. Some women anyway,” she added so he wouldn’t get the wrong idea. “Girls Rory’s age are especially susceptible to your brand of dazzle.”

“Dazzling.” His lip curled as he said it. “That’s not something I would ever want to be.”

“Really?” she countered, not believing a word of it. “Most men I know would really get off on it.”

His gaze swung back to meet hers. “It would be a mistake to confuse me with other men you know.”

“I’ll make a note,” she said, trying to keep it light in spite of the fact that there was no hint of teasing in his voice or his eyes. “Before I go I have to thank you for helping me tonight, but first I want to apologize for the way I came barging in and throwing accusations at you. I’m sure you noticed I was pretty frazzled.”

“Frazzled?”

“You know, freaked out. Worried.”

He nodded. “That’s understandable.”

“It’s still no excuse to go jumping to conclusions . . . especially the wrong conclusions. I kept thinking of all the bad things that could have happened to her and I panicked. Then when I looked at your card and saw where you live . . . well, it pushed me over the edge.”

“Why would that matter?”

She turned to look at the house. “Because this is where I used to live. A long time ago. I grew up here. And I couldn’t believe it was a coincidence that of all the places in Providence you could have lived, you chose this one.” There were lights on inside the house, and something about standing there on the outside, looking in, made her suddenly homesick. Which was absurd since it hadn’t been her home for a very long time.

“There used to be a weather vane,” she said, mostly to have something to say. “A black raven with ruby red eyes. When I was a kid, no matter where I was in the neighborhood I could look up and see him watching me. I knew that there was home, and it made me feel . . . safe.”

She turned to find him leaning against the car with his arms folded, watching her with an expression she couldn’t decipher.

“Why don’t you go ahead and ask me?” he said.

“All right. Is it just a coincidence that you’re living here?”

“It must be, since when I bought the house I didn’t even know you existed, much less that you’d once lived here.”

Eve caught the edge of her bottom lip between her teeth, stared into his eyes and tried to decide if she believed him. “Would you lie about it?”

“Yes. If I had to. But I’m not lying now.”

Unless he was lying about lying, she thought, but there was no sense jumping into that vicious circle.

“Are you happy living here?” she asked impulsively.

He did hesitate at that. “I never thought about it. I don’t think in terms of being happy or unhappy. I certainly didn’t buy it for that reason.”

“Why did you buy it?”

Again he hesitated. Eve had the impression of a man searching for safe ground between the truth and a lie.

Finally he shrugged. “For the three things that experts say matter most when buying a house . . . location, location, location. And I suppose because the room at the top of the turret is ideally situated for magic and the flow of energy. That suits me, as I’m sure it once suited you.”

He said it offhandedly, but the interest in his gaze was anything but casual.

“That was a long time ago,” she said, trying to block memories that threatened to bully their way in and tear her concentration to shreds. “But I know my grandmother will be pleased to hear that the house belongs to someone who appreciates it. And speaking of Grand, it just occurred to me that I didn’t leave a note either. Maybe I can get home before she does.” She rested her hand on the door handle. “I just want you to know how grateful I am for your help finding Rory. Without you, I’d still be looking . . . and going crazy.”

“You did all the work.”

“I don’t know about that. I do know that if not for you I wouldn’t have had a clue what to do or how to do it. I guess I owe you one.”

“And I’m guessing you don’t like owing me.” He straightened suddenly. “So I’ll give you a chance to settle up—have dinner with me and we’ll call it even.”

“Hazard, are you asking me for a date?”

“I’m asking you to allow me to call for you, escort you to dinner and return you safely home.”

“Sounds like a date to me.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Was that a yes?”

“No.”

His eyes narrowed. “A no?”

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean it was a no, just no it wasn’t a yes.”

“So . . . it’s a no and a yes?”

“Actually, it was more of an ‘I really don’t think that’s such a good idea, but thanks for asking.’ ”

He stepped closer to her, a lot closer, and with the car at her back Eve had nowhere to go.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked, his voice dark and silky.

“Should I be?”

“Probably.”

“Then why on earth would I have dinner with you?”

“Because you have questions, and I have answers. And because even if you are afraid, you’re not a coward.” He peered down at her, closer to looking amused than she’d seen him. “Or are you?”

“Dinner would be lovely.”

“Tomorrow night.”

“I’ll check my schedule.”

He smirked.

She caved.

“Fine. Tomorrow night. But there’s no need to call for me. Just name the restaurant and I’ll meet you there.”

He shook his head. “My date, my rules. When you invite me to dinner, I’ll let you make the rules.”

“Gee, how sporting of you.” She sighed. “Do you need directions?”

“No.”

“Of course not. What was I thinking?”

“Eight o’clock?” he suggested.

Eve nodded. “I’ll be the one with bells on.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing that.” His tone was dry, and a small smile lifted one corner of his mouth as he lightly swept her hand aside and opened the car door for her.

“Thank you,” she said. It was impossible not to be struck by how attentive he was, making sure she was in and settled before saying good night and closing the door.

He remained in the street, standing with his hands in his pockets, looking on as she started the engine, and then just before she pulled away, almost as an afterthought, he stepped forward and tapped on the window. When Eve lowered it, he lifted his hand as if to give her something and she instinctively held hers out to take it.

Without saying a word he dropped the pendant in her palm and walked away.

Nine

He walked into the house as Taggart was coming down the hall from the kitchen.

“Looks like I missed out on an exciting night hereabouts,” he said to Hazard by way of greeting. “Tried to set fire to the kitchen table, did you?”

“Not me. That’s Eve Lockhart’s handiwork. She was here earlier.”

Taggart’s whiskered face lit with glee. “She came to sell you the pendant.”

“No. She came looking for it.”

“Looking for it? Why would she be coming here looking for it when she’s the one . . .” His brows shot up and his eyes widened. “She lost it?”

“Not exactly. It disappeared from where she had it hidden. She was convinced someone stole it, and that brought her straight here.”

“She thought it was you who took it?”

“Yes. And her niece along with it.”

He grinned suddenly. “You sly devil, you did . . . you pinched it. The pendant, I mean. Can’t see you bothering to make off with a niece or anything else of hers. But stealing the pendant back, now that would be a grand coup indeed.”

Hazard scowled at the thought of just how close he’d come to that grand coup. And he hadn’t needed to break into her home or deal with any wards or protection spells to do it. He’d had the pendant in his hand because Eve Lockhart herself had placed it there; she’d handed it over, and then, as difficult as it was for him to believe, even now, she’d forgotten all about it. He could have walked away with it so easily. Even if she had remembered at some point and asked for it back, he could have lied. He could have said he lost it, that it had fallen out of his pocket. He could have apologized and looked concerned and promised to come back and help her search for it at first light.

But he hadn’t done any of that.

Instead of seizing the moment and taking advantage of her lapse and walking away with the prize he’d been seeking for so long, a prize that should have been his already and but for her trickery would have been, instead of taking what he wanted, he’d given it back to her. At the last moment he’d stopped her from driving off without it and handed it back to her.

“No, I didn’t take it,” was all he said to Taggart, who heaved a disappointed sigh, like a father finding out he has a dullard for a son.

“Then who did? Vasil?”

“No, it wasn’t Vasil,” Hazard told him. “It turns out her missing niece took it . . . borrowed it, in her words.”

“Well, it’s a shiny enough trinket; I can see how it might catch a young girl’s fancy.”

“Not this girl,” Hazard declared, his mouth quirking as he recalled Rory’s confident grin as she came sailing over that fence. “This one has moxie, but she seems more calculating than fanciful.

She mentioned it being a family talisman, said something about using it to tell if a man’s heart was true.”

Taggart snorted. “Sounds like a young girl’s romantic drivel to me.”

“Maybe. Eve cut her off before she could say more.”

“So it’s Eve now, is it? Tell me, did Eve happen to tell you why she waited till she got here to scry? Would have made more sense to do it first thing.”

“It never occurred to her until I suggested it. She didn’t even know how.”

“Is that so?”

“I had to walk her through it . . . until she came into her own, that is, and then . . . well, you saw the result.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “It was like the room exploded with energy . . . sent me flying and sparks shooting off in every direction.”

“Amazing,” drawled Taggart. “Bloody amazing . . . it being her first time and all.”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“That there’s a sucker born every minute and a woman born to take him?”

“That’s not what happened.”

“So you believe her then?”

“I’m not saying I believe her,” Hazard countered. “I’m not an idiot; I know it doesn’t make sense. How could so powerful a witch not know how to scry for someone? There’s something . . . wrong about her. Something I can’t quite figure out. Hell, I can’t even put my finger on it exactly. She obviously has power, but she denies it . . . vehemently at times. I know she used her magic against me at the auction, and she knows I know, and she still denies it.”

He paced a few steps to the bottom of the staircase, rubbed his hand along the banister and looked around. “And then there’s this house. It was your sixth sense for these things that brought us to Providence and led us to believe the house was somehow linked to the hourglass pendant. Tonight I found out it’s also linked to Eve. Her grandmother once owned this house and Eve lived here as a child. And she still feels a strong connection to it. I could tell that from watching her face and listening to her voice when she spoke of it.”

Taggart moved to stand in front of him.

“She lived here? In this house?” he asked, his tone urgent. “You’re sure of it?”

“That’s what she said.” He thought for a few seconds and added, “And I believe her.”

“I thought you said you looked into her background.”

“I did,” replied Hazard. “But apparently not back far enough.”

“You can say that again. Come with me,” Taggart said, moving toward the front door. “I’ve something to show you that just might explain what’s wrong with your witch.”

Curious, Hazard followed him outside, across the porch and down the steps to the brick walk. Taggart stepped onto the grass beside the walk and pointed at a flat stone embedded in the earth at his feet.

“I noticed this as I was coming up the walk; never noticed it before tonight, though. Have you?”

“No,” Hazard admitted, hunkering down for a closer look. Between the moon and the porch globe there was just enough light to see the marks on the stone.

“Course you didn’t, because it was covered up with dirt and twigs and such. Until tonight. Until someone uncovered it. And I don’t think it’s any mystery who that someone was.”

“Eve.”

“Had to be.”

“So what? She probably remembered it being there and wanted to see if it still was, so she kicked the dirt aside. If that means something more, I don’t know what it is.”

“Take a closer look,” Taggart urged, crouching beside him and tapping his finger on the marks etched into the stone. “Do you know what these are?”

“Runes,” Hazard replied. “Celtic from the look of them, though I can’t recall seeing these particular marks before. Protection symbols most likely.”

“Bloody right they’re protection symbols. Powerful ones. And special. The kind you don’t dare use unless you’ve a right to them.”

“So Eve comes from power,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t need some old stone to tell me that.”

“That’s not all this stone is telling you. You said you sensed there was something wrong with your green-eyed witch, something off about her.” He jabbed his finger in the air, pointing. “There’s your answer. What’s off is that she’s not a witch at all. Eve Lockhart is an enchantress.”

Hazard stared at him and then gave a short laugh, straightening. “That’s impossible.”

“Is that so? Do you even know the damn difference?”

“Of course I do.”

“What is it?”

“For God’s sake,” he snapped. Then, sighing, “A witch draws power from the world around her, from nature. An enchantress’s power lies within; it’s in her blood.”

“And in her heart,” added Taggart. “In every breath she takes. It’s stronger than anything any witch could ever summon, and harder to control. If someone was new to the art, or unschooled, things might happen without her intending them to. From what you’ve said, it sounds to me like that could be happening to your Eve.”

“She’s not my Eve,” he retorted, more sharply than called for.

“Sorry. Slip of the tongue. But it fits, doesn’t it?”

“Possibly. But you’re forgetting one crucial detail. Enchantresses are the dinosaurs of the magic world: extinct.”

“Nearly extinct,” corrected Taggart. “It’s said the T’airna line endures to this day.”

“Really?” His tone was beyond skeptical. “I’ve spent years researching magic in all its loathsome and manipulative guises, reading ancient, barely decipherable texts until I thought my eyes would fall out, and chasing down one false lead after another, and I’ve learned that just because a thing is said to be doesn’t make it so.” He slapped one palm against the other to knock off some bits of dirt and grass. “And even if there were a few stragglers around, their blood would be so diluted they wouldn’t possess a shadow of the power of a true enchantress.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Taggart argued. “It’s not science; it’s magic. Some things can’t be diluted. Or ended.” He folded his arms in front of him, his expression bright and stubborn. “There’s a prophecy, you know. About a lost enchantress. Did you happen to come across that in all that eyeball-popping reading of yours?”

“I’ve seen references to it. But if you’re asking if I’ve ever read the actual prophecy, the answer is no. Not that it would be likely to help much; the damn things are always so vague and mysterious.”

Hazard shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at the stone. Lost enchantress. It was ridiculous. When it came to false prophets and wild imaginations, the mystical world had more than its fair share of both.

Still.

“What do you know about the prophecy?” he asked Taggart. Simply to humor him, he told himself.

“Just bits I’ve picked up here and there. Not much for ancient texts myself. I’ve heard that it predicted their demise of power and that it could only be restored by the Lost Enchantress . . . one born to be the most powerful enchantress in a millennium and lost to the art by her own deed.”

“See? Vague and mysterious.”

“Like I said, it’s not science. Not every answer comes from a book, or from up here—” He tapped his temple with his forefinger. “Some you have to find here,” he declared, making a fist and thumping it against his heart. As he brushed past Hazard on his way back inside, he muttered under his breath, “Assuming it’s not too late to thaw yours out and have a look around.”

Hazard followed at a safe distance. He’d heard all he wanted to hear about telltale runes and ridiculous prophecies. What had started out to be a simple task—obtaining the pendant—had somehow become thorny and complicated. And he was to blame because he was the one who’d let it happen. Now he was going to be the one to put a stop to it. He was going to get his plan back on track, and that meant getting himself back on track too. It was a matter of focus and willpower. It would be simple, he told himself.

And he might have believed it if not for Taggart stomping up the steps ahead of him. Hazard couldn’t help noticing the socks he was wearing.

They were blue.

“I guess we should talk,” said Rory.

Eve pulled herself from thoughts, and second thoughts, about Hazard. Such as why he had invited her to have dinner with him, and why she’d accepted. She focused instead on what she wanted to say to Rory. She would have liked more time to think it through, but getting it over with now was better than waiting until they got home and risk having Grand get involved in answering the questions Rory was sure to ask. She was going to have enough trouble parsing her own words without having to rein in the loose cannon who was her grandmother.

If only she had shut the door last night so there was no chance of Rory overhearing their conversation.

If only she had skipped the auction or been in the ladies’ room when the pendant was being sold. Of course, if that had happened and Grand was right about the role of destiny in all this, it probably would have just appeared in her office one day and wrapped itself around her neck.

They were only a few blocks away from Hazard’s house. Eve figured if she drove slowly, avoided shortcuts and caught every red light, she would have time to touch on the crucial points she wanted to get across . . . staying in touch, staying in groups, a quick, tactful review of the basics of safe sex, and—the real challenge—Grand’s penchant for embellishing family anecdotes. Have you heard the one about the long lost talisman? Leave it to Grand to come up with a pocket love detector.

“Okay, let’s talk,” she said to Rory.

“I’ll go first,” countered Rory. “No, wait, you go first. I want to hear everything about Hazard. He’s amazing. I already sent Jill a text about him . . . TTDF.”

It took Eve a few seconds to decode the text message shorthand. “Totally to die for?”

“Yup. I had to; she’s always going on and on about how fine her mother’s new boyfriend is. I couldn’t wait to tell her about yours.”

“Hazard is not my boyfriend. I told you we met through work.”

“I know what you told me, that he’s some kind of consultant, but really, Eve . . . consultant? That is so lame. And I saw how you looked at each other when you said it . . . like you were coconspirators. And—the absolute proof that there’s more than a work thing going on—I saw the way he looked at you when you weren’t looking back.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Eve told her. It was. She still couldn’t resist asking. “How was he looking at me?”

“Like you were his favorite dessert,” Rory said. With even more drama, she added, “And he was a starving man. Stranded-on-a-desert-island starving. Political-prisoner-on-a-hunger-strike starving. Trapped—”

“I get it. And again I say ridiculous.”

Rory sighed. “There are none so blind . . . So. Tell me everything. Starting with his actual name.”

“His name is Hazard.”

“It can’t be just Hazard, like he’s Batman. Or Angel.” She tilted her head to the side. “Or is he? He looks a little like Angel, don’t you think?” Angel was the vampire with a soul from one of their favorite television shows. “Tall and dark and dangerous.”

“He’s not that tall. Hazard, not Angel.”

“Maybe not compared to a pro basketball team. Standing next to you and me? He’s tall.”

“I suppose.” She slowed and waited for the stoplight up ahead to turn yellow so she could stop. The way their talk was going she might have to throw in a wrong turn or two to drag the ride out long enough to get everything in.

“The rest of his name?” Rory prompted.

“His first name is Gabriel.”

“Gabriel Hazard. Oh my God, that is so perfect for him. Gabriel Hazard,” she said again, rolling it on her tongue like expensive chocolate. “How long have you known him? Where did you two meet? What does he really do for a living?”

“You know, Rory, when you said we should talk, I assumed you meant we’d talk about what happened tonight. Not about Hazard.”

“And we will,” she countered. “I’m just curious, and I thought if we got all this out of the way first, I’d be able to give you a hundred and ten percent of my attention when we get to the other stuff . . . the part where you remind me to always leave a message when I go somewhere and to never go off alone with a guy without requesting a background check and blood tests first and . . . let’s see . . . to always say please and thank you and put my napkin in my lap.”

Eve slanted her wry look. “Very funny.”

“I try. Did I miss anything?”

“How about not taking things that don’t belong to you?”

“Anything else?” she said with a mix of guilt and hopefulness.

Grudgingly amused, Eve shook her head. “Well, I would like to know more about Toby . . . like his full name and where you met and how well you know him.”

“Toby Black. And very well. He plays the same online game I do. His Greywolf killed three of my white knights; that’s how we met. That was two adventures ago, so we’ve known each other about two months. He’s also Monica Rathburn’s cousin and a totally good guy. And I would have told you I was meeting him except he didn’t know his work schedule until today and—”

“He works? He doesn’t go to school?”

“He works after school,” she informed Eve in a tone usually reserved for giving directions to the very young, or very old and feebleminded. “I was going to call and leave a message as soon as I knew for sure what I was doing, but I sort of forgot.”

Eve didn’t doubt that had been her intention. Rory was usually conscientious—and Eve usually didn’t push the panic button so quickly.

“Okay. Next time tie a string around your finger or write yourself a reminder. I’m much too old to be running around playing Dog the Bounty Hunter.”

“Especially in the middle of the night like this,” Rory teased.

Eve rolled her eyes. “So disrespectful.”

“I really am sorry I worried you. Next time I’ll remember to call; cross my heart.” She made a hasty X over her heart. “I was sort of preoccupied all day, wondering if the talisman was going to work and trying to figure out how I was going to get it up against Toby’s heart without him thinking I was some kind of total weirdo.”

“How did you?”

Rory flashed a self-satisfied smile. “It came to me in English lit. We’re reading Emily Brontë, and in the drawing of her in the book she’s wearing a cameo brooch. Lightbulb moment! I took the hourglass off the chain and pinned it to the front of my sweater.” She pointed to a spot just below her right shoulder. “Then when he kissed me—”

“He kissed you?”

“Yeah. It was no big deal. I was so worried about getting our chests aligned right that I missed most of it. I do remember our teeth clicking, though. It was over before I knew it.”

“So what happened?”

She shrugged. “Nothing happened. He just stopped. I think maybe he had to breathe.”

“What happened with the pendant?”

“Oh. Nothing there either. No glowing crystals; no turning red.” She sounded disgruntled. “I don’t know if that means Grand was wrong about the whole thing or that Toby’s not my one true love.”

Eve wanted to shout, “You’re only fifteen years old! Of course he’s not your one true love!” Then she remembered being fifteen.

“Hmm. I’m not sure either. Did you want him to be?”

“Not especially.” Her blasé tone was a surprise. “What I need is a control group, a baseline, like you have with a science experiment. It won’t be easy since I don’t really know anyone with a genuine soul mate . . . especially not anyone in this family.”

Eve was still trying to understand. “So you’re not in love with him?”

“God, no. I mean, I probably could be, someday, if I put my mind to it. I like Toby; he’s supersmart and potentially cool, but definitely not until his braces come off.”

“Then why did you go to all that trouble with the pendant if it’s only a case of you probably could be in love with him someday maybe?”

“To rule him out,” she answered as if it should be obvious. “I’ve given this a lot of thought and—”

“A lot of thought? You mean in the eighteen or so hours you’ve known the talisman existed?”

“It’s not that complicated. I used the process of elimination and decided that the most efficient approach is to use the talisman to rule guys out right at the start. Not every guy you meet, of course; that would be too time-consuming, not to mention awkward,” she added with a little chuckle. “Just likely candidates, like Toby. That way you don’t waste time falling for one jerk after another and getting your heart broken over and over again. You just hold off on falling in love until you know for sure you’ve got the right guy. Makes sense, don’t you think?”

Eve wanted to tell her that it made no sense at all, that it was a crazy and misguided idea. She wanted to tell her that love didn’t come with guarantees, that love was a gift and you didn’t accept a gift only on the condition that you got to open it and inspect it first. That’s what she wanted to say, but she couldn’t seem to get it out given that the words “pot-kettle-black” were running through her mind in giant neon letters.

“Well, it’s innovative, I’ll give you that,” Eve said. “It might be an efficient way to zero in on Mr. Right, but won’t it take all the romance out of it? All the fun of getting to know someone and finding out if you click and discovering what it is you’re looking for in a man?”

“And the waiting for a guy to call and worrying that he’s messing around behind your back and a whole lot of stupid bickering. Face it, romance isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“This from the girl whose bookcase is filled with romance novels and who’s worn out the Pride and Prejudice DVDs.”

Rory huffed. “I’d think you of all people would understand the difference between fact and fiction. None of that is real. In real life romance just makes you stupid.”

Rory hadn’t lived enough to draw that conclusion firsthand, or to have done much waiting for calls or worrying about guys cheating. The bitterness underscoring her words came from somewhere else. It came from years of watching her mother play the dating game. Chloe’s career was finally taking off, but her love life was, and always had been, a disaster, or more accurately, an endless parade of disasters masquerading as men. Chloe had inherited their mother’s romantic streak, and with it a giant pair of blinders to wear on her heart. She fell hard and fast, and when it ended badly, as it inevitably did, she took it just as hard.

Eve knew how much it bothered Rory to see her mother’s heart broken because Eve had been there herself. True, her mother hadn’t worked her way through the Mr. Wrong lineup the way Chloe seemed to be, but her mother and her father had fought enough for a dozen couples. One of her last memories of them was the sound of angry voices coming from their bedroom. She definitely understood why Rory was being a little extra cautious when it came to romance. What worried her was that she didn’t sound merely cautious; she sounded jaded. And so did the plan she’d come up with for the talisman.

“You know, Rory, I’m not sure you should take Grand’s stories about the pendant—”

“You mean the talisman?”

“Right, the talisman. Maybe you shouldn’t take it so literally.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you said it yourself; it didn’t work with Toby and there’s no way of telling if it was because Toby’s the wrong guy or because it’s nothing more than . . . wishful thinking. If you put your trust in it, it could backfire.”

“And then I could end up alone . . . like Grand and you, or else alone and desperate like my mom.”

The ache hovering just beneath her sarcasm stopped Eve from lashing out and telling her just how out of line she was.

“That’s not fair, Rory. And your mother is not desperate,” she said firmly. “She’s a romantic.”

“Obviously. The woman still believes in fairy tales. She thinks she’s Tinkerbell or some kind of modern-day fairy godmother whose mission is to make everyone’s happily-ever-after dreams come true.”

“She does make dreams come true for a lot of people.”

“Right, a lot of rich jerks who’d be better off spending their money to feed starving people or find a cure for something. Personally, I’d be more impressed if she made her own dreams come true.”

“Give her time. And anyway, we’re not talking about your mom, we’re talking about the pen . . . talis . . . hourglass. For all we know it’s just an old piece of jewelry with a great story attached, a family legend based on a little fact, a little fanciful thinking, and it gets more far-fetched with each retelling. You’re the one who mentioned science—think about it logically. How could it possibly have the power to do what Grand claims it can do?”

“Easy,” said Rory. “Magic.”

Her matter-of-fact tone set off a warning in Eve’s head. But she had no time to decide on a safe response—safe being one that would allow her to find out how much Rory knew without revealing anything in return—before turning into their driveway.

Grand’s car was parked in its usual spot.

“Oh, good,” Rory exclaimed, opening her seat belt and the car door at the same time. “Grand’s home.”

“Perfect,” Eve muttered, not even trying to catch up as her niece scampered up the walk and into the house. She was in no hurry to go inside.

She looked around for her purse, remembered she’d run out without it, and continued to sit with her hand on the door handle. Thinking.

Maybe it was a good thing Grand was home. Whatever Rory had overheard couldn’t be unheard. They would just have to deal with it. Rory was going to have questions, and demand answers. And she would get them, Eve decided. It was one thing to withhold the truth for someone’s own protection, another to look them in the eye and lie. She couldn’t do that . . . especially not with Grand there to keep her honest.

Maybe she’d been kidding herself to think she could keep the family skeleton locked away indefinitely. She just wished it had come popping out some other time, when she wasn’t busy battling Gabriel Hazard. And herself.

Hazard, because he wouldn’t stop coming after the pendant. Herself, because she wasn’t sure she wanted him to stop. At least not right away. And also because thanks to him she had intentionally used magic, and she hadn’t hated it.

Having that power stir to life inside her had been incredible. Feeling it rush and course through her was thrilling, and terrifying. All the more terrifying because it was thrilling. It had felt good. And right.

A few minutes later, she opened the door of the house to the familiar aroma of Grand’s special Irish stew. It was the ultimate comfort food, the sort of dish that had to be assembled early in the day and left to simmer on low heat for hours so that the flavors had time to blend. Eve was positive there had been neither sight nor scent of any such blending going on when she was home earlier, yet there was now a big enamel pot of steaming homemade goodness on the stove. How it got there was the “secret” in Grand’s secret recipe.

The table was set with dark blue placemats and napkins, and chunky white bowls. A silver basket held freshly baked rolls.

“Doesn’t it smell great in here?” Rory asked her. “I’m starving.”

“Me too.” Eve suddenly realized how true that was, and that it might be better to wait and have the talk on a full stomach. Unless Grand insisted on having answers and explanations right away. She had, after all, returned home to find the pendant, Rory and Eve missing.

Her grandmother finished fussing with the fire burning in the hearth between the kitchen and dining room and turned. But instead of the barrage of questions, she offered Eve a welcoming smile.

“That’s what a cook likes to hear,” she said. “Now sit so we can eat.”

Grand reached for the ladle, but Rory was quicker.

“You sit,” Rory told her firmly. “I’ll serve.”

“That would be lovely.” Grand sat and placed her napkin in her lap.

Eve followed suit, still eyeing her grandmother curiously. Was it possible Grand hadn’t noticed the pendant missing? And had just assumed Rory and she were both running late without explanation?

God, no. What was she thinking? Grand didn’t have to notice . . . she would just know. But she was kind enough to let them finish eating, with the dishes cleared and tea poured, before swinging a no-nonsense gaze from one of them to the other.

“And now I’ll hear all about what you two have been up to today.”

Ten

Eve looked across the table at Rory, who looked back at her with a rueful expression.

“I should go first this time,” she said to Eve. “I’m the one responsible for everything that happened.” She turned to Grand. “I guess I should start by telling you that I heard you and Eve talking last night. I didn’t mean to listen in . . .” She hesitated, shrugged. “But I didn’t stop either. I’m sorry, Grand.”

“And what did you hear us say?”

“Pretty much everything, I think. About the talisman and the goddess and how there’s magic in our blood. Ancient magic, and maybe divine. I know I heard about something divine.” Her tone grew more excited and her words came faster. “And about how if a man’s heart is true, the crystals in the hourglass will turn red when he touches it. Is that true, Grand?”

Grand drew a deep breath and held it as she glanced in Eve’s direction.

She was waiting for a sign from Eve as to how to proceed. They’d made a bargain and Grand had honored it to the best of her ability. And she would continue to do so if that’s what Eve wanted. Even though she didn’t agree with it, she would bow to Eve’s demand for secrecy in the interest of holding together the family she had left, the family she loved.

But Eve no longer wanted complicity from Grand; she wanted her help.

“It’s okay, Grand,” Eve told her, sounding quite calm and confident despite having no flaming idea if anything was okay or ever would be okay again. All she could do was plod ahead and hope for the best. “Secrets are one thing, lies are another. Rory is nearly an adult and she deserves the truth.”

Happily convinced, Grand exhaled slowly and nodded. “Yes, Rory dear, everything you heard me tell your aunt last night is true. You are an enchantress by birth, as am I, and Eve.”

“And my mother?”

“Oh God! Chloe.” Eve groaned. “I’ll have to call her later and fill her in. On everything.”

“Don’t worry,” advised Rory. “She won’t be as surprised as you might think. She’s had her suspicions just like I have. We’ve talked about it.”

Eve angled her head. “You have?”

“Sure. Mostly me.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, her green eyes intent. “I had no idea it was anything this huge, but I’ve known there was something special about Grand since I was ten.”

“Oh dear,” Grand said with a small, uneasy smile. “I did try to be . . . discreet.”

“Oh, you were,” Rory assured her, grinning. “I was just sneaky for my age.”

“What happened when you were ten?” Eve asked.

“I was outside playing with some of my friends and we ran out of juice. I brought the pitcher in to get more and Grand said she would take care of it. On my way out I hung around the back door and I saw Grand refill it by just touching the rim. I was blown away.”

Grand closed her eyes and reached for her tea.

“I was dying to know how you did it,” Rory told her, “but I knew it was supposed to be a secret, something I shouldn’t talk about. After that I paid a lot more attention and I saw all kinds of other amazing stuff.”

Eve could easily imagine the amazing stuff she was referring to because she’d seen it herself growing up. “And you told your mom about what you saw?”

She nodded. “Not until a long time afterwards. But yeah, I finally told her. I told her I thought Grand was some kind of magician, that she could sweep the floor or make things disappear or change the color of the paint on the wall by just waving her hand or saying a few weird words.”

“Not weird, darling, Irish. What you heard is the old tongue.”

“Can you teach it to me?”

The gleam in Rory’s eyes told Eve that Irish wasn’t the only thing her niece was hoping to learn from Grand.

“Of course,” Grand assured her, then thought again and slid a cautious glance toward Eve. “Well, maybe. We’ll have to see.”

“What did your mother say when you told her?” Eve was beginning to suspect that the person most in the dark around there had been her. Oh, sweet irony.

“She said I was probably right, but that it was up to Grand to tell us if she wanted us to know about it. And she said—” She stopped abruptly and turned her attention to lining her teaspoon up with her saucer.

“What else did she say, Rory?”

Reluctantly she met Eve’s gaze. “She said talking about it would make you sad and we didn’t want to do that.”

Emotion welled up inside Eve. She rubbed the outside corner of one eye and waited until she felt able to speak in a steady voice. “Your mother is a lot smarter than she sometimes gets credit for being. It was always me, not Grand, who wanted to keep this a secret from you and your mother. I did it because I thought it was the only way to keep you safe from harm. And all the while you were keeping a secret of your own so I wouldn’t be hurt.”

“What matters is that all of you were acting out of love,” declared Grand, reaching for their hands and giving both a quick squeeze. “And you did splendidly. In all these years no one did get hurt. But now things have changed.”

“I’ll say. We’ve been kaleidoscoped.” Seeing their quizzical looks, Rory pantomimed looking into a kaleidoscope and turning it. “One little turn changes everything.”

“It does indeed,” Grand agreed. “I’m afraid you’re right, Eve. The time for secrets has passed.”

Rory clapped her hands in excitement. “Good. Because I’m dying to hear more . . . to hear everything.”

“And you shall,” said Grand. “After you finish telling me about today.”

Rory sighed and raised her hand level with her shoulder, elbow bent, palm flat. “Guilty. Again. Today was all my fault; I took off after school without letting anyone know I had plans. I meant to, but . . . I guess I was sort of distracted.”

“And then I panicked and went tearing out of here to look for her in such a hurry I didn’t think to leave a note either,” Eve said.

“Well, that explains why it looked like a whirlwind had passed through here,” Grand remarked. “I walked in and saw your purse upended, cupboard doors left open, and the garage door too.”

“I forgot to close the garage door?” Eve shook her head. “I must have been even more frantic than I’d realized. I’m sorry we worried you, Grand.”

“Oh, I wasn’t worried,” Grand countered.

Eve and Rory exchanged a look as Grand calmly and unhurriedly took a sip of tea.

Eve’s eyes narrowed. “You did notice that the pendant was also missing?”

“And also my fault,” Rory blurted before Grand had time to speak. “I took it.”

“Yes. I know,” Grand said.

Rory scrunched her brow. “You know? How?”

“Because I set the wards, of course. Any competent mage can set a simple protection ward. Creating something more layered and multifunctional is a far greater challenge. And, if I may say so, something of a specialty of mine. Some have even called it an art. As soon as I saw the wards in tatters and the talisman gone, I knew it was with you. I also know that Eve found you—and the talisman—by scrying.” She turned and looked directly at Eve. “That can’t have been easy for you.”

“I managed,” Eve said, not really surprised by the revelations.

“And splendidly, I’ve no doubt of that. But of course, I have never doubted you, or your abilities.” She held Eve’s gaze just long enough to make sure her meaning was understood, and then leaned back in her chair, arms folded. “That much I know. What I don’t know, Rory, is why you took it.”

Eve listened as Rory told Grand what she’d done with the talisman and what she’d hoped to accomplish, eagerly explaining her scientific reasoning.

When she was through, Grand peered at her from beneath sharply arched brows. “With a boy you hardly know?” She shook her head. “Silly child. Did you really think to improve on the work of a goddess?”

Rory appeared startled by the question.

“The talisman was a gift,” explained Grand, “bestowed for a very specific reason, so that a T’airna woman could be sure the man she loved was true of heart. The man she loved. It was never intended to weed out the runts of the litter or to be used like one of those foolish contraptions people strut along the beach with in hopes of finding lost coins and trinkets in the sand.”

“Metal detectors,” Rory supplied, no longer smiling.

“Yes. Those. The talisman is meant to sanction what the heart knows. Not to do the work every woman must do for herself. Love is never simple or tidy or easy. You’re meant to get your hands dirty and your heart bruised, and yes, maybe even broken, along the way. You’re meant to earn it, so that when it finally comes you’ll understand what a prize you have and treasure it.”

Eve felt a sudden lump in her throat. A good lump, a happy lump, a lump of dreamy anticipation. And looking across the table at the way Rory was biting her lip, she suspected there was a similar lump in her throat. Grand was good. In a handful of minutes and a handful of words, she said all the things Rory needed to hear about love, about its price and its possibilities. She said the things Eve wished she’d had the wisdom to say. She had—to use Rory’s word—kaleidoscoped both of them.

Hours later, they said their good nights and went off to their own beds, with plenty to think about until sleep claimed them.

Eve carried her leather tote to her room out of habit; she wouldn’t be doing any of the prep work she’d brought home from the office. When she dropped the tote on her bed, a flash of red caught her eye and she remembered the single rose she’d impulsively held on to after asking a newsroom intern to distribute the other hundred and seventy-nine to anyone who wanted them.

The damp napkin she’d wrapped around the stem had dried and the rose was wilted, the edges of the velvety petals dark and beginning to shrivel. It was clearly beyond rescue, but she fetched a glass of water to put it in anyway, and placed the glass where she could see it from her bed. And smiled as she turned out the light.

On the other side of the house, with the connecting door closed and locked, Grand moved aside shoe boxes and hatboxes and boxes containing her out-of-season clothing in order to reach the farthest corner of her bedroom closet. She took out the tapestry valise tucked away there and carried it to her bed. The once bright colors—gold and burgundy and evergreen—had long since given way to their muted shadow selves, and at the bottom edges and along the zipper, where the threads were worn away, there was no color left at all.

It didn’t matter. To Brigid T’airna’s eye, it looked the same as it had decades earlier when she stepped off the ship that had carried her and all her worldly belongings across the ocean. A good many of those belongings—and all the ones that mattered most to her—had been in that bag and the bag had never been out of her sight.

Among them was a pair of rose bushes, which had been carefully dug up, by her own hand and in the dark of night, from the grand estate where her beloved Liam had been groundskeeper. She’d pruned them so they fit in the bottom of the valise, and tended them as devotedly as a mother bird tends the eggs in her nest, through storms and sickness, all the way from Ireland to America. Aside from her memories, the roses and her unborn child were all she had left of the only man she’d ever loved, and she was determined to see to it both thrived in their new home.

And for a time they both had. Her darling Diana was gone now, and the roses were lost to her as well. But beneath the silver hair and wrinkled skin she was as feisty as the day she set sail, and as determined to see to it that what mattered most to her would endure. The old valise still held one thing of great import. It was like no other in existence, in fact. And it had been years since she’d looked upon it.

Now she found the pocket cleverly concealed between the tapestry and the inside lining and removed a scroll tied with a black silk cord, and then she oh-so-carefully unrolled the fragile parchment and began to read.

She had definitely made the right choice.

Hazard hadn’t said where they would be dining, and she hadn’t wanted to call him to ask, so deciding what to wear had been a toss-up right down to the last minute. Should she play it safe with black slacks and a silk blouse that would blend in anywhere? Or go with the gold silk jersey dress that had definitely not been designed for a woman looking to get lost in the crowd? It was the kind of seriously head-turning, jaw-dropping dress meant to command a man’s full attention. Which explained why it was hanging in Chloe’s closet and not her own.

The color was the deep rich gold of old Roman coins; the fit was snug and it had a deep V-neckline both front and back. And if they ended up at a pizza joint, she would look utterly ridiculous in it.

But if they didn’t, if Hazard had something fancier in mind, something with candlelight and starched linen, then she would get to see his head turn and his jaw drop, and Eve found that prospect appealed to her far more than it should.

As she’d pondered her choices, every well-honed instinct she possessed clamored for her to hang the dress back where it belonged and play it safe. The lone voice daring her not to was one she didn’t recognize; it was the unfamiliar voice of a stranger within. A stranger who obviously didn’t know that Eve Lockhart always played it safe. Except she wasn’t playing it safe tonight, was she?

There was nothing safe about going off alone with a man she knew hardly anything about. And what she did know she didn’t trust. A man who didn’t play fair and who was dangerous in a dozen ways she could name and no doubt some she couldn’t. And the biggest threat of all might be the unprecedented and unpredictable way she responded to him. The man could warm her blood and ruffle her composure from ten floors away, for pity’s sake. Compared to all that, rolling the dice on a dress didn’t seem like such a big deal.

She knew she’d made the right choice as soon as she opened the front door. Hazard looked first at her eyes, and then his gaze began a long, slow slide over the gold dress and a body that could only be described as curvy, all the way down to coppery gold, four-inch heels glam enough to make Carrie Bradshaw drool. By the time he’d made the journey back up, his cool gray eyes had warmed considerably. And when he finally smiled, it was the measured, unwilling smile of a man who couldn’t help himself.

He was dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit over a smoke gray shirt and a tie the same color. The way his clothes fit, the way he held himself, even the hint of arrogant indifference in his expression, suggested he regularly achieved such perfection with minimal effort.

And told Eve they were not going for pizza.

In a city known for its fine Italian restaurants, Settimio’s was one of the finest. It was located on Federal Hill, not on the area’s busy stretch of clubs and eating places, but tucked away on a quiet side street where the only signage needed was the brass letter S set in the sidewalk in front and another on the black awning above the door of the century-old brownstone.

The atmosphere inside was one of sophisticated old-world charm. It was a description that also fit Hazard, Eve thought as he held her chair for her to sit. He did it with the same easy grace with which he’d helped her in and out of his car and had lightly held her elbow as they climbed the stairs outside. It wasn’t the first time a man had held her chair or opened a door for her, and she couldn’t say precisely what the difference was between the way Hazard did those things and the way every other man she’d ever known did them, except to say that no other man had ever made her feel so much like a pampered, protected princess. No other man had ever made her feel delicate, as if she needed his protection and merited his pampering.

It was silly, of course, something out of a fairy tale or romance novel, and thoroughly contrary to the modern concepts of equality she believed in. That didn’t make it one iota less thrilling. And Eve decided that just for tonight she was going to savor the feeling as passionately and free from guilt as she intended to savor the Risotto alla Cosara and Pesto di Salmone.

“I’m glad you chose Settimio’s,” she told him, as the wine steward poured wine in his glass.

Hazard tasted it and nodded approval. “Have you been here before?”

“Yes, but not often. This is definitely a special-occasion kind of place.” She gazed around the room, admiring the warm yellow walls, dark woods and maroon velvet curtains. There were fresh-cut flowers in a crystal vase on each table and a fire burning in the fireplace.

“It’s so beautiful in here,” she remarked.

“You’re so beautiful in here,” he told her, his gaze serious and unwavering. “When you opened the door and I saw you standing there, I thought you couldn’t be more beautiful. But here, surrounded by all this color and candlelight . . .”

He was usually so eloquent, Eve was surprised to see him grasping for the right words.

“It’s as if the room is a jewel box created just to let you shine,” he said finally. “And you do.”

“Well, I . . . thank you,” she murmured, hoping her dress wasn’t so snug he could see her heart pounding. “That’s a lovely compliment.”

A lovely compliment? Good lord, it was the most romantic thing any man had ever said to her and she was melting inside. Then his mouth curved into that familiar, faintly mocking smile. “But I am disappointed in one regard,” he said.

A “but.” Of course there would have to be a “but.”

“Oh really?” she countered, sucking in her stomach and wondering if she had lipstick on her teeth. “What’s that?”

“The bells. When you accepted my dinner invitation, you said something about wearing bells, and that’s a sight I’ve been looking forward to seeing all day.”

“And you would have,” she told him, grinning and lifting her hair on one side to reveal a gold filigree earring dangling tiny citrine crystals and even tinier round gold bells. “If you’d looked closely enough.”

“Rest assured that I looked as closely as I dared,” he murmured softly. “Just not at your ears.”

His smile deepened and his eyes darkened in a way that was elegant and decadent at the same time. He lifted his hand as if to touch the earring that had him transfixed and then seemed to catch himself with it in midair and dropped it to his side.

Eve took a quick sip of wine, feeling suddenly warm. And flustered. Which was ridiculous. This wasn’t her first date, for God’s sake. In fact, technically speaking, it might not be a date at all. So there was candlelight, its effect intensified by the strategically placed gilt-edged mirrors, and there was soft music drifting from the baby grand piano in a distant corner, and the whole place reeked of romance; that didn’t make it a date. Not a real date anyway. Nothing about their situation was that clear-cut.

It was possible Hazard routinely conducted business this way, or maybe he decided to use romance to soften her up after hearing what the security guard had to say about her love life . . . or dearth thereof. That would make the butterfly ballet going on in her stomach even more embarrassing.

She searched for something innocuous to say.

“I’ve never sat here before,” she told him, referring to the small private alcove where they were seated next to each other on a curved, green silk banquette. She patted the few inches of cushion that separated them, wondering if she could sound any more inane. “It’s comfy.”

Apparently she could. It’s comfy? An office full of journalism awards and the best she could do was its comfy?

“And private,” said Hazard. “I requested it because I thought you would prefer our conversation not be overheard.”

Now they were getting down to business.

“I would,” she confirmed, “assuming we’re going to talk about what I think you want to talk about. The question is should we hold off on discussing anything more contentious than the weather and American Idol until after dinner, or get it over with now so that I’m not sitting here dreading it the whole time?”

“What makes you so sure that what I have to say is something to be dreaded?” he challenged. “Perhaps it’s something you should be eagerly anticipating.”

“Perhaps. But I don’t think so.” She sighed and folded her arms in front of her. “Okay, let’s just get it over with.”

He considered her somberly for a moment and then shook his head. “No, I think I’ll wait until the wine and a good meal put you in a more receptive mood.”

“In other words it’s so bad you want me tipsy and half-asleep when I hear it. You might want to reconsider that strategy; if your timing is off I could barrel right past tipsy and half-asleep to belting out show tunes and passing out . . . to your utter embarrassment.”

His eyes filled with amusement. “I’ll take my chances that you don’t know that many show tunes . . . and if you pass out, I’m sure I can find a way to revive you.”

The last few words were spoken slowly as he gradually leaned closer to her. Exactly, Eve thought, the way the prince had leaned over Sleeping Beauty in her glass casket, and everyone knew how he’d resuscitated her. Hazard came close enough for Eve to feel his warm breath on her cheek and notice the shadows cast by his outrageously long eyelashes, and as his head lowered by miniscule degrees, she was absolutely, dazedly certain he was going to kiss her.

And then he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned back, reached for the menus and handed her one, confusing her even more. Maybe that was his intent, part of some new strategy, but somehow, when she saw his throat muscles work as he swallowed hard, she didn’t think so.

They ordered, and she discovered Hazard wasn’t kidding when he said serious conversation would have to wait until after dinner. To her surprise, he proved to be a master of entertaining, even fascinating, casual conversation. In spite of the fact that he knew nothing about American Idol or pop culture in general.

He did, however, know a great deal about the weather, and not simply in the usual hot-enough-for-you? sense. He knew about the science and the mystery of it; he knew intriguing things about the sun and the ocean and the planets. The breadth of his interest and knowledge was impressive. Over appetizers and salads and entrees, they discussed history and Shakespeare and music. They debated books they’d both read. Eve found herself calling on facts and theories she hadn’t thought about since she was in college. It was exhilarating for her, and for him too, she thought.

She was almost sorry when it was time for coffee and dessert and joined him in ordering a brandy as well, happy to linger a while longer. The evening had been perfect so far, the best possibly-a-date she’d been on in . . . maybe ever. And she really didn’t want it to end on a sour note. She decided to be honest with him.

“Thank you for dinner,” she said. “It was wonderful . . . this whole night has been wonderful and I want to keep it that way. So before we get into a discussion of anything, I think I should tell you that I still don’t want to sell the pendant.”

“Then you won’t be disappointed to learn that I’m no longer interested in buying it.”

“You’re not?” she countered, surprised. And skeptical.

“It’s true. You’ve made your position clear and I respect it. I’m resigned to the fact that it’s not for sale at any price, under any circumstances.”

“That’s very reasonable of you. And—I’m just going to say it—very suspicious. Care to explain your sudden change of heart? Only a few days ago you were desperate to get your hands on it, and now you’re willing to walk away without a fuss.”

“I didn’t say I was walking away. Only that I’m no longer interested in buying the pendant. It so happens I have a new proposition for you.”

Intrigued, Eve leaned back against the tufted cushion. “What sort of proposition?”

“It’s simple really. Instead of selling me the pendant, I want you to lease it to me.”

“You want to lease a pendant? I thought only movie stars did that.”

He seemed baffled.

“That was a joke. You know how stars borrow jewelry to wear on the red carpet at awards shows?”

Still looking baffled, he said, “I’m not asking to borrow it; my last monetary offer stands. The only difference is that you retain full ownership.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, your last offer was to pay me a hundred times my final bid.”

“That’s right. Cash. In advance.”

“You’re willing to pay that kind of money to rent a piece of jewelry?”

“I think we both know it’s much more than a piece of jewelry,” he admonished.

“It’s still an outrageous amount of money.”

“I’ve told you that money is immaterial to me.”

True. He had. But Eve wasn’t sure she was buying it. She’d interviewed some pretty wealthy people—CEOs, professional athletes, scions of famous families—and although some played it cooler than others, not one of them left her with the impression that money was immaterial to them. In fact, money—or at least the power and perks that came with it—appeared to matter very much to all of them.

She studied Hazard’s face and swirled the brandy in her glass, lazily, as if her mind wasn’t running in similar circles trying to find the catch in his offer. Because she knew there had to be one. She finally smiled.

“Okay, I think I get it. Tell me, Hazard, if I say yes, exactly how long a lease would you be asking for . . . say, oh, the rest of your natural life?”

“One day. Twenty-four consecutive hours of my choosing. Though to be honest I expect to need only one hour, maybe less.”

“Why? What could you possibly do with it—or get from it—in an hour that’s worth that amount of money?”

“I’m not going to do anything to harm it or take anything from it, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll have papers drawn specifying my obligation to return the pendant to you in precisely the same condition I receive it, along with any other stipulations you require.”

“What are you up to, Hazard?”

“Nothing. The deal I’m proposing is exactly as I’ve outlined it. You have my word.”

“For what that’s worth.”

“For what it’s worth,” he agreed.

She weighed it for a few seconds and shook her head. “No. I’m not buying it. No one in his right mind would pay that kind of money to rent a pendant for one day.”

“What about someone no longer in his right mind?” His voice was low and hard, his eyes dark. “Someone who’s been the victim of a curse that only the pendant can break? Someone like me.”

Eleven

Someone cursed . . . Someone like me. There was no mistaking the meaning of those words, and half a dozen responses raced through Eve’s head, all of them variations on “You must be joking; evil curses don’t exist.”

But it was her misfortune to know they probably did exist, and just one look at Hazard’s unsmiling face made it plain he wasn’t joking. He never smiled much, but there was something different about him at that moment; he didn’t look merely serious, he looked haunted.

“I’m not sure I understand,” she said. “What kind of curse are you talking about? And what does it have to do with the pendant?”

He dragged his hand through his long dark hair, sweeping it away from his face except for one slightly shorter lock that insisted on falling alongside his eye. “I’m afraid it’s a long story . . . and somewhat complicated.”

“I promise to stay awake . . . and to refrain from singing,” she added, offering a small smile of encouragement.

He didn’t smile back, so she took a sip of brandy and waited.

“It happened a long time ago,” he began. “I was younger . . . much younger. I suppose you could say it started with an altercation between me and another man, a sorcerer as it turned out, although I didn’t know that at the time. And back then, if anyone had tried to tell me what he was, or that magic was as real as the wind or tides or the blood pumping through your veins, I would have laughed in his face and offered to buy him another drink.”

So there was a time when Hazard didn’t believe real magic existed. That fit with his claim that he had no power of his own, but it didn’t solve the mystery that was Gabriel Hazard. There were still unanswered questions, and the prospect of getting some of those answers had her leaning forward in anticipation.

“What kind of altercation?” she asked him.

“The over-a-woman kind.” He said it with a shrug. “It was all pretty straightforward. He thought the woman in question should marry him, I disagreed, and so I took her from him.”

“Did anyone bother to ask the woman what she thought?”

The question seemed to take him by surprise.

“No,” he said after a few seconds. “No one did. He didn’t care and I didn’t have time.”

“You didn’t have time?” she challenged, irritated on the woman’s behalf.

“It’s the truth,” Hazard insisted. “When I arrived at the church, the ceremony had already begun. I couldn’t risk waiting around to ask for permission.”

“Ceremony?”

He nodded. “The wedding ceremony. Did I mention that I stole her from the altar on their wedding day?”

If anyone but Hazard had said it, Eve would have laughed and doubted their veracity. Instead, she took a deep breath, trying to picture it. “You just walked into a church and . . . what? Announced she couldn’t marry him because you loved her more?”

“No. I didn’t love her more. I didn’t love her at all, in fact. At least not then,” he added with a quiet note of regret. “And I didn’t walk in; I rode in . . . just as they were about to exchange vows. And I didn’t say anything. I swept her off her feet—literally—and galloped off with her.”

“Did you say galloped? As in galloping on horseback?”

“Exactly.”

As bizarre as it sounded, she believed it. She believed it because . . . because Hazard was Hazard. And she had no trouble conjuring a mental image of it happening: she saw Hazard dressed in something suitably swashbuckling, charging down a flower-decked aisle astride a black stallion, the winsome young bride melting in his arms.

Suddenly concerned, she looked hard at him. “I’m assuming she went willingly?”

“Very willingly.”

No surprise there, thought Eve with a wistfulness she told herself was silly but entirely natural. What woman hadn’t fantasized about being rescued by a knight in shining armor and carried off in his arms? And handsome, charming, chivalrous Hazard was born to play the part.

“So she was in love with you even though you weren’t in love with her?” she asked.

“She wasn’t in love with me either. We were strangers at the time. I happened to be passing through the village where she lived, and she was so relieved to be rescued from marrying a man old enough to be her grandfather it didn’t matter to her who did the rescuing.”

“At least not then,” she ventured, echoing his earlier words.

“Not then.”

“And afterwards?”

“Afterwards . . . things changed,” he acknowledged. “But that has nothing to do with what happened.”

Eve resisted the urge to press for details. “So the reason you were cursed by this guy who turned out to be a sorcerer is because you rode into town, treated the local church like a stable and galloped off into the sunset with his bride. No offense, Hazard, but what did you expect him to do? Present you with the key to the village?”

“I didn’t expect anything; I wasn’t thinking that far ahead. Actually, I wasn’t thinking at all.” His mouth twisted in a self-deprecating smile. “Did I mention I was bloody drenched at the time?”

“Drenched?”

“Drunk,” he translated. “Bloody, staggering drunk.”

Eve rolled her eyes. So much for the shining armor. “No, but I should have guessed. Suddenly it all makes perfect sense.”

“I suppose it would be truer to say I was bloody, staggering hungover. Drunk is what I was the night before; that’s when I stopped at the local pub and heard all the talk about what a shoddy deal this poor young beauty was getting. It turned out I’d seen the woman in passing the day before,” he revealed, “when I’d stopped at the same roadside inn as she and the aunt who was traveling with her. She’d been called home from London without being told what awaited her.”

Eve’s brow furrowed with surprise. “You mean she didn’t know she was getting married?”

“She had no idea. Her father was in heavy debt to the rancid old windbag who owned most of the village, and everything else for miles around it, and he intended to use her to settle up.”

“That’s disgusting,” Eve exclaimed. “Not to mention illegal.”

He shrugged. “More to the point, it was a particular irritation of mine. I have a dangerously low tolerance for randy old men who prey on women because they can afford to, who use them up and toss them aside like yesterday’s news pages.” The icy black glitter in his eyes underscored his use of the word “dangerously.” There was no doubt in Eve’s mind he was talking about something more serious than your average pet peeve.

“A few pints into the evening I made up my mind someone ought to do something to stop what was happening to the girl,” he continued. “In the morning I woke up on the floor of the pub with that same notion still rattling around inside my pounding skull. And before I knew it that someone turned out to be me.”

Eve couldn’t help being impressed. He was talking about standing up for someone whose own family had sold her out, someone who was a total stranger to him. Who did something like that? She couldn’t think of a single person she knew who—drunk or sober—would dare to pull such a foolhardy, reckless, overbearing, but somehow sweetly noble stunt. Hazard was one of a kind; she was convinced of that. She just wasn’t sure what kind.

“That’s an amazing story,” she told him. “And what you did was very brave. Impulsive, but brave. All in all, I’d say you’re lucky he cursed you instead of shooting you in the back as you rode away.”

“Would that he had,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “I didn’t give him time to do anything. The curse didn’t happen until a week later, when I went back to apologize.”

“God, Hazard, you know there is such a thing as being too damn polite for your own good. Couldn’t you have just called to say you were sorry and kept on running?”

He tensed, his eyes narrowing.

“I did not run,” he said coldly, emphatically.

“Fine, you didn’t run. I still say you should have just phoned in an apology or sent a fruit basket or something else not so salt-in-the-wound, in-your-face confrontational.”

“This had to be done face-to-face,” he countered stubbornly. “The man was too powerful and too ruthless to allow himself to be publicly bested and not retaliate. Jane’s family still lived in the village, and they were still indebted to him. That debt had to be settled. I met with him to appease him, so he wouldn’t punish them for my actions. He thought he’d been cheated out of what was rightfully his, and so I offered him cash in lieu of the bride he thought was his due.”

“Let me guess, he still wanted the bride on the silver platter.”

He shook his head. “No, he knew it was too late for that. Jane and I were already married.”

“Married?” It burst out more loudly than she intended, making her especially glad they were sitting away from other diners. “After one close call, I’d have thought she . . . Jane . . . would want to get to know her next groom before taking the plunge.”

“It wasn’t a matter of choice,” he said matter-of-factly. “I hadn’t thought about where I would go or what I would do with her after I rescued her. We were alone together for over a day; her reputation was compromised. We had to marry.”

They had to marry? She had trouble processing that.

She understood there were people whose attitudes about such things were stricter than her own, but marrying to protect a woman’s reputation seemed excessive and outdated . . . something out of the Amish Guide to Dating or a Regency romance.

Of course, he did say it had happened a long time ago. And that he was much younger. He still looked young at first glance, with his long dark hair and air of barely leashed energy. But all you had to do was observe his manner for a short while to detect a degree of effortless polish and absolute confidence that can only be developed with time. And then there was that grim and ravaged look she’d caught a glimpse of, a dark shadow falling across his lean face. At those moments he looked much older than his age, which Eve guessed was thirty at most.

If this happened when he was in his teens or early twenties, he wouldn’t have been as polished, or as haunted. She imagined he would have been impetuous and quite gallant. Then there was the fact that his dashing rescue had occurred in a rural area, where things, including social mores, can move a lot slower than in places considered more urbane. A young and idealistic Hazard might very well deem it his duty to step up and save the girl’s reputation by marrying her, just as he later returned to the scene of the crime and tried to set things right with the man he’d offended.

It still niggled at her that there was something a little off about the story . . . that is to say, something beyond the overall wackiness of it. And the fact that he was a married man. The fact that he was married really shouldn’t make any difference to her, especially since it apparently didn’t make any difference to him. It wasn’t as if she harbored visions of dinner leading to bigger and better things.

“So. You’re married,” she said. “Your wife must be very open-minded. Or doesn’t she know you take other women to dinner at restaurants on Zagat’s list of Most Romantic?”

“I was married,” he countered. “It was only for a very short time. A year and a half after we married, Jane became ill with pneumonia and died. She and our daughter, both within a day.”

“Oh, Gabriel, I’m so sorry. How awful for you.” She used his first name without thinking, the same way she reached out to touch his hand, briefly covering it with her own. “It’s bad enough to lose someone you love, but to suddenly have both of them taken from you . . . I know how hard that must have been for you . . . how hard it must be still.”

“Thank you. For a long time life was . . . unbearable. And then I became numb.” His mouth crooked. “Numb is easier.”

The sadness of that statement made her heart hurt. Numbness did seem easier than soul-searing grief; the problem was it didn’t last. You could go floating along in your little bubble of numbness for weeks or months or years, and then one day you glimpsed or heard or brushed against something so familiar it might as well be encoded in your DNA, and the bubble bursts and your heart lifts, because you’re certain it’s her silky brown hair you saw, or his smooth laugh you heard, or the fox fur trim on her hood that you felt, the fur that always tickled your cheek when she bent down to kiss you, but of course it’s not, and you remember why, you remember why those things will never be again, and the fresh pain is enough to take your breath away.

The silence continued; Hazard seemed lost somewhere far away.

“Tell me more about the curse,” she urged. She knew that even when you believe you’re numb, distractions can be a blessing. “Did he refuse to accept your apology and curse you instead?”

“No, he accepted my apology, grudgingly. And my money, with slightly more enthusiasm,” he recalled dryly. “And then as I was leaving he had his men jump me. Three of them. We fought, I lost. It was . . . a very long night.” There was no mistaking the bitterness that whipped into his voice. It kept her from asking for a more detailed account of what transpired during that very long night. The faraway burn in his eyes and the unyielding set of his jaw made it clear that whatever happened had been painful, and not pretty. “By the time he got around to the curse I was barely conscious; my memories of what happened are hazy.”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but are you sure something did happen? Maybe it was a threat . . . he might have said he was going to curse you for effect, to frighten you and even the score a little.”

His laughter was short and harsh, really not a laugh at all. “It happened. I’m sure of it.”

“What kind of curse was it?” she asked.

What kind of curse was it?

The moment of truth, thought Hazard. Either that or the moment of untruth. Which was it going to be? He’d been struggling with that question since deciding on his strategy for this evening.

He didn’t want to lie to Eve any more than he wanted to steal from her. But there was a chance that if she knew the whole truth, she would be reluctant to help him. She might refuse to let him use the pendant. That would only prolong his stay, and the longer he was around her, the more danger she was in. If tonight proved anything, it was that. Even more than he didn’t want to lie to her, he didn’t want to hurt her. He’d hurt women before without meaning to, and if he wasn’t careful it would happen to Eve. Lying to her might be the kindest thing he could do.

“It’s nothing fancy as curses go,” he told her, his tone offhand. “Just your standard bad-luck curse.”

“And it worked?”

He nodded. “It’s like living with a black cat always in my path and with every day being Friday the thirteenth. Nothing I do turns out right. You saw what happened at the auction.” He clenched his jaw and stared across the room, striking a mood between anger and despair.

“You wanted to know why I’m so desperate to get my hands on the pendant, desperate enough to fight off warlocks and pay a king’s bloody ransom. Now you do.” He shifted his gaze to her face. “I’m cursed, and the pendant is the only thing that can break that curse.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because the pendant is what he used to cast it,” he replied.

Eve was about to say that was impossible because the pendant had been lost for years . . . centuries according to Grand; then she remembered it had been lost only to them for all that time. The hull of the Unity was located and her cargo recovered in 1971, but the pendant hadn’t come into Dorothy Dowling’s possession until 1998. According to the provenience provided by the historical society, there had been a private sale following its recovery and then it turned up years later at an auction conducted by Sotheby’s in Dublin. That time frame certainly allowed for what Hazard said happened.

“You’re sure it was the pendant?” she asked. “You did say your memory of that night is hazy.”

“It is,” Hazard admitted. “All I actually remember is that he had something gold in his hand. I’m not relying on my memory. I’m relying on Taggart, or rather on his sixth sense for these things.”

“Who’s Taggart?” Eve asked.

“Taggart is . . . an associate of mine. I hate magic . . . for obvious reasons. But I knew if I was going to break the curse I would have to fight fire with fire. And since I don’t have any power of my own, I had to find someone willing to share his . . . for a price.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s more than willing to share if the price is anything like what you offered me.” She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing with curiosity. “And speaking of . . . you sure have a lot of walking-around money for someone cursed with bad luck.”

“It’s old money.” He dropped his gaze and used one finger to trace the rim of the saucer beneath the cup of coffee he hadn’t touched. “I have . . . afflictions that aren’t readily visible or understood. It’s not an easy thing for me to talk about.”

“You don’t have to,” she said, as he’d hoped she would.

She had a caring heart. Everything he’d observed of her and everything he’d learned about her surreptitiously told him that. And if his back wasn’t to the wall, or if he were a better man, he wouldn’t stoop to using that against her. But he wasn’t a better man, and he was going to use her kindness, and her own distaste for magic, to get her to do what he needed her to do.

“Tell me how Taggart figured out that it was the pendant you were looking for,” she said.

“He has a wide range of contacts in the otherworld,” he explained, referring to the world of magic interwoven with this one. “And he has a talent for locating things that are impossible to find . . . that sixth sense I mentioned. It took a while, and there were a lot of dead ends, but he eventually got a strong sense that what we were looking for was in Providence. Once we were here, he zeroed in on the house on Sycamore Street. The fact that it was for sale was simply a lucky break “

“So it wasn’t purely by chance that you bought the house.” There was a subtle note of accusation in her voice.

“I never said it was chance. I said it had nothing to do with you, and that at the time I bought it I knew nothing about you. That’s the truth. And I said the location being well suited to magic was a deciding factor—also true.”

She acknowledged that with a slight nod.

“It was only after we arrived here that Taggart honed in on the auction,” he explained, “and as soon as I saw the photograph of the pendant in the preview catalogue, I knew he was right . . . that it was what Pavane had in his hand when he cursed me.”

She looked at him with surprise. “The sorcerer’s name was Pavane?”

“That’s right. Phineas Pavane.” He saw her chest lift with a sudden deep breath and sensed her excitement. “Do you recognize the name?”

She nodded eagerly. “If my grandmother is right—and she usually is about these things—Phineas Pavane is the man responsible for our long-lost family talisman being long lost in the first place ... and for worse things. Not the same Phineas Pavane who cursed you,” she added and then rolled her eyes at herself. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he murmured, captivated by the sudden guileless sparkle of her in a way he had no right to be.

“This rural, horse-loving village you were talking about . . . was it by any chance in Ireland? A place called Gleng—”

“Glengara,” he said at the same time she did. “Near the west coast. That’s the place.”

“That’s where my family is from . . . originally, I mean. Grand was born there.”

She tossed her hair back, making the bells on her ears dance against the pale skin he longed to touch. It was an effort to focus instead on what she was saying.

“I don’t know if this is a coincidence,” she told him, “and if it’s not, I have no idea what it means, but if there was a Pavane involved, I’m sure he played dirty. You can use the pendant. And I don’t want any money, or papers drawn up. A handshake is good enough for me.”

She offered her hand; he hesitated.

“Do you trust me that much?” he asked.

“I’m not sure how much I trust you,” she admitted. “But I’m willing to give it a try. We’ll keep it simple: I’ll let you use the pendant to break the curse, and you promise to return it to me afterwards, safe and sound. No exceptions. No excuses.”

They shook on it. And even though the light was low, designed to hide flaws and soften what’s real, he saw Eve clearly for the woman she truly was. The woman he needed her to be.

Caring. Trusting. Gullible.

He really was a bastard.

Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

So sayeth the witches in Macbeth, and their words had been running through Eve’s head all day, as impossible to shake as the refrain of a popular and God-awful song you hear on your way to work and find yourself humming all day. They struck her as timely; she only hoped they weren’t a bad omen. Tonight was the night she was going to Hazard’s, talisman in hand, for what she’d come to think of as—for want of a catchier term—the Great Decursing.

It had been two days since their dinner at Settimio’s. She’d offered to get together to do the deed as soon as possible, but Hazard had things to take care of first, and so they’d agreed on this evening. It was a good thing he hadn’t needed more time, because thinking about it was really interfering with her work. Flubbing lines, daydreaming during meetings and having to double- and triple-check appointment times was all very unlike her.

She was accustomed to work being her consuming passion, the thing that drove and excited her; work was the first thing she thought of in the morning and the last thing at night, and it was unsettling to have something else kick it from first place to a very distant second. She told herself that her curiosity and anticipation were natural; after all, it wasn’t everyday she got to witness someone use a magical talisman to break a bad-luck curse. Whatever excitement she felt had less to do with Hazard the man than Hazard the victim.

In fact, it might not even be excitement she felt; it could be . . . compassion. It could be wild, intense compassion waking her up in the middle of the night and making her pulse race, suddenly and at odd and sometimes inconvenient moments.

There was no denying that compassion was at least part of her feelings toward Hazard. His story had touched her deeply, probably because she understood it like few others could. She had the misfortune of knowing firsthand what it was to get caught in the backwash of a power far greater than yourself, a boundless, unaccountable power willing and able to pluck you from the fabric of reality as you knew it, spin you around and toss you back into a world radically different from the one you knew, leaving you to find your way as best you could.

Some would say they had both brought it on themselves by opening the door to the mysterious power of magic without knowing where it would lead. That was probably true . . . but with one major difference between them. She had been warned of the danger and had chosen to cast the Winter Rose Spell anyway. Hazard was never warned and had no way of knowing the potential consequences of his actions; he hadn’t even known magic was real, for pity’s sake. It was a stretch to think of the Hazard who’d bulldozed his way into her life as an innocent, but that’s what he’d once been.

There was also another important difference between them. What she did, she did for herself; she’d cast the spell in hopes of seeing what love and happiness might be in her future. Hazard had been thinking of someone else’s future happiness. He had unselfishly put himself at risk for the sake of a stranger. Neither of them deserved what happened to them, but the balancing scales in Eve’s heart decreed that he deserved it less.

For that reason alone she was willing to help him any way she could. It would be a bonus if she could also even the score a little with the iniquitous Pavane, both the man who had cursed Hazard and the earlier one who had caused her own family so much pain and trouble.

Phineas Pavane had stolen more than the talisman from them, he’d stolen possibilities. Generations of them. There was no way of knowing exactly how many, but Eve was convinced the number was staggering. He’d stolen the possibility of love and joy and contentment from so many women who shared her blood, and, maybe worse, he’d stolen the possibility of all the good they could have done with the power meant to be theirs and theirs alone.

She understood bad luck because she’d seen her share of it, and she knew the return of the talisman brought the possibility that T’airna luck could change. She resisted thinking about it because the potential for disappointment was too great. But gradually those thoughts began slipping through cracks in the wall she’d put up, more frequently since her dinner with Hazard. She wondered if that was because he represented another new possibility . . . the possibility of a man she could be completely open and honest with. A man she could dare to love.

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it, she told herself. She wasn’t even sure Hazard was a man she could love. She was drawn to him in a way that confused her, but she really knew very little about him. The other night had filled in some of the blanks, and hopefully more of her questions would be answered tonight. She would also get to meet the mysterious Taggart, who would be in charge of the decursing. And she would find out if he was right about the pendant having the power to break the curse and set Hazard free. Maybe luck was about to change for both of them.

Provided she didn’t miss the witching hour, she thought, noticing the time. She took off her glasses and began to pack up to go. The script she’d been working on, the one that should have taken no more than an hour to write but that was still unfinished after several, would have to wait until tomorrow.

Thrice and once, the hedge-pig whin’d. Harpier cries: ’tis time! ’tis time!

Twelve

“How many times are you going to watch that thing?” asked Taggart from somewhere behind him.

Hazard heard him amble into the study a few minutes earlier, but he hadn’t turned then and he didn’t turn now. He had no intention of squandering his newly restored vision on Taggart’s homely self when he could be looking at Eve. Watching her image on a television screen was a poor substitute for the real thing, but it was better than nothing.

He had no interest in current trends or trinkets unless they simplified his research or advanced his cause. The box known as a DVR was such a device. He’d originally mastered its system of buttons and menus so he could record information that might someday prove useful, but recently he’d discovered a much more pleasurable and instantly gratifying use for the thing; he recorded Eve’s news reports and replayed them. Over and over again, like an opium addict driven to feed his craving with increasing frequency until his need becomes the center of his existence, the fulcrum upon which everything else turns.

Hazard had never allowed anything—or anyone—to become that all-important to him, and he’d long ago vowed he never would. As a child and then as a young man, he’d witnessed that kind of obsession in his mother. He’d been powerless to do anything about it, but he’d seen how lethal it could be. His mother hadn’t been an addict in the common sense of the word; her obsession had been the man who was her lover, and his father. Assuming you measured paternity by blood alone. Her love and her need for the man had been without limits or conditions. And in turn, the Earl of Shafton’s regard for his mother had been without the complication of either love or need. He’d looked on her as a pleasing commodity, like a fine cigar or a new cravat, to be enjoyed and used up and discarded. And that’s precisely what he did.

Their association had ended badly, all the way around, and when it was done Hazard swore he would never allow himself to love so deeply or need so desperately. And he never had. Now, in spite of his resolve, Eve Lockhart threatened to become a sweet addiction.

And he refused to let Taggart make him feel guilty for it.

“I’m going to watch as many times as it pleases me,” he said in reply to Taggart’s question.

“Humph,” Taggart responded, obviously annoyed. “I only asked because they’ll be giving the results of the races at Churchill Downs on that sports channel, if you’re interested.”

“I’m not,” Hazard countered.

“And Starry Night, the black stallion brought over from Isle of Wight, ran today. I thought for sure you’d be interested in seeing how he did.”

That was a lie. If Taggart actually cared about what Hazard wanted to see, he would go away and leave him to watch his clips of Eve in peace. Starry Night. The name did strike a chord. Because, he realized with sudden irritation, it was the name of the horse owned by a mage who specialized in equine trickery, a horse whose failure to cross the finish line anywhere near close to first had already cost Hazard a tidy sum to cover Taggart’s losses.

Pressing the Pause button, he turned to eye the other man suspiciously. “Tell me you’re not placing wagers.”

“I’m not placing wagers,” parroted Taggart, eyes wide and innocent. “Sheesh. Can’t a man try to do you a favor without accusations being made?”

Hazard sighed. That was another lie, but not one he wanted to spend whatever time he had left before Eve arrived grousing about. He glanced at the clock on his desk.

“She’s late,” observed Taggart.

“She said she’d be here around six o’clock,” Hazard countered. “I’d hardly call 6:03 late, especially when you consider the traffic at this time of day.”

Taggart strolled over and dropped into the chair beside his. “Maybe she’s changed her mind and won’t come at all.”

“She’ll come.”

“How can you be sure? You hardly know her now, do you?” Taggart was right. And wrong. It was true he hadn’t known Eve for more than a handful of days, but in that time he’d used his considerable skills to learn all he could about her. Thanks to her status as a local celebrity, there was plenty of factual information available. And if you were willing to dig deep enough—which he was—there were also comments and recollections from teachers and old friends buried in years of stories and interviews.

He’d taken that jumble of facts and carefully pieced them together until he had a detailed picture of her life, and a good look at the woman she was.

“I know she’ll be here because once, in the middle of a blizzard, she commandeered a snowplow and convinced the driver to take her across town to deliver an eightieth birthday cake to the man who used to run the newsstand outside her building because she promised him she would.

“And,” he went on, “because once a year she dresses up as someone called Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle and reads a book by that same name to a classroom full of children.” He tried not to smile as he recalled what Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle looked like on the book jacket and wished he could see Eve dressed in a white ruffled apron and a flat straw hat with a black ribbon. “She does it simply because she did it once, with great success, and it has become a rite of passage for children in that grade. Something they look forward to all year.”

Taggart’s face was scrunched with confusion. “So you think she’s coming here to read us a book about a pig?”

“No, you dolt. She’s coming because she said she would come, because she promised to help, and she’s not the sort of woman to break a promise.”

As if on cue the doorbell rang; Hazard stood but made it only a few steps toward the front door before Taggart stopped him.

“You’re sure, Gabriel?” he asked. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

Hazard scowled. “You need to ask?”

“Aye, I do, because there’s no turning back, is there? If I’m right, if it works, it can’t be undone.”

“I know that,” he said quietly.

Taggart was on his feet now too, his expression earnest. “There’s no rush, is there? Maybe we should hold off a bit, until we can learn more about this ritual, the fine points of it, I mean. I’ve never performed it personally, after all, only heard about it . . . and not firsthand. It seems we ought to know . . . more.”

It wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation in recent days. Hazard understood Taggart’s concerns; he just didn’t have any more time to debate them.

He reached out and put his hand firmly on Taggart’s shoulder. “Trust me; I’ve given this a great deal of thought. It’s what I want . . . now more than ever,” he added, thinking of Eve, and where his growing attraction to her could lead. “And the rush is to get it done while Eve is willing to let us use the talisman.”

“I thought she wasn’t one to go back on her word,” Taggart retorted.

“She’s not. Unless,” he added pointedly, “she should find out it was given under false pretense.”

The doorbell sounded again, and Taggart trailed him down the hall to the front door, still grumbling.

“False pretense is right. Seems to me that if you’re so sure you’re doing the right thing, you shouldn’t be afraid to say so.”

“I’m not afraid,” Hazard shot back, losing patience. “We’ve been over this. She has no part in what I’m doing, and I don’t think it’s fair that she should feel in any way responsible for . . . whatever happens.”

“Humph,” Taggart said.

Hazard opened the door. And smiled.

Today she was wearing a yellow blouse—the hue as pale as fresh-churned butter—with a black jacket and skirt. At first, he’d wished she didn’t wear so much black, but he decided he liked it because it made the bits of color she did wear appear all the more vivid. And because it allowed her own colors to shine through, the gleaming copper and cinnamon of her hair, and the pale ivory and peach of her soft skin.

He took it all in now, still smiling.

Taggart stepped forward, poking him with his elbow. “He means to say please come in.”

Hazard shook himself. “Yes. Of course. Forgive me.” He took her hand to help her step over the threshold and let it go reluctantly. Still standing in the front hall, he made introductions. He wanted to bring her inside and spend more time with her, an hour or even fifteen minutes, but he didn’t dare. Any time he spent with her now would be too long, and not nearly enough.

Pulling a black jewelry case from her purse, she held it out to him. “Here you go.”

“Thank you. Taggart will return this to you as soon as we’re through.”

“Okay.” She smiled. “Well, good luck.”

“Perhaps the lady would like to watch,” Taggart suggested.

Hazard shot him a warning look.

Her green eyes brightened. “Well, maybe . . .”

“No,” Hazard broke in. He quickly softened his too-sharp tone with a smile. “Eve would rather not go up to the turret. You haven’t changed your mind about that since the other night, have you?”

She shook her head.

“Good,” Hazard caught himself. “I mean good because I know you’ll be more comfortable waiting down here.”

“Why don’t we perform the ritual down here?” Taggart asked.

“Because everything is set for us upstairs. It was you who said the turret has the strongest residual magic in the house.”

“The strongest, aye,” Taggart allowed. “But since the whole place is steeped in magic, I don’t think we could go wrong no matter where we do it.”

“Why take chances?” Unclenching his jaw, Hazard turned to Eve in a way that deliberately excluded Taggart. “Please, go in and make yourself comfortable.”

Taggart got the message and started up the stairs.

Ignoring his own good sense, Hazard lingered beside Eve for just a moment and even that was too long. His fingertips itched to touch her, the temptation was too much to resist. He brought his hand to her face and felt the quick jolt of connection he’d come to expect, like oppositely charged magnets coming together. Putting his palm against her cheek, he slowly coasted down to cup her chin, his thumb moving back and forth over the side of her jaw as that initial burst of feeling settled into a steady current running between them.

Their gazes locked.

He could tell she felt what he felt, and his heart pumped faster.

He bent his head closer to hers. “A kiss?”

His voice was low and just the tiniest bit unsteady. Unsteady. He, who had stolen hundreds of kisses in his time, stolen and seduced and beguiled kisses—and more—from women as willing to give as he was eager to take, women who longed to be conquered as surely as he’d been born to conquer. And now his damnable need for this one kiss from Eve had him feeling unsure, and desperate.

“A kiss for luck?” she countered, her soft, rosy mouth curving into a small smile. “A bit ironic, don’t you think?”

He stared down at her, puzzled. “Ironic?”

“A good-luck kiss to help you break a bad-luck curse. It struck me as ironic.”

“Right . . . the curse. Then let it not be for luck,” he said, savoring her nearness, the fresh scent of her hair and the warmth of her breath on his cheek.

He felt her pulse skitter, and his heart thumped in response.

“For what then?” she asked.

Hazard moved his hand to the back of her neck and slowly pulled her closer. His fingers in her hair, he tipped her face up to his.

“How about just for the hell of it?” He whispered the words against her mouth in that last heartbeat before he claimed it with his own.

When he kissed her, she kissed back, igniting an explosion of sensation, hot and quick and dizzying. Something powerful and unknown stirred inside him and then spread like fire through his veins.

His mouth played with hers. He kept it gentle, as gentle as he could, when what he wanted was to kiss her deeper and harder and longer. He wanted to kiss her forever.

Forever. Now there was irony for you, he thought. They didn’t have forever. And he didn’t have any right to make this more complicated or difficult for Eve. He forced himself to stop and gently disentangle.

She looked dazed.

Hazard took his hands from her slowly, regretfully, sliding down her arm to catch her hand and lift it to his lips for a final kiss. “Thank you.”

It was all he said before starting the long climb to the turret.

Eve hung out at the bottom of the stairs, her heart still beating wildly from his kiss, and watched him go. She ran her fingertips along her bottom lip, replaying the kiss in her mind. He was a good kisser, which is exactly what she’d expected. A man didn’t look the way he looked and charm the way he charmed without racking up a whole lot of experience in that department. What she hadn’t expected was the sharp sense of loss she felt when it ended and he headed upstairs to the turret. So sharp she’d almost called out to stop him from going. Now that would have been embarrassing.

She turned her thoughts to what was going on upstairs and wondered how they would know if the ritual was a success. Flip a coin and see if Hazard could call it in the air? Or just wait and watch for changes in his life? He’d told her that being cursed was like living in chains, that it caused him to keep his distance from others for fear his bad luck would spill over and bring tragedy or disaster to someone else. He didn’t say he felt responsible for the death of his wife and daughter, but she surmised he did, at least in part. Faced with the choice of being a lonely recluse or a threat to anyone who crossed his path, he’d chosen loneliness for himself.

When her knees no longer wobbled, she wandered down the hall to the kitchen and looked around, peeking inside the drawers and refrigerator, telling herself it wasn’t as tacky as looking through someone’s bathroom medicine cabinet and lots of people did that. Whether he preferred whole or fat-free milk and owned matching pot holders wasn’t her idea of highly personal information. It was a moot point anyway since there was no milk or anything else in the fridge and not much in the drawers. Plates, bowls, cups, flatware, that was about it. Plus a healthy supply of white cloth napkins pressed and folded laundry-service style.

What did they eat? she wondered. Then she spotted the containers neatly stacked by the back door, all with the “Catering to You” logo on them. Catering to You was a pricey catering service that specialized in delivering gourmet meals to people who lacked the time or inclination to cook for themselves and were rich enough not to have to. Most people she knew used them only for special occasions. From the looks of it, everyday was special at Chez Hazard.

The sound of footsteps pounding down the stairs and a rowdy verbal skirmish in the hallway interrupted her snooping. Taggart appeared first, his arms full of what could best be described as stuff. Hazard was right behind him, a candle gripped in each fist and a dark cloud hovering above his head. Metaphorically speaking.

“We ran into a small glitch,” Taggart announced.

Eve glanced from one to the other. “What sort of glitch?”

“An imaginary one,” Hazard snapped.

“I didn’t imagine it,” Taggart said with a roll of his eyes only Eve could see. “I tried to get it done.”

“You should have tried harder,” Hazard told him.

“What sort of glitch?” she asked again.

“The sort where we need your help,” Taggart replied.

“My help? Oh no.” She looked at Hazard. “I told you I don’t do magic.”

Taggart snorted and jumped in before Hazard had a chance to respond. “Do magic? Madam, you are magic. I saw the rune stones out front and the ones at the other doors. You’re an enchantress by birth, a mighty one . . . in fact, if you ask me—”

“No one did,” Hazard broke in. “Can we just get on with it?”

Taggart shrugged. “That’s up to the enchantress.” To Eve, he added, “What we need from you is a power boost. All you need do is focus on what it is we want to accomplish and then lend your will to mine. Simple.”

“Reality bends to desire,” she murmured, contradictory thoughts running laps in her head.

“For you,” Taggart told her. “Me? I’m but lowly fae. I need the words and charms to bring my will about. But together we can get this done.”

Again she looked to Hazard, undecided. “Is he right? All I’ll have to do is focus?”

“Evidently,” he said tightly. “Taggart will be doing the work; I’m the target. You just have to be present, an innocent bystander.”

“Right . . . just your average, everyday innocent bystander with a zillion-watt battery at her disposal,” quipped Taggart. “So you’ll help?”

She hesitated for only a second before nodding. “I’ll try.”

It sounded simple enough, Eve thought. Except for the part where she didn’t have a clue what she was doing, and the fact that it was a powerful bad-luck curse they were messing with, and her unfortunate history with the house. Other than that, it was as simple as pie . . . very complicated and dangerous magic pie.

What could possibly go wrong?

Taggart prepared to attempt the ritual a second time by rolling back the living room rug and using yellow chalk to draw a circle on the wood floor. Eve stood out of the way and watched as he arranged the items he’d brought down from the turret inside the circle. She was more interested in details than her small role required, and she wasn’t sure if it was because what they were doing involved Hazard, or magic, or both.

When Taggart placed a pentagon shaped mirror at the center of the circle and made a smaller circle on its flat surface with what appeared to be dried herbs, she leaned closer to get a better look at the pieces of leaves and stalks. Grand had grown herbs as well as roses, and she’d taught Eve how to tell one from another, as well as their uses and dangers. Grand had called it folk medicine; her mother had called it madness and warned Eve to stay away.

“Agrimony?” she ventured.

“Aye,” confirmed Taggart. “Some call it cockelbur. For cleansing the blood. There’s belladonna and valerian root too.”

Inside the smaller circle he placed a gold pocket watch and candles bound with twine. The candles were standing upright, with a single red taper in the center, surrounded by five black candles and a ring of white candles on the outside. The final item was a small silver pedestal. When it was in place, he removed the pendant from its case and held it out to her.

“Would you care to do the honors?” he asked.

From across the room Hazard made a rough, impatient sound.

Eve took the pendant and placed it on the silver pedestal, noticing as she did so that the candles, the watch and the pendant formed a triangle.

Taggart stepped back and considered his work with a critical expression. Then he bent and moved the candles an inch to the left, stepped back for another look and moved them back.

“For God’s sake,” snapped Hazard. “Stop fussing and get on with it.”

“A bit touchy, aren’t you?” countered a blasé Taggart. “These things can’t be rushed. It’s not my fault that having time to think about what you’re about to do makes you edgy.”

“I’m not edgy,” growled Hazard.

“Jittery then.”

“Or jittery.”

“Why would he be edgy?” Eve directed the question to Taggart, but it was Hazard who answered.

“I am not edgy,” he snapped.

Taggart turned and rolled his eyes for Eve’s benefit. “ ‘Not edgy,’ he says. What do you think, Enchantress?”

“Please. Call me Eve,” she said to him. To Hazard she said, “You do seem a little on edge. Are you afraid this won’t work?”

“Or afraid it will,” muttered Taggart.

Eve frowned. “I don’t understand. Why would you be afraid it would work? I thought you wanted to end the curse.”

“I do,” responded Hazard. “I’m not afraid . . . or edgy or jittery. I just want to get on with it. Can we do that?” He glared at Taggart. “Or do you want to waste more time rearranging the bloody candles?”

Taggart gave a lofty shrug. “I’m ready when you are.”

“Finally,” muttered Hazard.

“You’re going to have to walk me through this step by step,” Eve reminded Taggart. “Starting with where you want me to stand.”

“Anywhere inside the circle will do fine,” he told her, waving her forward.

Eve stepped over the yellow chalk line, and the two men did the same. The circle was a snug fit for the three of them; she was standing close enough to Hazard to smell him. He smelled good.

“A few points before we begin,” Taggart said.

Hazard groaned with frustration; Taggart ignored him.

“The ritual itself is simple,” he told her. “A curse is really nothing but a spell with evil intent. Sometimes it’s cast and done with, like when you curse someone to break a leg or miss an appointment. Sometimes it’s meant to go on long after the casting is done. What we’re dealing with here is a continuous curse, one of those that goes on and on, and since magic—white and black alike—needs energy to fuel it, something is fueling this curse.”

“What is it?” she asked.

Taggart’s mouth quirked grimly. “Good question. I’ve known of curses that tapped into ley lines, or particular ceremonial rites, ones that could be counted on to reoccur frequently enough to provide the energy needed to keep the curse going.”

“Is that what’s happening here?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“What’s happening here,” Hazard chimed in, his tone dripping sarcasm, “is that we have no idea what’s happening here. And we’re wasting time. Just tell her what to do so we can get this over with.”

“He’s right,” acknowledged Taggart. “We can’t say for certain where the energy for the curse is coming from. But I dare say we’ve found a way around it. Or rather he did.” He hitched his head toward Hazard. “He’s moody but clever.”

He explained to Eve that regardless of what was fueling the curse, stopping or interrupting that flow of energy would cause the curse to fail and the natural order of things to be restored. Since they couldn’t find the source of the energy, they couldn’t stop it; so they were going to block the flow instead by raising a protective shield around Hazard. The energy would hit the shield and be bounced back to who knows where, and Hazard would be free.

And that would be that and they would all live happily ever after if only magic were a science instead of an art. It wasn’t, and so they needed exactly the right catalyst to make it work; in this case only the catalyst that had been used to cast the curse could break it. They needed the pendant, and according to Taggart, they needed her help. He had a lot more faith in her abilities than she did. When she told him that, he assured her that all she had to do was conjure an image of Hazard surrounded by an impenetrable protective shield, one strong enough to deflect whatever came at it, and then gather her power and focus it on turning that image into reality.

“Do you think you can do that?” he asked.

Eve nodded, and he closed the circle. It made a small snapping sound, like the magnetic clasp on a purse.

She linked her hands behind her and rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet the way she sometimes did when she was anxious. Hazard stood still and watchful as Taggart lit the candles. His arms were loosely folded, his stance relaxed, but he didn’t fool Eve. She was able to read him well enough to discern the tension in his squared shoulders and the taut line of his jaw. She could understand him being apprehensive; what she didn’t understand were Taggart’s remarks suggesting that Hazard could be—or should be—having second thoughts about what he was doing.

Speaking in a quiet voice, Taggart moved the lighting taper from wick to wick, starting with the red candle in the center.

Flame of power, flame of might, flame of magic brightly burn,
Let the wheel of fortune turn and grant this last desire.
Red for life, black for death, white for passage safe.

He switched to what sounded like Latin, chanting briefly, and then calling out, “Tributo is votum.”

Instantly the candle flames flared higher and brighter to form a single glowing sphere of fire. Using that as her focal point and following Taggart’s instructions, Eve formed an image of Hazard in her mind’s eye and envisioned a shield around him.

“Rector succurro,” Taggart said.

The room grew warm, and the air seemed to vibrate silently. Eve felt the power gathering inside her; it was a heady feeling. She drew it in, focused on the image in her mind and released it fully. She hadn’t sought to do this, but that didn’t make it any less thrilling to see the shield, a translucent silvery film, begin to slowly materialize around Hazard. So far so good, she thought, envisioning it becoming stronger and harder, impervious to everything but her will.

She continued to focus as faint tendrils of light appeared above the silver pedestal, curling around the pendant like ribbons of smoke. More continued to appear, bands of grainy gray light, each about six inches wide; they drifted upward, spinning and weaving into a column that grew steadily more solid and defined until it had taken on the unmistakable shape of a man. No one had mentioned this part. She glanced around to see if the others were as surprised as she was and realized they were.

A sudden explosion of sparks filled the air with smoke and sizzle. Eve squeezed her eyes shut to protect them and when she opened them again, the swirling bands of light were gone and a man she had never seen before stood in the center of the circle and the receding smoke.

He was tall and thin, gaunt really, with a long narrow face and a chin that jutted out of proportion. His mouth was cruel, his eyes dark and angry. And he was gray. His skin was the pale, fish-belly gray of someone who’d been living in a cave, without sunlight, for a very long time. But none of those things were as striking to Eve as the way the man was dressed. He was wearing a dark brown cutaway coat over a striped silk waistcoat and fawn-colored trousers tucked into knee boots. His white linen neck cloth was elaborately knotted, and rode so high on his throat it called even more attention to his prominent chin.

The entire outfit, right down to the watch fob hanging several inches below his waist and the carved walking stick in his hand, was very familiar to Eve. She might not be the diehard romantic her sister Chloe was, but she had still seen every Jane Austen film ever made, several times. She recognized classic Regency fashion when she saw it, and although this guy was closer to Mr. Darcy’s sickly grandfather than Darcy himself, he still looked like a time traveler from nineteenth-century England. Which made no sense at all.

For a second after he appeared, no one moved. Then Hazard lunged at him, only to be stopped short by the shield, which remained in place. That was probably a good thing, she thought, because Hazard looked ready to kill. Incensed, he raised his arms and pounded his fists against the shield, but nothing happened; as hard as he hammered it, the contact made absolutely no sound at all. Because, Eve realized, the barrier wasn’t material. It was a magical construct of pure energy and will. And it wasn’t budging.

It also wasn’t soundproof. She could hear Hazard loud and clear and there was no mistaking the single word he bellowed.

“Pavane!”

Pavane? Was this the jilted bridegroom who’d cursed Hazard? A descendent, connected by blood and dark magic, to the sorcerer who’d stolen the talisman and murdered poor Maura T’airna over two hundred years ago.

At the sound of his name, Pavane spun around to face Hazard, who looked like a caged animal without the cage. The two men glared at each other through the barely visible shield. After a moment, Pavane cautiously raised his hand and slid his open palm through the air close to the barrier. Whatever he sensed must have convinced him Hazard wasn’t an immediate threat, and with a dismissive sneer he turned his back on him and walked away.

And ran smack into the chalk boundary of the still-active circle.

Eve was torn between delight at seeing him trapped inside the circle, and concern that they were trapped in there with him.

Pavane glanced down and his startled expression gave way to one of disdain; this time when he raised his hand, palm out, fingers spread, the air in front of him crackled and shimmered as he blew a hole in the circle. Free, he strode across the room, his sharp gaze darting around, lighting here and there, the way a bird flits from branch to branch on a tree. He hunched forward to peer out the window, scanning the landscape in both directions.

“What place is this?” he demanded. His voice was strained and hoarse, like a rusty old pump needing to be primed after years of disuse. “What city?”

“Providence,” Taggart replied guardedly.

Behind the shield Hazard was silent and still, a coiled serpent.

When Pavane turned away from the window, his eyes were full of wonder and questions. “What year?”

When Taggart told him, Pavane’s eyes opened even wider. He pointed a gnarled finger toward the window beside him. “Those carriages . . . what manner of—”

Taggart cut him off. “Sorry, old man, my turn. I know who you are, so we can skip that one. Where the hell did you come from?”

“From here. And then nowhere, and now here again.”

“Here?” Taggart’s eyes narrowed. “You mean this realm? The mortal realm?”

Pavane nodded. His chest rose and fell with a faint wheezing sound.

“And nowhere?” Taggart persisted. “Where exactly would that be?”

“Nowhere. The void,” Pavane retorted, impatient. “That place which is not.”

“You mean death?”

He shook his head, his cracked pink-gray lips curling back over his teeth. “Not death, fool. Death is the end. As you can plainly see, I was not ended, merely interrupted. And now I am back.”

“And who, pray tell, had the good sense to do the interrupting?” inquired Taggart.

“Who would dare?” Pavane countered arrogantly. He strutted a few steps, his walking stick clicking on the wood flow. “I did it myself, of course. I hid my body and lulled my spirit and sent it forth to wait.”

Taggart’s eyes narrowed. “To wait for what?”

His dark gaze honed in on Eve in a way that made her shiver, but she refused to flinch or look away.

“For her,” he declared. “The Lost Enchantress.”

Thirteen

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Eve told him. Pavane angled his head and regarded her suspiciously. “I speak of the fulfillment of the prophecy, of course. I speak of the T’airna woman destined to restore her once mighty lineage. For eight score years and ten I have waited in wretched darkness for the enchantress with the power to pierce the realms and call me back. I waited for you.”

“No. You’re wrong,” she insisted, shaking her head, even as things that Grand had told her—or tried to—about her destiny came to mind. “I didn’t call anyone back from anywhere. I don’t practice magic. And even if I did, I certainly don’t have the kind of power to . . .” She swept her hand in the air. “To do what you said, piercing realms and the rest of it. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“That proves I am right. You don’t need to know; you are. Before I departed this realm, I joined my essence to the talisman with a binding spell. I knew that only the prophesized one, she with the true gift of T’airna blood, would be able to summon the full power of the talisman to release the binding spell and summon me as well. And that’s what you have done. All my praise and gratitude is yours, dear Enchantress.”

Eve struggled to make sense of what he was saying. Could he be right? Could Grand be right? No, this was no time to start wondering about Grand’s predictions. She couldn’t even wrap her brain around what was happening at that moment. Could it be true that she somehow, unknowingly, brought about Pavane’s return by—how had he put it—summoning the talisman’s power and him along with it?

Consequences, there were always consequences. And judging by her experience, they were usually bad. How could she have forgotten that? She hadn’t forgotten, she realized. She’d simply wanted to help Hazard enough to put her convictions aside and hope for the best. And now the lamentable result was standing right in front of her, hands outstretched, and moving closer.

This time she couldn’t help flinching.

“Touch her and die, Pavane.”

Hazard’s voice came from behind her, soft and deadly and at that moment the most heartening sound she’d ever heard. It didn’t matter that he was still trapped behind the shield she’d conjured; she believed, with the same unsubstantiated certainty with which she once believed in Santa Claus, that he wouldn’t allow anything bad to happen to her.

Pavane sneered contemptuously, but he didn’t move any closer to her.

“Yours?” he inquired of Hazard.

“Not really,” Hazard returned in a careless drawl. “I simply enjoy taking women away from you. Not that it’s much of a challenge. Especially now. I didn’t think it was possible for you to look more withered and decrepit than when I saw you last.” He paused just long enough to run his derisive gaze down to Pavane’s feet and back up. “I was wrong.”

Pavane tried to hide his displeasure with a raspy laugh, but it was obvious Hazard had hit a sore spot.

“You lie,” Pavane said to him. “And try to distract me with insults. But I see the truth. You have feelings for the enchantress; that will make the coming days all the sweeter for me.”

“I’ll tell you what’s sweet,” countered Hazard. “Knowing you went to all the trouble of sending yourself on a roundtrip to nowhere just so you could come back here and end up dead at my hands.”

“It’s I who should have killed you, you swine,” retorted Pavane. “Instead, I bowed to pride and vengeance and cursed you, and by doing so I cursed myself. Immortality, that was my curse to you.”

Eve stiffened as if she’d touched a live wire. Immortality? Somewhere in her brain a dam let go and bits and pieces of information that had been getting caught and accumulating there rushed forward. The curious, dated aspects of the tale Hazard told of being cursed . . . and the curious, dated quality of his speech and his manners. The way Pavane was dressed, and his claim that he’d been waiting for her for eight score years and ten, and how quickly Hazard had recognized him.

The only explanation that made sense made no sense: the man who’d appeared before them today wasn’t a descendent of the original Phineas Pavane as she’d first thought; he was the original. The man who stole the talisman from her family was the same man who used it to curse Hazard. And suddenly the notion that it was an immortality curse didn’t only sound less crazy, it sounded like the truth.

Lines spoken by Taggart just moments ago ran through her head . . . red for life, black for death, white for passage safe. And there had also been something about a last desire. She’d wondered what all that had to do with a bad-luck curse, but she’d figured they knew better than she did. Glancing down, she saw the pocket watch Taggart had placed on the mirror with such care. Magic was full of pomp and metaphor, and a watch was the perfect symbol for the passage of time, far better suited to immortality than bad luck.

It all added up to one thing: if Pavane was telling the truth, then Hazard hadn’t.

It was as simple and as devious as that.

He’d lied to her, and used her . . . or tried to. He might well have succeeded if Pavane and his binding spell hadn’t gotten in the way. Eve could feel her face growing hot as the direction of her thoughts made her bristle and fume inwardly. The ritual was meant to block the energy fueling the curse so that natural order would be restored. And it didn’t take a genius or an evil sorcerer to figure out that for a man cursed with immortality two hundred years ago, the natural order was dead.

If things had gone as planned, Hazard would be dead. And she would have had a hand in it. The realization infuriated her, but the sharp sudden pain in her chest went deeper than anger. It cut right through to the fear buried beneath all the little bits and pieces of life that make up the days and the weeks and the years, all the things that dull and distract and make it possible to go on living when you’ve lost someone you love, when grief and guilt join forces and threaten to obliterate everything you were before, and everything you could have been.

Refusing to give in to fear, she concentrated on breathing, and to listening to Pavane rant about his reason for cursing Hazard, his twisted desire for Hazard to go on living so he would feel the pain of losing someone he loved over and over again.

“A fitting punishment for your transgression, don’t you think?” Pavane taunted.

Hazard refused to take the bait. He stood with arms folded, his weight resting on one leg, saying nothing. He appeared almost bored save the dark steel blade of his gaze fixed unblinkingly on Pavane’s face.

“That foolish curse cost me dearly,” Pavane went on, his wild-eyed expression turning bitter. “Better I had taken my revenge by ripping your still-beating heart from your chest and been done with you. Cursing you drained the talisman of its power, power I needed, power I had earned, and without it . . .”

His words were choked off; he stared into the distance, rigid with anger and resentment. “Without it I was at the mercy of those who sought to do me great harm. I had no choice but to do what I did. If I wanted to live, I had to seem to die. And bide my time.”

There was a faint rasping sound as he pulled in a deep breath. He looked from Hazard to her with a malicious smile, and then with surprising speed he snatched the talisman off the pedestal and held it in his clenched fist. “Now I’m back and all is well. Or soon will be. I have my talisman, and soon I will have—”

“Your talisman?” Eve blurted before she could stop herself. “That pendant belongs to me. It was stolen from my family over two centuries ago.”

“Not stolen,” he corrected. “Claimed. By me. Foolish Maura. She hoped to win my favor with her tale of the powerful talisman that safeguarded T’airna hearts, and she got her wish. I favored her then as I now favor you, sweet Enchantress.” He pinned Eve with his gaze. “Though I expect you to prove a great deal more useful to me.”

His tongue came snaking over his lips in anticipation.

“Is that why you murdered her?” Eve asked. “Because she wasn’t useful?”

“She was beyond useless,” he replied, not bothering to deny the accusation. “And you have already proven to me you are not. You are the one awaited, the most powerful enchantress in a millennium. Together we will be unstoppable.”

“I stopped you once,” Hazard reminded him. “And I’ll do it again.”

“Silence, blackguard.” With the hand not clutching the talisman Pavane scooped a ball of fire from the candle flames and hurled it at Hazard. It hit the shield and bounced back at Pavane, but just before it struck him, Pavane serenely lifted his hand and the fireball disappeared.

“Parlor tricks,” scoffed Hazard. “Is that the best you can do, old man?”

“Take down your shield and I will show you my best,” Pavane shot back.

“You’re the big bad sorcerer—take it down yourself.”

Hazard wanted the shield down and he was trying to goad Pavane into doing it, Eve realized, not sure how she felt about that. She was wary of what might happen if he and Pavane were both unleashed.

Pavane appeared to consider the challenge and then shook his head. “I think not. I have much to catch up on and much planning to do. And besides, I want to savor the anticipation of your grisly demise as long as possible.”

As he turned toward the door, Eve—driven by something stronger than common sense—blocked his path. She nodded at the talisman in his hand. “That belongs to me,” she said again.

He smiled. “And you want it?”

“Yes, I do.”

He twined the chain around and through his fingers and then held his hand up so that the pendant dangled in front of him.

Eve gasped. His palm and the inside of his fingers were red and smoldering, as if he’d grabbed a handful of hot embers and embedded them in his flesh. She could feel the heat six feet away.

“Come and take it from me, Enchantress.”

“Don’t do it, Eve,” ordered Hazard. He no longer looked or sounded the least bit bored.

She hesitated, itching to snatch the pendant from him but afraid to get close enough to do it.

“No?” Pavane laughed softly and moved his hand just enough to make the pendant swing back and forth. “Don’t fret. You shall see your precious talisman again; you shall see both of us again. And soon. I promise you that.”

With that same surprising swiftness, he brushed past her. “Follow him,” Hazard growled at Taggart, who was already on his way. Then he slammed his fists against the shield and shouted, “Stop. First take down this blasted shield.”

“Can’t,” Taggart said with an impatient nod at Eve. “It’s her doing. Only she can take it down.”

He was gone before the words were out, and Hazard shifted his frustrated glare to Eve. “Do it. Now.”

She didn’t care for his tone, but she didn’t think that was the moment to say so. Not sure exactly how she was supposed to do it now, she tried the opposite of what she did the first time. She focused on making the shield disappear and it worked.

As soon as it was gone, Hazard bolted forward and was out of the room in two long strides. By the time Eve reached the hallway, he was standing at the open front door. Though he had his back to her, she could tell he was glaring out at the street—his hands were balled into fists and he seemed to be straining at the end of an invisible leash. After a few seconds, he slammed the door and turned around.

Still glaring.

He looked volatile, and if she had been even a tiny bit less consumed by her own ire, Eve might have reasoned that perhaps it also wasn’t the time to launch an important and quite possibly contentious discussion.

As it was, she didn’t give a damn. She was feeling more than a little volatile herself. In the very pit of her stomach was a churning brew of anger and indignation and blind panic over what might have been.

“Would you mind explaining to me what just happened?” she asked.

He responded to the cool note of demand in her voice by raising one dark brow. “Why? You saw everything I saw.”

“Yes, but apparently I don’t know everything you know. I don’t like being kept in the dark. And I don’t like being used.”

He looked as startled, and hurt, as if she’d struck him. “I didn’t use you. I never would. As for lying . . . I simply told you what you needed to know.”

“You told me it was a bad-luck curse. Was that a lie?”

He shrugged. “It’s an interpretation of the truth. The curse has been nothing but bad luck and misery for me from the day it happened.”

“And exactly what day was that?”

After a slight hesitation, he said, “May 3. 1828.”

So it was true. Stunningly, bizarrely true. And though she’d already pretty much come to that conclusion on her own, it was still jarring, and more than a little strange, to hear him say it.

“So Pavane was telling the truth,” she said. “About everything.”

“It would seem so.” His tone was rueful on the surface, bitter underneath. “Though I need to investigate his claim that he was able to attach himself to the talisman with a binding spell before I can say for sure. I didn’t think he had the skill or the power to pull off something like that.”

“He had the power of the talisman to tap into,” Eve pointed out.

“Did he? I seem to recall him blaming me for draining that power by provoking him into cursing me.”

“But he also said that I summoned the talisman’s full power. How could I do that if cursing you drained it? Can a talisman recharge itself?” she asked.

Hazard gave a slight shrug. “It’s your talisman.”

“But I haven’t spent close to two hundred years obsessing over it the way you have,” Eve retorted.

He shrugged again, but his black brows lowered in concentration. “I know it wouldn’t be possible for it to spontaneously regenerate. Something from nothing. It doesn’t work that way. For all its mystery, magic is governed by a few—a very few—principles, the exchange of energy being one of them.”

Eve nodded. The idea was vaguely familiar to her from long-ago discussions with Grand. “That means the energy from the talisman must have gone somewhere. It couldn’t disappear.”

“Or be destroyed,” he added with a confirming nod.

“So where is it?”

Silence.

After a moment of thought, he said, “There is a law of physics that might apply. Actually, it’s a law of thermodynamics that deals with the creation of an efficient system of energy transfer related to—”

Eve held up a hand. “Stop. You’re making my head ache. If the answer involves learning thermodynamics, I’ll just remain in suspense.”

She turned to walk back into the living room, but before she made it through the doorway he was at her side. She tensed in surprise when he caught her by the arm.

“How the hell do you do that?” she demanded before he had a chance to speak. “Move so quickly. You did the same thing the other night in the garage.”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh please,” she snapped, trying to pull free and failing. His hold on her upper arm was gentle but inescapable. “If you don’t want to tell me, don’t. But don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying. Certain . . . enhanced qualities came along with the curse. Speed is one of them. I can also do things without getting hurt that I shouldn’t be able to.”

“Like dropping fifty feet onto concrete and walking away?”

He nodded. “Like that. I still feel pain, and I can still be injured, but never seriously, and not often. And when it does happen, I heal quickly.”

“So, invincible and faster than a speeding bullet . . . that’s your idea of bad luck?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” he insisted, his voice troubled, his eyes grim.

Eve resisted the thread of sympathy that tugged on her heart when she looked into those eyes.

“Yeah, I’m sure immortality’s a real bitch,” she said. “That must be why people have been searching for the key to it since, oh, the dawn of time.”

He dragged his free hand through his hair impatiently. “Those people are idiots; they don’t appreciate what they have. I didn’t when I had it.”

“You still have what they have. You just have lots more of it.”

“Exactly. Too much of anything lessens its value. It can even make some things unbearable.”

“An astute insight,” she told him. “But then you’ve had a lot of time to work on it. And just for the record, if you’re trying to make me feel sorry for you, it’s not working.”

“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I don’t want you to feel anything for me. That’s the reason I didn’t tell you the truth about the curse in the first place.”

“Really?” she challenged. “I figured it was because you knew if you were honest with me about what you were planning to do, I wouldn’t help you.”

“I never wanted you to help. That was all Taggart’s doing,” he reminded her, disgusted. “Deciding at the last minute that he didn’t have enough power to do it on his own. And it was you who insisted on being here. If it had been left up to me, you wouldn’t have been anywhere near here when . . .”

“When you died?” Eve interjected when he hesitated for a split second. “That is what was supposed to happen, right? If the ritual went according to plan, you would have ended up dead.”

“That was one possibility,” he allowed.

“Name another.”

“My research showed it was possible that if the curse was ended, my life could pick up where it left off and I would resume aging naturally.”

“Possible. But not likely.” She said it serenely, as if she didn’t feel a silly little puff of hope at the prospect of a happier ending.

He lifted his shoulder in an uneasy shrug. “There’s not a great deal of verifiable information on the subject of immortality curses. In fact, there’s none.”

“How convenient.” She glanced pointedly at his hand on her arm. “Please let me go.”

With obvious reluctance, he let his hand drop and then followed her into the living room, where she paced around, too wound up to sit.

“I need a drink,” she said when her gaze landed on the bar.

Hazard immediately went to there and returned with a glass holding more whiskey than she’d had to drink in her entire life. She hated whiskey.

She lifted the glass and downed a third of it, paused, and swallowed another mouthful. It burned all the way to her belly, but after a minute or so it began to smooth the jagged edges of her nerves. She put the glass down and paced some more.

“You may not have wanted or needed my active participation,” she conceded, “but you wanted the pendant.”

“And I had it,” he reminded her. “That night at the park, you gave it to me to hold and then forgot about it. I didn’t have to give it back.”

“Why did you?”

“Damned if I know,” he muttered. “It’s not like me to be noble and self-sacrificing.”

Eve wasn’t so certain of that; every time she thought she was seeing Hazard’s true colors, they changed right before her eyes.

“I didn’t want to steal it from you,” he told her. “Or trick you out of it. I don’t know why other than that your good opinion mattered to me . . . more than anything has mattered in a long time.”

“You didn’t think lying to me—especially about something like this—would affect my opinion of you?”

His expression turned stubborn. “I lied because I had to . . . to protect you. And I hoped you’d never find out the truth.”

“How did you plan to pull that off? Death is a little hard to slip by someone.”

“I made arrangements,” he replied. “Everything would have been fine if Taggart had just stuck to the plan instead of dragging you into it and opening the door for Pavane. Then when it was over he would have come down and returned the pendant to you as promised. He would explain to you that the ritual was a success, but that I was in no condition to talk to anyone and would be in touch soon. After a day or two he would mail a note I’d written ahead of time, thanking you and telling you I’d been called away and wasn’t sure how long I’d be gone.”

“And then I’d never hear from you again.”

His perfect mouth curved into a small, jaded smile. “Not the most chivalrous approach, but the best I could do under the circumstances.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” he asked, drawing nearer until he was standing dangerously close, so close she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. He gazed down at her, studying her face as if it mattered very much to him that she understood what he was trying to tell her. “I didn’t want you involved in this because I didn’t want you to feel responsible for what happened. I didn’t want you to suffer any guilt or regrets after I was gone. I didn’t want you hurt.”

“Too late,” she said softly.

Fourteen

Too late. Only as she said it aloud did Eve understand how true that was.

“There’s no way you could disappear from my life now that wouldn’t hurt,” she told him.

It wasn’t the sort of thing she said to a man, ever, not even to a man she was fond of and whose company she enjoyed. It was too encouraging, too misleading; her sense of fair play wouldn’t permit her to knowingly lead a man down a dead end.

And this thing with Hazard? It had to qualify as the deadest end of all time. She would hardly describe what she felt for him as fondness. As for his company, it was more maddening and disruptive than enjoyable. The man was a thorn in her side. A threat to everything that mattered to her. Bad news. Trouble. The kind of complication she didn’t need. And she wanted him more than she could bear.

She wanted to kiss him; she wanted to know the taste of him layered over whiskey, and to breathe him in until her head was spinning and she couldn’t hold any more. She wanted to feel him, the cool silkiness of his long hair sliding over her skin and the taut ripple of his muscles beneath her fingertips. And she wanted to press her cheek against his chest and feel his heart pounding hard and fast. For her.

Then she wanted to rip off his clothes so she could touch and lick and nibble and do all the things she’d imagined doing when she should have been thinking about something else. Something safe.

She must be crazy. And, she decided as the steady drumbeat of her desire became louder and more insistent, that was probably for the best.

Crazy people had a right to do crazy things. In fact, it was almost an obligation. It was up to them to counteract the sort of controlled, reasonable person she used to be, to shake things up and keep the world from sliding into monotony. The best part was that they couldn’t be held accountable after the fact. It was the law. Not guilty by reason of insanity, Your Honor. Even the temporarily insane were given a pass.

Maybe that’s what this was, temporary insanity. Maybe if she left right then and got a good night’s sleep, she would be her old self in the morning. The self that knew better, the self that didn’t take chances or act impulsively or daydream about ripping off men’s clothes.

That’s what she would do. She would stop staring into Gabriel Hazard’s eyes; she would forget those amazing amber flecks mixed in with the gray, flecks so small you had to get really close to him to see them. She would forget all about amber flecks and obscenely long eyelashes black as soot. She would snap out of it and pull herself together and go home. And life would go on as planned.

Temptation resisted.

Status quo maintained.

Disaster averted.

On the other hand, if this really was temporary insanity, it might be best to wait it out. Driving while crazy could be dangerous. The smart, sensible thing to do might be to stay off the roads and let nature take its course and then get on with her life as planned.

Maybe it was because, to a crazy woman, temptation was just opportunity dressed up in racy black lingerie, but for reasons she didn’t want to examine just then, Eve decided that’s what she would do, she would play it smart and stay. With that settled, it seemed only natural that she should be the one to make the first move.

She lifted her hand to touch Hazard’s face and he caught it in midair.

“What are you doing?” he demanded. His usually smooth voice had gone all low and gritty.

The real Eve wanted to say “I don’t know” or “Oops, sorry, my hand slipped,” but the real Eve wasn’t driving this bus and that’s not what came out of her mouth.

The response that came out, in a tone that matched his, was, “I’m making the first move.”

Hazard’s eyes narrowed. “That would be a mistake.”

“I know,” said the crazy woman at the wheel. “But I’m tired of waiting for you to do it.”

Surprise flashed in his eyes, and the barest hint of amusement.

“You do understand that nothing good can come from this?” he asked. Rhetorically, since even as he said the words his grip on her arm gentled and his thumb began to slide back and forth across the inside of her wrist.

Eve might have nodded. She wasn’t sure. His touch brought a drift of pleasure as light and buoyant as champagne bubbles, and she went with it happily.

“I have nothing to offer you,” he warned. “No pretty words. No promises. Not even tomorrow.”

“You have what I need,” she told him. “You have tonight.”

“One night?” He regarded her solemnly, his full bottom lip curling with what might be regret. “You deserve so much more.”

“Yes. I do. So you better make it memorable.”

His smile was slow and wicked.

“I shall do my best,” he promised, pulling her close with a quick, hard tug.

Eve stumbled, but it didn’t matter because Hazard caught her with his body. And then he took control.

He put his arms around her, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other at the small of her back. She wasn’t petite, or delicate, but that’s how he made her feel as he easily tipped her back just enough so that her weight was resting on his arm. Eve wound her arms around his neck purely for pleasure and not because she had the slightest fear that he would let her fall. He didn’t press or push, he leaned, he nudged, he guided. He had moves that must have taken all of his two hundred years to perfect.

When her hair fell back, he lowered his mouth to the hollow below her ear. His breath was warm against her skin, but she shivered anyway as he slid kisses over her throat and jaw, edging closer and closer to her lips, always slowly, too slowly, so slowly impatience made her skin prickle and her breath come fast, and even with all that rapid breathing it seemed not enough oxygen was reaching her brain. Or maybe it was getting too much oxygen; she tried to think which of the two it was that made you lightheaded.

Then at last he was kissing her lips and there was an explosion inside her and she didn’t think at all. She felt. She’d heard the expression “zero to sixty in six point seven seconds”; that was her, her sensory speed shot from zero to sixty . . . to a hundred . . . faster . . . in the time it took his tongue to find hers.

Sensations collided and tumbled through her, all of them new and exciting. It was the heady, consuming feeling she had the first time she saw him multiplied by a zillion, like being caught in a storm that was raging inside and out. There was heat in her belly and sparks danced along her nerve endings; it was more stimulation than she’d ever felt, more than she’d known she could feel, and it still wasn’t enough.

The woman in her understood that he was a man who—if he wanted to—could make her knees buckle as elegantly and effortlessly as he held the door for her, a man who would take the time to seduce her one . . . small . . . slow . . . step at a time, if that’s what she wanted. It wasn’t. Her senses were humming, racing, sending the frantic beat of her heart echoing all through her . . . more, more, more.

Craving him, she drove the kiss deeper, lifting into him hungrily, urgently, resisting when he tried to raise his head to speak.

“Slow down,” he whispered against her mouth.

Eve shook her head. “No. I don’t want slow . . . or gentle . . . or safe. I want it hard and fast . . . and now.”

He did lift his head at that, enough to see clearly the expression in her eyes. His own were shaded with doubt. “You’re sure?”

“Very.”

He smiled that smile again, only this time it was fast and wicked.

In one fluid move, he went from holding her in his arms to grasping her by the shoulders, kissing her hard and pushing forward until Eve felt the wall at her back. And she was thankful for it when he took his hands from her shoulders. Knees buckling now.

Lifting his head, he grasped the hem of her yellow silk T-shirt and dragged it off her. His gaze immediately dropped to her breasts, to where her heavy breathing made them swell above the lacy bra that was also yellow. For a fraction of a second the bright color seemed to captivate and please him; he traced the top edge of one cup with his fingertip. Then he was once again all lusty fervor.

He stared into her eyes, not with doubt this time, but with intent, his own eyes more black than gray, and ravenous, as he slid one hand over her shoulder and behind her to free the tiny hooks more quickly than Eve could have done it herself.

Slipping one finger under each narrow strap, he pulled it off, baring her from the waist up and watching her face the whole time, which somehow made it all the more erotic. She trembled as his gaze slowly moved lower.

His mouth flexed and his breath caught, she knew it did, as he cupped his hand beneath one breast. He swirled the side of his thumb around her nipple until it peaked. Then he bent and did the same with his mouth, and Eve felt heat and dampness and the full blooming of desire between her thighs.

She moved her hips restlessly; she couldn’t stop the soft moan that rose from deep inside her and she didn’t care. The raw passion that she’d ignored and denied for so long, maybe forever, was seizing its moment in the sun and overriding all of her that was cautious and self-conscious.

When Hazard used his teeth to nip the sensitive tip of her breast, a thrill shot through her and he did it again, harder, and shoved his hips against hers, pinning her to the wall, thrilling her with the proof of how badly he wanted her.

“Fast enough for you?” he asked.

Eve opened her eyes, her head tipped back against the wall, and met his gaze.

“No,” she uttered, and grasped fistfuls of his shirt somewhere in the vicinity of his shoulders, tugging and twisting until it was his back against the wall.

He didn’t resist. Leaning back, he was the perfect height for her to settle her thigh high between his with a rocking motion that made him jerk and suck in a quick, sharp breath. Heady with power, she slid her palms slowly down the front of his shirt, feeling the heat and muscle beneath the soft fabric, thrilled by the rapid thud of his heartbeat. She opened one button and pressed her lips to the base of his throat; his pulse jumped and so did hers. Lifting her head to look into his eyes, she slid her hands up under his shirt and touched him the way she’d imagined doing. The light coming from a lamp behind her bathed him in intriguing shadows that danced as she inched her hands lower to caress him with ever bolder strokes. His skin was warm and firm, and there was a narrow strip of silky hair that started a few inches above his belt and disappeared beneath it. It was a trail far too enticing for Eve to resist following, especially knowing she may never be this crazy again.

She quickly opened his belt buckle and lowered his zipper. Hazard’s head shot back against the wall with an audible bang. His chest lifted as he dragged in a long, ragged breath and held it.

Eve pressed her fingers against his rock hard belly and slid them lower. He was hard there too, and hot, and when she took him in her hand, a fierce, savage need shot to life and ripped through her. It clawed at her already battered restraint and roared in her ears.

She was still able to hear Hazard groan, “Oh God,” and bang his head against the wall a second time in the heartbeat before he grabbed her at the waist and spun them so that they were right back where they started, except this time they were both half-naked and panting and wild-eyed.

“My move,” he half said, half grunted.

Eve braced her hands on the wall on either side of her to keep from swaying as he took hold of her skirt from the bottom and worked it up over her hips, bunching it at her waist until there was no more room to bunch.

He murmured with surprise and delight when he discovered all she was wearing underneath were the pretty yellow panties that matched her bra and covered about an inch and a half of her flesh.

Even that was too much for him to be denied. Eve gasped, startled, when he dipped his shoulder and lifted her off her feet with one very strong arm. She clung to him as he used his free hand to strip her panties off with amazing skill and agility; then he set her back down and slipped his hand between her legs and touched her, revealing a gift far more amazing.

Eve gripped the wall and gladly let him have his way. With the hand not driving her mad and making her whimper, he stroked the curves of her hip and waist and breasts. His mouth closed hungrily over hers, swallowing the sounds she made, his tongue pumping inside her in slow, evocative thrusts that made her want one thing only . . . want it badly and right away.

“Now,” she pleaded, grabbing his hips and moving against him. “Now.”

Hazard was torn.

The habits of several lifetimes and everything he believed were commanding him to slow down, hold back, play gently. It was folly to rush a woman, even a woman pleading to be rushed, especially a woman pleading to be rushed if that woman was Eve. He knew intuitively that her life was as lacking in romance as it was flowers from male admirers. He couldn’t fathom why it was so—the tastes and proclivities of modern men often baffled him—but he knew it was that way. And he knew that if anyone needed and deserved to be courted and wooed, it was Eve

The trouble was that, competing with those noble commands, rising from a darker, more primitive place inside him, were demands that were selfish and urgent and carnal. They clamored for him to act, to seize, to give her what she wanted, as hard and fast as she professed to want it . . . as hard and fast as he knew he wanted it.

Whatever nobility was in him was already hanging by a very thin thread when she suddenly dipped her head and bit his lip and snapped the thread altogether.

He grabbed and lifted her.

She wrapped her legs around him, tightly, and slid lower, slowly.

He held his breath, concentrating on sensations, diligently, skillfully, like a master safecracker listening for the perfect alignment of tumblers, and when he felt her soft, wet heat open to him, he thrust up and into her, filling her and fueling the desire that was driving him through a spiraling tunnel toward release and the safe, sweet darkness of oblivion beyond.

It had been so long . . . so long . . . and never like this.

He felt her moving with him, her hunger and excitement a perfect match for his own.

And when their gazes met and locked, her eyes mirrored the same wonder he felt, the same passion that was surging inside him.

She was with him, both of them inside the same storm, both riding the same blessed, merciless wave.

When they were almost there, she reared up and tossed her head back, radiant with beauty and power . . . power that ignited the air around them. He could taste it on his tongue and feel it scorch his skin.

And just before they crashed, in that final, fleeting, endless speck of time, he sensed it winding around them, pulling them even closer together, a gossamer ribbon of quicksilver, piercing and flowing through her and into him.

The drawback to making wild, unrestrained, up-against-the-wall love with a man is the awkward aftermath. Eventually the heavy breathing stops and—unlike Carl Sandburg’s fog, which comes prettily on little cat feet—silence falls like a lead veil. Reason slowly returns, and all too soon you realize there’s just no graceful, dignified way for you to . . . disentangle, straighten the clothing you still have on and retrieve what’s missing.

Unless the man you tangled with is Hazard.

With Hazard in charge, Eve found herself back on solid ground, supported by his strong hands at her waist until it was certain her legs weren’t too wobbly to hold her. Before she could stutter a single syllable, her skirt was unbunched, her shirt and bra were in her hands, and Hazard’s back was to her as he attended to his own buttoning and zipping.

He finished before she did—probably because he didn’t have himself as a distraction—and walked over to a recessed steel panel on the wall near the bar. He passed more time fiddling with buttons and dials and soon the music of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata streamed from a half dozen small speakers mounted close to the ceiling.

Interesting, she thought, no photos, no tchotchkes, and not so much as a stale cracker in the kitchen, but there was a state-of-the-art sound system and a small distillery’s worth of top-notch whiskey. Boys will be boys . . . no matter how many centuries old they happen to be.

Once she was dressed, she looked around and found her purse.

“Do you mind if I use the bathroom,” she asked Hazard.

“Not at all. It’s just down the hall on—”

“The left,” she finished for him. “I remember.”

“Of course.” He snagged her hand as she walked by and held onto it. When she turned to look at him, he used his other hand to smooth her hair back from her face and then stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers.

“So soft.” It was as if he were talking to himself. His deep voice was pitched low; it blended with the music and Eve had to strain to hear. “I’d forgotten how soft skin can be . . . I hadn’t realized how much I’d forgotten . . . how much there was to forget.”

“Maybe it’s time to start remembering,” she told him.

His mouth crooked in a faint smile, but his gray eyes were somber. For a second she thought he was going to say something else, but he only lifted her hand to his lips to kiss the back of it and then he let her go.

Her hand tingled all the way to the bathroom.

The man definitely had a gift. Several actually, as evidenced by the delicious, lingering hum of nerve endings in other strategic places on her body. She knew many well-mannered men, well-mannered by twenty-first-century standards anyway, and she couldn’t name one capable of pulling off a hand kiss with a fraction of Hazard’s effortless grace. He raised gallantry to an art form.

Which is why the sudden change in his behavior was so unexpected and confusing.

When she returned to the living room, he was half sitting with one leg hitched up on the back of the low-slung sofa, a glass in his hand.

He lifted the glass toward her. “Whiskey?”

“No, thanks. I only drink whiskey when I’m going into shock,” she explained in an attempt at humor.

“Perhaps you’d prefer a glass of wine? Something intense and complex but ethereal . . . a Prosecco would suit you, I think.” The words were polite enough, solicitous even, but there was an unmistakable coolness in his tone, as if someone had stopped by in the three minutes she was out of the room and told him she was a serial killer. “Or tea . . . a soothing cup of tea. Or chocolate.”

Wine? Tea? Chocolate? She thought about the barren kitchen. Was it possible he had another kitchen tucked away somewhere? Or a wine cellar?

“Wine would be lovely,” she replied, trying not to sound uneasy even though that’s how he was making her feel.

“Yes, it would,” he countered. “We could settle ourselves here on the sofa and snuggle. You could tell me that you’ve never done this sort of thing before; I could tell you that no other woman in my considerable past compares to you.” He took a serious swallow of whiskey. “Unfortunately for you, Enchantress, I don’t have wine here. Or anything else you might want or need or deserve. And I refuse to feel guilty about it.”

Is that what this was about? Some misguided notion of chivalry? Maybe she shouldn’t be surprised. It was entirely possible that his attitudes were as old-fashioned as his manners.

“There’s no reason you should feel guilty,” she assured him. “I’m a big girl, Hazard. I knew what I was doing.”

“Did you?” He eyed her with open skepticism. “Could you possibly?”

“I’m not looking for promises, if that’s what this is about.”

“Good. I told you I had nothing to offer you and I meant it.”

“And I told you that we had tonight and that was enough. And just for the record, the night’s not over.”

His jaw clenched and his gaze hardened. “It is for me.”

Fifteen

“Oh dear.” They were the first words Grand had spoken since Eve began her recounting of everything that happened at Hazard’s. Well, not everything. She went as far as the moment Taggart took off after Pavane and kept the rest to herself. First, because it was no one else’s business that she and Hazard had made love . . . had sex . . . call it what you will. And second, because she wasn’t sure herself what it meant. Or what she wanted it to mean. Especially in light of his abrupt shift from hot to cold just before she left.

It would be easy—humiliating and disappointing, but easy—to conclude that she had misread things from the start and that he’d never been interested in anything more than the time-honored, adrenalin-fueled WBTM. Talk about a lack of truth in advertising. He appeared to be the antithesis of the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am type, but she supposed anyone could crack under pressure. They’d just been through a highly charged and stressful situation; he was wired, she was wired. Spontaneous combustion happens.

Except that wasn’t what happened.

There had been more to their coming together than a surge of unruly hormones. Much more. She’d felt it. What’s more, she’d felt him feeling it right along with her. For some reason he’d tried to hide the truth from her afterwards. Maybe because he was trying to hide it from himself. Maybe his way of dealing with complicated emotions was to deny them until they went away. That might be good enough for him; it wasn’t good enough for her.

Hazard was a fascinating man, on many levels, and Eve wanted to know more about him. Poking and probing and gathering information was one of her talents, but before she turned herself loose on Hazard, there were some things she needed to know about herself.

That’s where her grandmother came in, or should have. Eve shook her head in exasperation.

“Oh dear? That’s it? I tell you Phineas Pavane is alive and that he claims it was the talisman and me that returned him to this realm, and that he’s stolen the talisman for the second time and is right now off God-knows-where, doing God-knows-what with it, and that Hazard is two hundred years old and possibly also immortal, and you say oh dear?”

“Oh dear, that is quite an amazing tale. Better?” There was a faint glint of humor in her grandmother’s blue eyes.

“Amazing but true,” Eve countered. “You believe me?”

“Of course I do. I believe every word of it,” Grand assured her. “I’m just not as certain of what we should do about it.”

“What can we do?”

“Oh, there are a number of things. We could appeal to the High Council of Mages; the theft of a magical implement as powerful as the talisman would fall within their purview. The problem is they have limited recourse for dealing with anyone calling solely on dark magic, which I’m certain is the case with Pavane. And they’re slow.”

“Slow?”

“Yes. You would think that after countless centuries they would have streamlined operations, but oh, no, the council is ruled by conservatives. Not that I’m opposed to tradition, but there is such a thing as being too much of a purist. I mean, really,” Grand drawled in exasperation, “where is it written that council decrees must be done by scribe on parchment rather than computer?”

“Beats me,” replied Eve, reaching for her wineglass. Her grandmother did the same.

They were comfortably ensconced in the family room. It would be hard to be anything but comfortable sitting on the overstuffed cream suede sofa . . . or on any other seat in the house for that matter. It was the antithesis of Hazard’s place. For starters it was a home, not a home décor ad. The furniture was a casual mix of new and old, the overall look lovingly fine-tuned over the years and still an ongoing group effort. There were handmade pillows and bright jewel tones and offbeat pieces of art Chloe had brought home from all the exotic places she’d visited. And there were family photos everywhere, a happy hodgepodge of them, all in silver frames.

“You said there were a number of things we could do,” Eve reminded her.

“Yes. I have friends I could call on to help recover the talisman. Their methods can be a bit . . . unorthodox, but they work much faster than the council.” Her expression grew troubled. “There is great risk involved in confronting a dark sorcerer as experienced and ruthless as Pavane, however, and I would be asking others to assume that risk for what is really T’airna business. In the past, T’airnas have always prided themselves on dealing with these matters directly.”

Eve felt the weight of the unspoken word in her grandmother’s calm, unwavering gaze, and her chest tightened with a sense of foreboding.

“In the past, T’airnas had the talisman, and the power to get the job done. Do we?”

Grand expression was sphinxlike. “One of us does.”

Eve tensed. Damn, damn, damn. She had to go and ask. She’d thought she was ready to hear what Grand had wanted to tell her for so long, but suddenly she wasn’t so sure. Maybe it was better to let some questions go unanswered. Life was certainly easier that way and maybe easier was better. After all, it wasn’t as if she could unanswer them if she didn’t like what she heard. Did she really want to know something that could complicate her life even more than it already had been complicated? Forget complicated, was it smart to go poking a stick at something that could change her life in ways she couldn’t predict, much less control?

Of course, a better question would be did she still have a choice in the matter.

The auction had bumped her off the neat orderly path she’d chosen to walk, spun her around and dropped her onto a new and unfamiliar path, one with sharp turns she couldn’t see around and no exits. She couldn’t get off and she couldn’t turn around and go back. She had to keep moving forward and find her way out as best she could. And now she had to do it knowing Pavane was lurking out there somewhere, waiting. His promise that she would see him again very soon had sounded more like a threat . . . a threat she doubted she could avoid or outrun.

So the answer was pretty much a resounding no, she didn’t have a choice; she had to take the threat seriously and act accordingly.

Part of her didn’t want to hear it . . . or hear what Grand had to say; it wanted to find the nearest bedcovers and hide under them until the problem resolved itself, for better or worse. But another, braver part had responded fiercely when Grand spoke of T’airna pride, and that part of her was feeling greater indignation and animosity toward Pavane with every passing minute. The man deserved to pay for the harm he’d done to her family, and to Hazard, and to who knew how many others. He was a predator, and she’d reported on enough predators of the human variety to realize that he would go on hurting others until someone stopped him. If that someone was supposed to be her, she at least ought to know about it. Forewarned is forearmed and all that.

She might long for an easy way out, but it wasn’t in her to take it, or to run and hide. She was a survivor; she’d survived tragedies and crises before, and she would find a way to survive this one. She sighed, steeling herself, and surrendered to the inevitable.

“Tell me about the prophecy,” she said to Grand.

“I’ll do better than that,” her grandmother responded, slowly getting to her feet. “Come with me.”

Eve followed her to her bedroom.

Her grandmother waved her hand in the direction of the bed, a cherry four-poster with pineapple finials, one of which still bore teeth marks from the time Chloe had tried to take a bite.

“Sit,” she ordered.

Eve sat.

Grand lifted a box from the center of her dresser and joined her, placing it on the bed between them. The dark wood box had an intricate parquet band just below the lid and brass corner pieces. Eve looked on as Grand pressed two fingertips to the brass keyhole and murmured a few words in the language that flowed like honey from her tongue, and she heard the metallic click of the lock opening as smoothly as if Grand had used the key that had been lost years ago.

Her grandmother lifted the lid and removed the fitted tray inside, then carefully took out the items underneath and put them aside as well. Each of them was familiar to Eve, evoking happy childhood memories of being allowed to peek inside Grand’s treasure chest. There was a pair of combs that had belonged to Grand’s mother, with silver filigree as fine as lace; a locket that held a baby picture and lock of hair from Eve’s own mother; and a small stack of old letters tied with a faded red ribbon. The letters were from her grandfather, sent home from the region in France where he had fought and died. Before putting them aside, Grand gave the letters a kiss, the way Eve had seen her do so many times before.

When the box appeared to be empty, she did something Eve had never seen before: she ran her fingertip along the inside edges, her lips pursed in concentration. Curious, Eve leaned forward to get a better look just as Grand located a slender black cord and tugged on it to remove a panel Eve hadn’t known was there.

“A false bottom,” Eve exclaimed. “Very clever. But couldn’t you have just set wards to protect whatever it is you have hidden under there?”

“I used wards as well. I wanted to protect it, but I also wanted to be certain it was somewhere you would find it if this moment never came and I was no longer around to give it to you myself.” Grand held out a yellowed parchment scroll tied with a black cord.

“The prophecy?” Eve asked as she took it from her, a flash of excitement overriding her trepidation.

“Yes . . . gently, gently please,” she cautioned as Eve started to unroll it. “That scroll is at least four hundred years old, and very fragile.”

Now that it was actually in her hand, Eve was eager to see what it said, but she paused to give her grandmother a skeptical look. “Four hundred years old? Really? I would have thought something that old would be in worse shape . . . a lot worse. In fact, without any special preservation treatment, I wouldn’t expect it to be here at all.”

Grand’s shrug was philosophical. “It is what it is meant to be. The prophecy itself is far older than that scroll, and far more sweeping in its entirety. The original is locked away in the council’s archives; what you’re holding is a transcription of the passages that most concern our family. I hope it will answer the question you have yet to ask.”

“Don’t rush me,” Eve grumbled without any real rancor. “These things take time.”

“Would it pique your interest to know that the prophecy foretold the loss of the talisman and the magic it represented, and the long stretch of misfortune that followed? And,” she said and then paused a beat, to heighten anticipation, Eve was certain. “It tells that there is only one way for T’airna magic to be restored, and only one who can bring it about.”

“The Lost Enchantress,” Eve said, running her fingers over the parchment.

Grand nodded. “Yes. It says she will be both blessed and marked, and you are both, Eve.”

“Blessed?” Eve countered, trying not to sound cynical.

Again her grandmother nodded firmly. “You are blessed with innate magic greater than any I have ever seen. I recognized it in you from the time you were very young. And you are marked with the sign of the goddess. It cannot be happenstance that your birthmark and the markings on the talisman are the same.”

“Does it happen to say exactly how this blessed and marked woman will do it?” Eve inquired.

“It does indeed,” Grand assured her. “She does it by choosing to do it.”

Eve rolled her eyes. “That’s exactly why I hate prophecies; the instructions are always so damn vague. Not like the Ten Commandments. When something is carved in stone, you know exactly what you’re supposed to do.”

“Which I imagine is why prophecies are not carved in stone. They’re not commandments,” Grand argued. “They’re . . . possibilities. To be seized or lost as we see fit; it’s always a choice . . . or hundreds of small choices we make along the way, most without a moment’s thought. The talisman was lost by an enchantress who chose not to claim her power. Maura had no patience for magic; she considered it a burden and refused to be taught or trained to use it. She was very young; perhaps in time she would have changed her mind, but she never got that chance.

“The choices she made led to a devastating loss for our family, the loss of love and magic.” A current of raw emotion ran through Grand’s words. “They will only be restored to us when the one enchantress meant to claim the full power of the talisman freely chooses to do so.”

“And you really think I might be the one who can do that?” Eve asked her.

“I don’t think it,” said her grandmother. “I believe it. I always have.” She waited a few seconds for that to sink in before adding, “But what I believe is not important. The future depends on what you believe. And on what you choose to do about it.”

Eve shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know what I believe. I don’t even know what to think about . . . all this.” She indicated the scroll.

“That’s why you must read it. Reading the prophecy will help you understand what is possible; you must choose for yourself if that is the path you will take.” She began to return things to the box, holding on to the letters just a little longer than anything else.

Observing her, Eve felt a rush of tenderness. “Do you ever read them, Grand?”

“The letters? Not as much as I once did. There’s no need; I know by heart most every word he wrote.” She pressed them to her chest, her lips curving in a gentle smile. “Your grandfather was quite romantic for a young man.”

“How old was he?”

“Barely twenty. I was eighteen when he went off. Officially, Ireland remained neutral during the war; it was even referred to as ‘the Emergency,’ as if not calling it a war made it somehow less pressing. But your grandfather would have none of it; off he went to join a British regiment.”

Eve turned her head to look at the sepia-toned photograph on the bedside table. In it, the grandfather she’d never met was a young man with wavy hair and happy eyes, a man clearly proud to be in uniform. “I suppose to a young man war can seem like an adventure.”

“That wasn’t his reason for going. He told me he did it because he was needed and he couldn’t turn away from what he knew in his heart was right. People were suffering and dying, and he was young and fit and brave. Liam Conor believed that if it was within your power to do good, you ought to.”

“Smooth, Grand,” Eve said with a bemused smile. “Very smooth. You reeled me right in. And I get the message.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Grand responded, closing the box with a satisfied air. “I’ll just leave you to read in peace.

Eve read; she read of power lost and power claimed, and of an enchantress lost to the art, and to herself. And as she read, time seemed to slide backwards. The ornate script and dated poetic language reminded her of reading the Winter Rose Spell for the first time.

The gift of power bestowed by a goddess and stolen by darkness
can be restored only by the enchantress
Born with the mark of ancient favor,
Decieved by tragedy of her own making,
And lost to destiny by her own choice.

And like the first time she read the spell, she was swept by a sense that the words before her had been written for her and her alone.

With one enormous difference: then she had been fifteen and fearless, and now . . . now she was neither.

When she left the room, she found Grand sitting at her kitchen table, a thick book with gilt edged pages and a worn leather binding open in front of her. Maura T’airna may not have wanted to learn the family business, but Grand had never stopped. It suddenly occurred to Eve that all that hard-won knowledge and experience might well end with her grandmother. She used to believe that would be the best thing for all concerned; now she wasn’t so sure, and the thought of Grand’s legacy being lost forever filled her with sadness. And regret that things hadn’t turned out differently . . . that she hadn’t turned out differently.

Grand lifted her head and peered at Eve over the top of her reading glasses. “All done?”

“Done reading. But I still need more time to think.” Eve held up the scroll. “Do you mind if I hang on to this for a while?”

“Not at all. By rights, it belongs to you.”

“Maybe,” Eve demurred. “That’s what I need to figure out. But I did make up my mind about something else. I’m going to take some time off from work. I’ll call and clear it with Angela first thing in the morning. Between vacation days and comp time, I have nearly a month accumulated. I’m hoping I won’t need that long, but however long it takes, I intend to get the talisman back from Pavane. And I won’t be asking the council or your friends for help doing it.”

A deep V formed between Grand’s lowered brows. “I’m delighted that you’re taking this to heart, but Pavane is not the sort you should confront alone.”

“I have no intention of doing it alone. I agree that we shouldn’t ask others to put themselves at risk on our behalf, but we’re not the only ones with something at stake here.”

For just an instant her grandmother appeared puzzled, and then she smiled. “Of course. Gabriel Hazard. Do you think he would be willing to help us?”

“Willing? No. But he’ll do it anyway. I may not know Hazard well, but I know something about him that he’s forgotten; he’s an honorable man. We made a deal, and he’ll live up to his end whether he likes it or not.”

“He’s not going to like this,” Taggart told her. They were standing just inside Hazard’s front door. “He’s not a pleasant sort on the best of mornings, and being woken before he’s ready will make him even less bearable, especially seeing as he only went to bed a few hours ago. He was holed up in the turret with that web thing of his until the wee hours.”

Eve eyed him curiously. “Web thing?”

“Right, that Internet web thing he carries about.”

“Oh, you mean a laptop . . . a computer.”

“That’s it,” he confirmed with a vigorous nod. “He was at it long after I called it a night, and he was good and nettled even then because I lost Pavane’s scent and couldn’t ferret out a clue to where he might be holed up. I doubt a few hours’ sleep will have improved his mood any.”

“His mood is irrelevant,” she retorted, not bothering to mention to Taggart that he wasn’t the only one who’d contributed to Hazard’s lousy mood last night; he’d been good and nettled when she left and for reasons that had nothing to do with Taggart or Pavane. “I need to talk to him.”

She wouldn’t have been dissuaded even if Taggart’s demeanor had matched his worried protests, but it didn’t. He looked slyly amused that she’d shown up just past the crack of dawn, demanding to see Hazard. In fact, he looked as if he’d like nothing better than to see what commotion would result if she insisted on waking the grizzly bear before he was finished hibernating. Which is exactly what she was determined to do.

Hazard was the one who’d dragged her into this. If not for trying to help break his curse, she might never have done whatever it was she did that summoned Pavane back to the realm of the living. Hazard was responsible for things going from bad to worse, and he could damn well get down here and help her come up with a plan to fix it.

“Coffee?” she inquired, flashing her sweetest smile as she offered Taggart one of the three cups in the cardboard tray she was carrying. She’d stopped at a coffee shop on the way because she was pretty certain there wouldn’t be a pot of anything on when she got there and she needed Hazard awake and firing on all cylinders. She’d picked up a cup for Taggart to be nice, not intending to use it to bribe him, but, hey, if that’s what it took, so be it.

He grinned happily. “Cream and sugar?”

Eve nodded at the bag in the center of the tray. “Plenty of both to go around. There are muffins in there too.”

“Muffins?” His blue eyes sparkled as he took the cup from her. “What kind?”

“Blueberry and cinnamon raisin.”

Eve held out the bag; he took it.

“Go on up,” he said cheerfully before turning and heading toward the kitchen.

“Me?” Eve called after him. “Wait! I thought you would go up and wake him and tell him I was here.”

“You thought wrong,” he tossed over his shoulder. “It’s the room on the right, darling. Best of luck to you.”

Eve stared glumly at his back and realized this was her own damn fault. She was no novice at trading perks for favors or information; she should have held on to the coffee and muffins until after he’d fetched Hazard. Now she was stuck doing her own dirty work.

The room on the right, Taggart had said. That must mean that changes had been made since she’d last been there, she thought as she climbed the stairs. Back then, there had been only a bathroom, a linen closet and a tiny room designed to be a nursery on the right. The bath was now at the end of the hall, with a large bedroom on either side. The new look made being there a little easier, though she still had to take a deep breath and concentrate to keep her memories in check.

She stopped in front of the closed door on the right and shifted the tray to one hand so she could knock.

There was no response. She put her ear close to the door and listened. Silence. Either the door was especially soundproof or Hazard didn’t snore.

She knocked again, harder. “Hazard?”

The response came in a sleepy growl. “Piss off, Taggart.”

Taggart was right; Hazard wasn’t a morning person.

She cleared her throat and tried a third time. “It’s not Taggart. It’s me. Eve.”

Again she heard that rough growl, but this time it was impossible to decipher what he said, and she had a hunch that was for the best.

“Hazard, I need to talk to you,” she said loudly.

There was a short pause.

“Now?” he asked, his deep voice heavy with sleep, and annoyance.

“Now.” There might have been some movement on the other side of the door, but Eve couldn’t be sure. “So either you come out here or I’m coming in there.” She waited about thirty seconds. “I’m going to count to three and then I’m coming in. One. Two. Th—”

The door was yanked open and she was face-to-face with Hazard, looking all sleep mussed and sexy as hell. His hair was tousled, his jaw stubbled. She had sudden wild urges; she wanted to smooth and pet and do other inappropriate things. He had the disheveled look of a man who’d grabbed the first thing he saw and dragged it on. His black jeans were zipped but unbuttoned; his black cotton shirt hung open. She had a vision of herself stripping both off him and shoving him back onto the tangled sheets on the bed behind him.

Get a grip, she told herself, suddenly realizing that his lips were moving and she had no idea what he’d said.

“Umm,” she stalled, fooling no one.

He looked daggers at her blank stare. “I asked what was so important that you had to come pounding on my door in the middle of the night to talk about it.”

“Oh. Well. This is obviously not the middle of the night,” she pointed out.

“It’s the middle of my night,” Hazard retorted.

She looked into those gray eyes dark with irritation and held out the cardboard tray. “Coffee?”

“Coffee? That’s what you dragged me out of bed for?”

“No, of course not. I just thought a nice hot cup of coffee might make up for waking you.” She shrugged and lowered the tray. “Obviously I was wrong.”

“What do you want, Eve?”

“I want the pendant.” Her tone was suddenly as abrupt as his, her expression as unsmiling. “I want to find Pavane and get it back. And I want you to help me.”

He shook his head. “Not a good idea. Not after last night.”

“What’s the matter, Hazard? Afraid you were so good I won’t be able to keep my hands off you?”

“Maybe you should be afraid that I won’t be able to keep my hands off you,” he countered, his voice soft and lethal.

“Well, I’m not.” She ignored the little trill of excitement his heated gaze sent dancing along her spine. “Let’s just forget last night happened and focus on the fact that we had a deal. You were supposed to return the talisman to me unharmed.”

“And you were supposed to help break the curse.”

“Exactly,” Eve agreed. “And thanks to Pavane, neither of us got the job done. So instead of standing here bickering and wasting time, get dressed and meet me downstairs so we can figure out what we’re going to do about it.”

He didn’t like the idea; that was evident in the quick, disparaging slant of his mouth and the slight narrowing of his eyes. Eve suspected he was searching for a reason to refuse . . . a way to weasel out of their deal with dignity. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t know the reason for his sudden, mysterious aloofness, but she wasn’t about to let it interfere with what she had to do . . . with what they had to do. Finding Pavane and recovering the pendant was more important than his broodiness.

“You gave me your word,” she reminded him. “And no matter how bitter and detached you think you are, I’m willing to bet that still means something to you.”

He gave her a hard look. “Tread carefully, Enchantress. You stand to lose a great deal betting on me.” He took one of the cups from her tray. “Wait downstairs.”

Hazard closed his bedroom door and stood for a moment with his hand pressed flat against it. Annoyed. Worried. Elated. The only thing he wanted more than he wanted to stay the hell away from Eve was to be with her. It made no sense. Not much did since she’d come into his life. Thanks to her he was questioning things he knew to be true, and wishing for things he could never have. The woman had brought more than color back to his world; she’d brought longing and confusion and—most dangerous of all—hope. It was a futile hope, of course, but that didn’t stop it from creeping into his head, and his heart. He had to fight to keep it in check.

And to make the task even harder, he’d gone and agreed to work side by side with her for God knew how long, ostensibly to honor the bargain they’d struck. He could have walked away from it . . . and from her. He should have walked away, for her sake if not his own. What they shared last night was amazing. He knew exactly what she’d felt because he’d felt it too, with one important difference: he knew that it was a dead end. That he was a dead end. Eve deserved much better.

His situation alone ought to be enough to scare her off. A man with a death wish is the wrong man for any woman. Unfortunately, everything he’d learned about Eve warned that she didn’t scare or discourage easily. Faced with a dead end, she was the sort to dig in her heels, roll up her sleeves and find a way over, under or if need be, straight through in order to get where she wanted to go. Just the thought of her doing that for his sake made his heart beat recklessly. It wouldn’t take much to encourage a woman like that.

Moving away from the door, he did something he rarely did: he shrugged off his shirt and stood in front of the mirror. His unlined face and never-changing body were to him what steel bars and shackles were to a prisoner, ever-present visual reminders of his captivity, and he needed no reminders. The silence and loneliness of his existence made the point well enough. It didn’t matter how much music he listened to on the finest sound system money could buy, or how many noisy crowds he emerged himself in; he couldn’t escape the crushing stillness of never hearing someone say his name or inquire about his day or wonder out loud if he’d remembered to lock the door or feed the cat or pay the bloody rent. Someone to whom such things mattered because they shared with him all the trifling details that make a life.

Taggart didn’t count. Taggart was . . . a necessity, like the man who picked up his laundry or the caterer who provided his meals. His voice couldn’t break this silence any more than his presence could pierce the loneliness. Besides, Taggart was of the world of magic and that alone made him as much foe as friend.

Or so he’d believed until a few days ago. Eve, an enchantress, had somehow managed to do both . . . and in defiance of his best efforts to keep her out. Maybe it was because in spite of the magic in her blood, she didn’t embrace that world. At first he hadn’t believed her claim that she hadn’t deliberately used magic to cheat him out of the pendant. It had taken time and persistence to comb through countless old news stories and magical texts and piece together the details to solve at least part of the puzzle that was Eve Lockhart. Now not only did he believe that she had long ago sworn off magic, but he also understood why.

Was that what accounted for the strong and unusual sense of connection they’d felt from the start? A shared aversion to magic? Or was it magic itself that had drawn them together?

He stared into the mirror at the mark on his chest. A circular mark identical to Eve’s birthmark. He hadn’t paid particular attention to the honey-colored birthmark while they were making love; his senses had been spinning far too wildly to focus on any one thing. It was only later, when she’d gone to the bathroom and he was alone that it hit him. They both had the same identical mark, in the same exact spot. Over their hearts. His had been seared into his flesh when Pavane held the base of the pendant in a white-hot fire and then used it to curse him. Two centuries later, an ocean away, Eve had been born with hers. And in time their paths had not simply crossed, they’d become tangled and interwoven.

Coincidence?

Or something more portentous?

Sixteen

The Solstice Café was located just outside the city, sandwiched between a hair salon and a bookstore in a row of small neighborhood shops. There was a bike rack out front, and a brick patch just big enough for a few tables when the weather warmed. Inside, the café was bright and uncluttered, with natural wood tables and chairs, and whimsical prints of the sun and the moon on the walls. The air was filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the clatter of dishes as waitresses in black slacks and starched white shirts ferried trays from the kitchen to a full house of lunchtime diners.

It was the sort of place you went for a great chicken caesar salad, not to have your palm read. There was no sign proclaiming “Madame Lavina: Fortunes, Charms and Potions,” with an arrow pointing to the back room. Madame Lavina’s clients heard of her by word of mouth, the way Eve and Hazard had learned of her from Taggart.

They needed to find Pavane. Scrying was out; even if they had something suitable of Pavane’s to use, he was sure to have cloaked his whereabouts. That left them with the roundabout approach. He was bound to seek out his own kind for anything he needed, and Taggart came up with the names of three mages he knew to be well connected with the local magic scene. Madame Lavina, whose business occupied a small section of her son’s popular café, was their third and final stop of the morning, and their third strike. Although all three mages were aware of some recent buzz about a disturbance in energy currents in and around Providence, they had no knowledge of whom or what was causing it.

“I wish I could be of more help,” Madame Lavina told them, her soft voice regretful. A slender woman in her forties, she had high cheekbones and dark, exotic eyes. She sat across the carved ebony table from them with a deck of tarot cards untouched before her. Her serene, self-assured manner made Eve think the woman was very good at her craft.

“I appreciate you making time to see us without an appointment,” Eve told her.

She smiled and gave a little shrug. “I found myself with an unexpected lull.”

“Our good luck,” said Eve.

“Or fate,” Madame Lavina countered, holding Eve’s gaze. “Shall I read for you before you go?”

If she’d been alone, Eve might have been tempted to take her up on her offer; it couldn’t hurt to get some fresh insight into what lay ahead. But there was no way she wanted her life spread out on the table and dissected in front of Hazard. She shook her head. “Thanks, not today. Another time, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” murmured Madame Lavina, looking doubtful. She remained seated as Hazard stood and held Eve’s chair for her to do the same. When she extended her hand, Eve reached out to shake it and Madame Lavina held on tightly.

“He came here for you, you know,” she said, managing to indicate Hazard without taking her eyes off Eve’s face.

Eve shook her head, unsure what she meant and uneasy with the way she was gripping her hand. “No. He’s not . . . I mean, we just . . .”

“Yes,” Madame Lavina said, her tone resolute, her gaze becoming both intense and remote. “He came here to find the truth and give the same, of power lost and power claimed.”

Eve recognized the words of the prophecy, and the skin at the back of her neck prickled. She jerked her hand away, but the fortune-teller was not deterred.

“The whole restored from these two parts,” she recited, as if reading the words in Eve’s eyes. “Life to life; heart to heart.”

“We really have to go,” Eve said, looking around for her purse. Hazard retrieved it from the floor at her feet and handed it to her.

“You can’t rely on luck,” she warned as Eve turned toward the door. The urgency in her voice made Eve stop and glance back. Madame Lavina looked at her with knowing eyes. “But what was lost can be regained, if the heart is willing.”

They’d parked about a block away, and neither she nor Hazard said a word until they were back in his car.

He slid behind the wheel and turned slightly toward her without starting the engine. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Eve turned her head to look at him, cautious.

“The prophecy,” he added before she had to ask. “That is what Madame Lavina was referring to, isn’t it?”

“You know the prophecy?”

“I know of it. I’ve never read the actual text—I don’t know anyone who has. To be honest, I always thought it was a myth.”

“Maybe it is. I mean, really . . . the Lost Enchantress? It sure sounds mythical. Right up there with Snow White and Peter Pan.”

“Obviously Madame Lavina disagrees. So does Pavane.”

“And my grandmother,” she admitted reluctantly, “who probably knows more about it than anyone. She also has an annoying tendency to be right about these things.” She rested her head back on the high leather seat and puffed out a deep sigh. “This is one time I really wish she would be wrong.”

“But you don’t think she is?”

She glanced sideways at him, debating with herself, and then twisted in her seat and loosened the ties at the neckline of her pale blue and white peasant blouse just enough to reveal her birthmark. “Look familiar?”

His eyes narrowed, but he showed no sign of recognition. “Should it?”

“Maybe not. I’m not sure how good a look you got at the pendant, but my birthmark and the bottom of the hourglass are exactly the same.”

“And you think that means. . . .”

“I’m not sure what it means,” she returned, redoing her ties. “If I’m lucky, it means nothing. But considering what Pavane said, and now Madame Lavina, it all seems just a little too coincidental. I have read the actual text, and some of her words came straight from it.”

“And if it is true that the prophecy is about you, you’d rather stay lost. You’re not tempted by thoughts of what you could do with all that power?”

“You mean with unlimited amounts of what I don’t want any part of in the first place?” Eve countered. “Funny, I expected you, of all people, to understand. I thought you felt the same way I do about magic.”

“I detest it, if that’s what you mean. But my feelings are those of an outsider, and based on personal experience.”

“So are mine . . . based on personal experience, that is.”

“You’re talking about the fire that killed your parents.”

It wasn’t a question. Eve looked at him sharply. “What do you know about the fire?”

“Only what I could find in news reports from the time. And that it happened on the one night of the year reserved for a legendary spell, which, according to your family lore, you would have been exactly the right age to cast. The rest I’m just guessing.”

She raised her eyebrows, wondering how he knew about the spell. “The rest?”

“That’s right.” He leaned back and crossed his arms, observing her expression closely. “My guess is you did cast the spell that night, and that something went wrong, something that made you blame yourself for everything that happened afterwards, the fire, your parents’ death, your grandmother and sister losing their home, all of it. And that you’ve been trying to atone for it ever since. I think cutting yourself off from magic is part fear, part penance.”

She flushed revealingly and looked away. “Well, you’re a lousy guesser.”

“Maybe so.”

“And even if you happened to get some of it right,” she added, turning back to him, “it’s really none of your business.”

“Maybe so,” he said a second time. “But I’m a damn good listener, and I’m willing to bet there’s never been anyone else you could talk with about what happened . . . at least not honestly.”

She didn’t deny it.

“Tell me about that night,” he invited softly. “What went wrong with the spell?”

Her chin went up and her shoulders tensed, and for a moment Hazard was sure he’d pushed too hard, too soon, and she wouldn’t answer. Then she sighed.

“Nothing. It wasn’t the spell that was wrong—it was me.” The irritation was gone from her voice, replaced by something bleak and haunted. “The fact is a lot of that night is a blank for me. I know I finished casting the spell. I know there was a fire. I know my parents died in it. The details don’t seem that important . . . it’s not as if knowing them will change anything.”

“Maybe that depends on the details.”

“Nothing can change the fact that I was wrong to cast the spell in the first place,” she argued. “My folks were dead set against magic. All my mother wanted was for my sister and me to fit in, to have a nice safe, normal life. I wanted . . . anything but. I wanted more. More excitement, more passion. I was never the prettiest or most popular girl at school, and I never really wanted to be. But, God, how I wanted this. I knew magic would set me apart, make me different . . . special.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting that,” he said quietly.

“But there is a wrong way to go about it. My parents were out that night because I arranged it. I had to—I was determined to cast the spell and that was my one and only chance to do it. You were right about that,” she acknowledged.

“The Winter Rose Spell,” he said.

Eve nodded. “A chance to see the face of my beloved . . . my one true love,” she drawled. “How could I pass that up? I was young and starry-eyed . . . and stupid.”

“And did you?” he asked, careful not to sound as invested in the answer as he felt. “See your one true love?”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, a gesture that struck him as so young and excruciatingly vulnerable it was like a hot wire laid across his heart.

“According to Grand I did; I don’t remember it. That’s one of the blanks. What I do remember is lying to my parents and sneaking around behind their backs for weeks getting ready to cast the spell. If I hadn’t, there wouldn’t have been any candles left burning in the turret that night.”

“That’s what started the fire?” he asked. “Candles burning in the turret?”

“You said you read the news stories.”

He bit his lip. He had indeed; he’d read every old news article he could find and watched all the available film footage. What’s more, he understood that news was Eve Lockhart’s business, her stock and trade, her armor. She dealt in facts and details and cold, hard truth. She’d built a reputation on her ability to tell fact from fancy, and it was going to take more than some theorizing or conjecturing on his part to sway her from what she knew to be true. Especially a truth she’d clung to for so long.

“I can’t believe I’m going on and on about this with everything else we have to worry about,” she said. “We need to find Pavane before he finds us, and that won’t happen if we sit here all afternoon rehash—oh no.” She checked her watch. “Damn.”

She’d lost track of the time. Allison Snow was having her bandages removed that afternoon, and Eve had promised she would be there to lend moral support. Now, because she’d been busy wallowing in her own misery, she was probably going to be late.

“Problem?” Hazard asked.

“Yes. I’m supposed to be at the hospital in ten minutes. It has to do with work,” she explained when his expression became concerned.

He still looked concerned. “I thought you were taking time off from work until this is over?”

“I am. Mostly. But there are places where my work spills over into my life, and I can’t take time off from those things.” She briefly explained the bond she shared with Allison. “It doesn’t matter what else is going on, I have to be there for her . . . I want to be there. And I’ll never make it on time if I go all the way back to your house to get my car. If you don’t mind dropping me off, I can grab a taxi and pick up my car later. The hospital’s not far from here.”

“I know where it is. And I do mind,” he said, even as he started the car and began driving in that direction. “I’ll drive you there, but I’m not going to drop you off and leave. I’ll wait for you.”

“I could be there a long time.”

“I’ll wait.”

He really was a confusing man, thought Eve. Hot. Cold. Charming. Rude. This morning he was none too happy to see her, and now he didn’t want to leave. “It’s nice of you to offer, but it’s really not necessary.”

“I’m not doing it to be nice, and it is necessary if I want to protect my side of our deal. If Pavane gets his hands on you before we get the pendant, I’m out of luck.”

“How gallant,” she observed, a sardonic edge to her tone. “But I don’t think you have anything to worry about; Pavane’s not likely to pounce on me in the middle of a busy hospital.”

“If you’re naïve enough to believe that, then you need protecting even more than I thought.” He braked when the stoplight ahead turned from yellow to red and glanced at her, as somber as she’d ever seen him. “I didn’t tell you this earlier because I was hoping we’d get lucky this morning; I didn’t want to worry you if I didn’t have to. Last night I read everything I could find on the spell Pavane used to bind his spirit to the pendant. There are different theories about how it’s done, but they all agree on one thing: no matter what energies he called on to get back here, his presence in this realm is only temporary.”

“How temporary?”

“About forty-eight hours, maybe a little more. After that he’ll be too weak to perform the ritual to make his stay permanent.”

Eve began to smile. “And you were afraid this was going to worry me? It sounds like you’re saying all we have to do is be patient and he’ll go away on his own.”

“No. I’m saying that he’s going to be desperate to perform that ritual, and getting more desperate by the minute. To do it, he’ll need to draw on the pendant’s full power, and for that he needs you. Get used to me being around, because I won’t be letting you out of my sight anytime soon.”

Hazard had no problem keeping an eye on Eve from a chair off to one side of the hospital waiting room. He would have been hard put to keep his eyes off her. That had been true from the start, of course, but there was something different about her today, something fresh and even more captivating to him.

The waiting room was already filled with people when they arrived. Allison Snow had asked Eve to be with her for the removal of her final bandages, but others had come on their own to surprise the young woman with an enthusiastic show of support. There were friends and family members, a couple of her college professors and several nurses who had cared for her along the way. And there were firefighters, some in uniform, some off duty, as well as the rescue crew that had been the first to treat her after she was carried from the building. They mingled and talked like friends, and Hazard soon realized that’s because they were. They’d been brought together by tragedy, and they’d run into each other in the hospital hallways and waiting areas many times in the months since, ready to do whatever they could to help put back together the young life some of them had risked their own to save.

When Eve walked in, there was an immediate outpouring of warm greetings. Accustomed to being a stranger wherever he went, he found an empty chair on the sidelines and watched her move around the room, giving and receiving hugs and affectionate teasing. She reminded him of a butterfly released into its natural habitat, free to spread its wings and soar. He’d seen her worried and afraid and dazed with passion, and he’d watched her on camera, both as the lost-looking fifteen-year-old in film clips from the days after the fire, and as the competent, controlled professional journalist she was today. But he’d never seen this easygoing and breezy side of her.

Even her clothes were different today; both the color and the fit were softer and, to his eye, more feminine. He liked it. A lot. Especially what she was wearing on top. Not that he didn’t appreciate the snug-fitting clothes she usually wore; there was just something about the blue and white thing she had on that reminded him of sunny skies and made him want to smile and never look away. Maybe it was the way it swirled with her body when she moved, and settled on her curves when she was still. And the teasing sheer-ness of whatever it was made of, seeming to offer a glimpse of what was underneath but never really doing it, no matter how closely he looked.

He wished they were alone so he could slide his hands inside, up over her soft, warm skin all the way to her breasts. And then he remembered his vow never to touch her that way again, and he just wished things could be different.

“Friend of Eve’s?”

The query broke his musing and he looked up, instantly on guard and ready with a frown for the man who had appeared beside him.

Not discouraged, the man held out his right hand and smiled. He had short sandy brown hair and was wearing a tan shirt with a Providence Fire Department emblem on the pocket.

“Jack Porter,” he said. “I saw you walk in with Eve and I thought I’d come on over and say hello. It’s easy to get lost in this crowd.”

He was trying to be friendly, Hazard realized. He’d seen him sitting there alone and had taken pity on him and decided to walk over and befriend him. It was the kind of basic human interaction that he vaguely remembered from long ago. He even thought there might have been a time when he was comfortable with such gestures, and the feelings that inspired them. But not now.

He stood and went through the motion of shaking the man’s hand. “Gabriel Hazard. I find it more comfortable on the outskirts.”

“Opposites attract, huh?” Jack Porter quipped. He caught Hazard’s puzzled look and gestured across the room to where Eve stood, laughing and surrounded by firefighters. “You and Eve. She’s really something, isn’t she? I mean, you see someone like her on television and what’s the first thing you think? Snooty. But she’s not. She mixes right in, no puttin’ on airs. And bighearted as all get out. Hell, she logged more hours by Allison’s bedside in those early days than anyone outside the family. Not afraid to get her hands dirty either; we held a car wash as a fund-raiser, and she was the first one to grab a bucket and a sponge. But then, you probably already know all that.”

He paused and grinned, and Hazard tried to decide what he was supposed to say at this point. Porter spared him the trouble.

“You’re lucky I’m a happily married man,” he told Hazard, “or you’d have some real competition. So. What is it you do, Gabe? Can I call you Gabe?”

“Why not?” Hazard countered, thinking that the other man’s friendliness might be motivated at least in part by a desire to find out if he was good enough for Eve. “I’m in finance.”

Porter nodded. “Investments, that kind of thing?”

Hazard nodded. It was true enough. He was good at managing investments. You could become good at most anything if you had enough time.

Porter winced and whistled softly between his teeth. “That’s got to be a tough business these days, with the economy tanking and all.”

“It has its moments. I’m sure your work does also.”

“Oh yeah,” Porter agreed heartily. “Long hours, the city always trying to stiff us at contract time, and I threw my back out humpin’ hose the other day. Hurts like a bastard.” He braced his hands at his waist and bent slightly from side to side. “I still wouldn’t trade it for anything else. It’s in my blood; my grandfather was a fire-man, I’ve got uncles and cousins on the job, and my dad worked a ladder until he got bumped up to investigations.”

Hazard regarded him with new interest. “Your father is a Providence fire investigator?”

“Was. He retired a few years back, but he was lead investigator for over twenty years. He handled all the big fires in the city. And man, has he got stories.”

“I’m sure he does.” Hazard formed a smile and held his hand out toward the empty chair beside his. “Have a seat, Jack. I’d love to hear a few of them.”

Seventeen

Eve had greeted nearly everyone before she noticed Allie’s boyfriend, Matt, sitting by himself just outside the glass doors that separated the burn unit’s waiting area from the treatment rooms beyond. The receptionist had told her that Allie and her mother were with the doctor, going over last-minute details, and that she would let Eve know when it was time to join them. She settled into the seat beside Matt to wait.

He had short, spiky blond hair and the solid build of a line-backer. Over the past year Eve had gotten to know him and discovered his heart was also solidly built. He and Allie had been high school sweethearts, and at the risk of losing his football scholarship, he’d taken the year off from college to be by her side as she recovered.

In the days immediately following the fire, when Allison was still in critical condition and visitors were limited to immediate family, Matt had camped out in the waiting room and made coffee runs and trips to the hospital cafeteria so her parents didn’t have to leave her side. When he was finally allowed to see her, he’d held her hand through excruciatingly painful dressing changes and brought her smoothies when she couldn’t chew and read to her when she couldn’t sleep. Everyone said how lucky Allie was to have Matt, but whenever he looked at Allison or talked about her, Eve could see in his eyes how lucky Matt thought he was to have Allie.

“How is she?” Eve asked him.

“Pretty good,” Matt replied. “A little worried, I think, but hanging in there. And trying not to show she’s worried, for her parents’ sake. You know how Allie is.”

“She’s a trooper, all right,” Eve agreed.

“I think the doc is in there right now giving her an idea of what to expect.”

His expression was hopeful. Maybe too hopeful based on case histories she’d come across in researching the fire story.

“That’s good,” she told him. “After all, Dr. Abrams has been through this hundreds, maybe even thousands of times.”

“Yeah. I just hope that . . . I mean, I know we can’t expect, you know, for her to be exactly the way she was before, but I just keep hoping . . .” He trailed off, shrugging and staring at the toes of his sneakers, suddenly looking awkward and younger than his twenty years.

Eve said the words so he didn’t have to. “You hope she looks like the Allison you fell in love with.”

“No,” he blurted, swinging his horrified gaze her way. “I mean, yes, I guess that is what I hope, but not for me, not because I want the girl I fell in love with back . . . I just want Allison. I can’t even stand to think about how close I came to losing her . . . how it could have been her who . . .”

He stood, shoved his hands in his pockets, looking ready to bolt, and then sat back down and jiggled one blue-jean-clad leg restlessly. “I know Allison sometimes wishes it could have been her and not Cassie who . . .”

Eve nodded understandingly.

“I sort of get that,” he continued. “And I would never say this to Allie or to her folks, but I thank God every night that it was her who made it out of there. I wouldn’t want to live without her.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being thankful the woman you love is alive,” Eve assured him.

“Well, right or wrong, that’s how I feel. And yeah, I do hope the grafts took perfectly and she looks like she used to look, but not for me. I swear to you that I’ll love her just the same no matter what she looks like. I want it for her.” He hunched forward, his forearms resting on his thighs. “It’s going to be tough enough for her to get up every morning and look in the mirror and see Cassie’s face looking back at her. But I think it’ll be even harder if there are scars to remind her why Cassie’s not around and how bad that last night was. Maybe if the scars aren’t that bad, then someday, not right away, but someday, she’ll look in the mirror and remember only Cassie, only the good stuff.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she threw her arm around his shoulders to give him a quick hug.

“Does that make sense?” he asked her.

“Perfect sense. And if Dr. Abrams is half as good as they say he is, you could get your wish. All we can do now is keep our fingers crossed.”

Dr. Abrams, the plastic surgeon who’d grafted new skin onto Allison’s forehead and left cheek and down the left side of her neck, specialized in treating facial burns. Patients and colleagues alike used words like “genius” and “miracle worker” to describe him. For Allie’s sake, Eve prayed they were right.

Matt’s words haunted her.

On her office bulletin board, she had a picture of Allison and Cassidy taken the summer before their freshman year. They’d just returned from a marathon off-to-college shopping trip and were sitting on their front porch drowning in stuff—shopping bags and shoe boxes, oversized pillows and a mini fridge, and matching lamps with beaded fringed shades. Pink for Cassie and lavender for Allison. Just a couple of pretty, blue-eyed blondes with flawless skin and perfect teeth and a nightmare waiting for them just around the corner.

Allie once told her that she knew that as long as she lived, there would be a Cassie-sized hole in her world. Eve had wanted to tell her she was wrong, that time heals all wounds, but she couldn’t lie. Instead, she told her that time would dull the ache of her loss, and as impossible as it seemed to her at that moment, a day would come when it wasn’t the first thing she thought of when she woke up and the last thing before she fell asleep. But there would always be a hole in her world where her sister should be; it would be right beside her wherever she went, like a shadow, like the missing limb of an amputee that goes on hurting long after it’s not there anymore.

Matt’s words haunted her, and it wasn’t until she was in the treatment room with Allie and her mother that she realized she’d been only half right when she said the only thing they could do now was keep their fingers crossed. It was true that all he could do was cross his fingers and perhaps pray for the best possible outcome. But if she chose to, she might be able to do considerably more.

The question was, should she?

She didn’t have time to mull over the potential consequences or debate the moral and ethical fine points of using magic to tweak reality and give back to Allie a little of what had been taken from her.

Hazard was right: rejecting magic was her way of atoning for her mistakes. But what if there was a better way?

Dr. Abrams was already loosening the special tape securing the bandage on Allie’s forehead. She was seated on the examining table facing him, with Eve and Olivia Snow standing on the other side of the table.

Her father had opted to wait outside. He’d pleaded a weak stomach, but throughout this whole ordeal, Eve had never seen a hint of squeamishness in Daniel Snow. She surmised it wasn’t the sight of soiled bandages or raw scars that scared him, but the fresh pain and disappointment he might see in his little girl’s eyes. She’d already been through so much. They all had. For better or worse, Allison’s face would be an ever-present reminder of Cassie for her parents too. The invisible waves of hope and fear coming from her mother were every bit as strong as what she was picking up from Allie herself. How could she not do everything in her power to help them?

She was still opposed to magic. At least she thought she was. It had all become so complicated. Once her opposition had been drawn with sharp, bold stokes, as black and white as a pureblood Dalmatian, as black and white as magic itself; now there were patches of gray, and in places the lines between black and white had blurred until they were almost impossible to see.

She’d been willing to break her own rules to help Hazard because she believed he’d been wronged and deserved a second chance. Didn’t Allie deserve the same?

Of course she did. If there was a moral, righteous reason for an innocent nineteen-year-old girl to be permanently disfigured, Eve wasn’t interested in hearing it. At that moment her only reservations were of a more logistical bent. What if by altering just the tiniest bit of the fabric of reality, a swatch no bigger than, say, Allison Snow’s face, she was screwing with some elaborate, finely woven and minutely detailed cosmic plan to benefit all mankind. Fate, in other words.

On the other hand, if there actually was a grand cosmic scheme, she had a part in it just like everyone else. She was a cog in the wheel, and for all she knew it was her cogly duty to use the power she’d been born with to help Allison. It might be her mission to correct some other cog’s screwup. If she had the courage.

She remembered what Grand had said about a prophecy being only a possibility, that there was still a choice. There was a choice to be made here too.

Her head was beginning to hurt. And time was tick-tick-ticking away. If she was going to act, she better do it fast. It seemed to Eve that someone far wiser and more experienced than she was ought to be making the call, but that someone wasn’t here. Her vote was the only one that counted, and she voted to give Allison the break she deserved.

Her decision made, Eve hung the “Second Thoughts Need Not Apply” sign and focused her attention on the light over Dr. Abrams’s left shoulder, tuning out everything else.

When her thoughts had quieted, she conjured an image of Allison as she appeared in the photo in her office, consciously filling in one detail at a time until the image in her mind’s eye was as close as she could possibly make it to the way Allie must have looked on the day the picture was taken, bright with happiness and anticipation, her chin high, her cheeks flushed with laughter. When the image was solidly in place, Eve gathered her power from deep within and released it, willing it to flow to Allison. Immediately she felt a change in the air between them.

“Is it me, or is it getting very warm in here?” Allison asked, evidence she felt something too. It was the first time she’d spoken since the doctor began his work and her voice trembled.

“It’s just nerves, honey,” her mother soothed. “Try to relax.”

“Always listen to your mom,” Dr. Abrams teased without taking his eyes off what he was doing. “And don’t you dare faint on me.”

“I won’t,” Allie promised. “I just felt weird for a second. Guess I am a little nervous.”

“That’s natural,” the doctor assured her. “Just remember what we talked about. Today is only the next step on what could be a long road. We’re not expecting to find perfection under these bandages, only progress. There may be things we’ll need to adjust, or maybe even redo.” In a lighter tone, he added, “Don’t worry; I have all kinds of magic tricks up my sleeve.”

That makes two of us, Eve thought wryly.

“Eve?”

“I’m right here, Allison.”

“Would you mind . . . do you think you could hold my hand?” She turned her hand palm up on the paper-covered examining table.

“Of course.” Eve took her hand and felt the physical connection strengthen the invisible flow of energy. Her focus was clear and strong and pure, her single intention to use her power to restore the natural order.

Let what once was, be again, she thought, over and over.

The words were both simple and profound. She couldn’t restore all that Allie had lost; she couldn’t give her what she wanted most. She couldn’t bring Cassie back. The best she could provide was a true image of herself—and her sister—when she looked in a mirror, and whatever peace of mind that brought her in the days and years to come.

There was silence in the room. Everyone present understood the significance of the next few moments; idle chatter would not be welcome.

Finally Dr. Abrams peeled away the first bandage, the one covering Allison’s forehead, and dropped it on the steel procedure table at his side. He stood very still and blinked several times; he and the nurse assisting him exchanged a quick look that could mean anything.

Allison caught it too. “What?” she demanded. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Abrams assured her. “So far, so good.”

“Hold still, Allie,” instructed the nurse.

He worked more quickly after that. Probably anxious to see what was under the remaining gauze, Eve thought. He wasn’t alone. From where she was standing, Eve could see only the back of Allison’s head. Trying to curb her impatience, she concentrated on concentrating. The bandage covering Allie’s cheek was removed next, followed by the one on her neck. All the while, Allie’s grip on her hand became steadily tighter . . . and damper.

Without shifting his intense gaze from Allison, Dr. Abrams reached behind him to pull the wall-mounted light closer. As he carefully examined her face, it looked to Eve as if he was doing his best not to look surprised. Like a man who’d just had the antiseptic white tile jerked out from under him, she thought.

“Amazing,” he said quietly.

“Good amazing or bad amazing?” Allison asked.

“Good. Very, very good actually,” he told her.

“So good I almost can’t believe it,” added the nurse.

The doctor picked up a hand mirror and held it out to her. “See for yourself, Allison.”

Allison let go of Eve’s hand to take the mirror; a deep breath lifted her shoulders as she positioned it to see her face.

As she moved, Eve caught a quick glimpse of one side of her forehead and thought it looked a little red, but smooth.

Seconds ticked by like hours, and Allie didn’t say a word. Then she squealed, a loud sound of unmistakable joy and relief, and she bounded off the table and across the room to the larger mirror hanging on the wall.

She stared at herself in the mirror and touched her cheek, and then she lifted her chin and turned her head back and forth several times.

“Wow,” she said softly. “Oh . . . wow.”

“Allison, honey, turn around so we can—” Olivia Snow gasped as Allie turned to face them. She clasped her hands over her mouth, tears spilling. “Oh, dear Lord, thank you. It’s a miracle, I swear.”

Allison looked beautiful. She looked . . . like Allison.

Reality bends to desire, thought Eve, no less amazed because she understood more than the others possibly could what had just happened.

There were tears and hugs and laughter, and then Matt and Allison’s father were there and there were more hugs. Dr. Abrams was thanked again and again, and he continued to look a bit stunned. When Allie was eventually allowed to go out to the crowded waiting room, there were more gasps, followed quickly by cheers.

Eve looked around for Hazard, who had only reluctantly allowed her out of his sight, and she spotted him standing across the room with several firefighters. She felt a telltale little lurch of her heart when their eyes met and the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. There was something different about the way he was looking at her. It might simply be that he was smiling at her, after having spent most of the day doing his best to appear aloof as if he hadn’t enjoyed last night and wished it had never happened. She wasn’t buying it. He might wish it hadn’t happened, for some mysterious reason known only to him, but he had enjoyed it. He’d wanted her last night the same way she’d wanted him—against all reason. And that morning, when he opened his bedroom door and saw her, he’d wanted her all over again, the same way she’d wanted him.

Crossing the room to join him proved to be like swimming against the tide as nearly everyone there crowded closer to marvel at Allie and congratulate her. Dr. Abrams’ latest triumph had the entire unit abuzz, and a steady stream of nurses and doctors appeared to see it for themselves. Matt was sent to fetch the cake Olivia had brought along to celebrate the occasion, in the fervent hope there would be something to celebrate.

It was the sort of joyous, heart-and-soul-satisfying moment life doesn’t dole out too often, and Eve was still savoring the high an hour later when she and Hazard left the burn center and all those happy revelers who had no idea they were celebrating not—as they repeated over and over to each other—a miracle of modern medicine, but the power of ancient blood magic.

She was prepared for regrets, braced for them in fact, and to be honest, given her track record with magic, a little après uneasiness wouldn’t be out of order. But she felt only a sense of peace, and gratitude. Walking beside Hazard to the elevator, she offered a silent thanksgiving that it had been within her power to help Allison, and that by the grace of everything good she’d managed it without any blunders or repercussions. None she was aware of anyway, and she wasn’t about to go looking.

“Why did you do it?” Hazard asked when they were alone in the elevator.

Eve kept her expression carefully blank. “Do what?”

“Play miracle worker.”

He knew. It didn’t really come as a surprise to her. It might even explain the subtle change she sensed in his demeanor. That didn’t mean she wanted to discuss it with him right then and there, before she’d had a chance to sort out her own feelings. Which she was also in no big hurry to do. She was content to ride this wave of uncomplicated glee just a little while longer.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“Yes, you do. I’m not a doctor, but I know that girl’s face was beyond extraordinary. And unlike everyone else there, I know it wasn’t an act of God. I . . . felt it. I felt you . . . your power. The same as I did the night of the auction, and the feeling is unmistakable . . . like being exhilarated and having someone swing a hammer inside my skull at the same time,” he explained, briefly kneading his forehead. “But that’s not the point. Why did you do it?”

Eve stared at her reflection in the polished steel elevator door; unlike a mirror, it rendered an image that was devoid of details and fuzzy around the edges. She thought it strangely apropos since at the moment she was feeling a little fuzzy on the inside too. She didn’t want to have to think too deeply about all this, and she didn’t have to; the answer to his question was suddenly just there.

She turned and met his waiting gaze. “I didn’t plan to; it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I did it because someone I trust a great deal told me that if you can do good in this world, you ought to. Today I had a chance to do good and I took it. End of story.”

There was a pause. Eve felt his gaze on her and was glad when the elevator stopped and the doors opened.

“That someone you trust . . . it was your grandmother, wasn’t it?” he asked as they stepped out into the lobby.

Eve glanced at him and nodded. “How did you know?”

“I hear it in your voice when you talk about her, and I see it in your eyes.”

His deep voice turned the words into a kind of verbal caress and her senses tingled accordingly. She couldn’t help it; it felt good knowing he paid such careful attention and understood her so well. Encouraged by his interest, she found herself talking to him about Grand on the walk to the car, and about her grandfather and his reasons for going to war.

“If he had the courage to risk and sacrifice as much as he did,” she said, “I figured I ought to be able to rustle up enough to put my own fear aside and do whatever I could to help one girl who got dealt a lousy hand.”

“Is that all this was, Eve? A one-time thing? End of story.”

She gave a small shrug. “I don’t know. If you’d asked me a few days ago, I would have been able to tell you exactly how I felt and what I wanted. Of course, a few days ago the question would never have come up; a few days ago I wouldn’t have done it, I wouldn’t have dared. As for the future . . .” She shrugged again. “I guess if we do get the talisman back—”

He broke in. “When we get it back.”

She smiled, aware of how they’d switched sides since the last time they’d had that little exchange. “When we get it back, I’ll have to come up with some answers.”

He opened the car door for her and as she got in, Eve noticed a suitcase on the backseat that she hadn’t noticed earlier.

She waited until he got in and hitched her thumb toward the backseat. “Going somewhere?”

“Not exactly.”

Evasion if ever she’d heard it.

“You know, I have that same luggage,” she told him. The same in that hers was also basic black. Accuracy was irrelevant; the comment was her way of keeping the subject warm without appearing too nosy.

“Actually, you don’t,” he countered, backing the car out of the parking spot. “You have that luggage.”

“Er . . . right. That’s what I said. I have that same luggage.”

“That is yours,” he said more emphatically. “That’s your suitcase.”

She whipped her head around for a closer look and recognized her luggage tag and the black and white checked ribbon she’d tied to the handle to make it easier to spot amongst all the other basic black bags on the baggage belt at the airport.

“How did it get in the backseat of your car?” she asked him.

“Your grandmother packed it for you and then turned it over to Taggart, who brought it here and left it in my car.”

“Why?” she asked, leaping directly from not having a clue what was going on to having so many thoughts and suspicions circling her brain it was hard to latch on to just one.

“Do you mean why did he bring it here?” he asked, glancing at her.

She nodded.

“I thought you might want to take a look at what your grandmother packed in case she missed anything. If she did, we can stop at a store and pick up whatever you need. I considered not involving her at all and just buying everything myself, but it occurred to me you might be more comfortable with your own things. It’s been a while, but I do remember how particular women can be about their powders and lotions and whatnot.”

She decided to let that go. “I meant why do I need a suitcase in the first place.”

“Because I’ve decided you should stay with me until this is over.”

Eighteen

“Your grandmother agreed with me wholeheartedly when I explained it to her,” he went on in the face of Eve’s bewildered silence. “You’re right to trust her. She has good instincts.”

“You decided?” She was working to piece together what was happening, but that piece jumped up and demanded to be addressed right away. “Did it occur to you that women can also be particular about having decisions made for them . . . and that maybe you ought to ask me before you started packing?”

“As a matter of fact it did. Unfortunately, you were busy working a miracle and I didn’t have time to waste. I guarantee you Pavane’s not wasting his.”

It was tough to trump that argument. Slightly deflated, she leaned back and waited while he paid the parking attendant and pulled onto the street. “So you meant it when you threatened not to let me out of your sight.”

He nodded. “My first thought was to just follow you around and keep an eye on you, but I think we need to be more organized than that or we risk having Pavane take us by surprise a second time. It would be a mistake to underestimate him. Our best chance is to pool our resources and face him together. You have magic, I don’t; what I do have is what you’re short on: knowledge.”

She nodded slowly. “Agreed. But why am I the one with the suitcase? It would have been just as easy for you to pack a bag and stay at my place for a few days.”

She was grousing mostly to make a point. She shuddered to think of bringing Hazard home for an indefinite stay, knowing Grand and Rory would relish the chance to pepper him with questions and observe the two of them together. Not that the prospect of staying at his place didn’t put her on edge, but that was for very different reasons.

“I arranged it the way I did because I wanted to keep Pavane away from your house, not lure him there. It’s you he wants, and as long as he has the talisman, he’s going to find you wherever you are. I thought you’d prefer for that to happen a safe distance away from your grandmother and niece.”

“God, yes. Of course.” A new worry caused a furrow between her brows. “But what if he followed Taggart and—”

Hazard stopped her. “He didn’t. I asked your grandmother to drop the suitcase off at a safe location where Taggart could pick it up once she was safely away. It’s possible Pavane could still find his way to your front door if he’s determined enough, but I don’t plan to make it easy for him.”

“I should have thought of all this,” she declared, shaking her head in disgust.

He reached over and briefly covered her hand with his, and the warmth and strength Eve felt made her want to grab it and hold on tight.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he said. “You’ve had other things on your mind today.”

“That’s no excuse not to stay on top of things. I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to either one of them. I’d never forgive—”

She stopped herself; now wasn’t the time to go barreling down the all-too-familiar road paved with self-recrimination. Nothing had happened to them. And now the odds were nothing would. Thanks to Hazard.

“Hey, Hazard,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for taking care of them for me.”

He shifted his attention from the road just long enough to meet her gaze. “My pleasure.”

Neither of them smiled.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Hazard asked her shortly after they arrived at his house. They were both a little edgy, a little too polite to each other. Last night had changed things; he was still struggling to grasp the exact dimensions of that change, and he suspected Eve was too. And then there was the looming threat of Pavane ticking relentlessly in the background. It was more than enough to put anyone on edge.

Eve shot him a wry look. “Nice try. I fell for that line last night, remember?”

“I remember last night.”

An understatement, he thought. All day, for long stretches at a time, the memory of last night had burned everything else from his mind. It had also made him cringe at the misguided way he’d messed it all up in the end.

“I need to explain something,” he said. “I was angry last night . . . with myself. For letting myself get too close to you. I knew better and I let it happen anyway and I was angry. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, but for what’s its worth, I was trying to do the right thing.”

“By being rude?”

“No. By scaring you off.”

She didn’t smile, but her green eyes sparked with what looked like amusement. “And tonight?”

“Tonight I know you don’t scare that easily. Eve, I’m sorry for the way I treated you.”

“Apology accepted. It was a strange night all the way around.”

“Tonight I really do have wine. Assuming Taggart remembered to pick it up between dropping off your suitcase and embarking on his tour of disreputable otherworld haunts in search of news about Pavane. Let’s find out,” he added, heading toward the kitchen.

Eve followed along. “He’s gone alone to look for Pavane? Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Taggart can take care of himself. Just don’t count on seeing him until morning,” he advised, looking around and finally locating a case of wine on the enclosed back porch. He carried it inside and opened it, satisfied with Taggart’s selections. He didn’t give Taggart enough credit, he thought. Starting tomorrow he’d try to do better.

He froze with the corkscrew in his hand. Starting tomorrow? Since when did he think in terms of tomorrow? Never, that’s when. Not for well over a century anyway, and that was close enough to never. It was just one of many things he never did; he never made new friends, never put someone else’s interests ahead of his own, never went around humming a bloody happy tune. Except in the past twenty-four hours he’d done all those things.

What was happening to him?

Unsettled, he pulled a couple of bottles from the case and held them for Eve to choose the one she preferred. She looked up and smiled at him. And he couldn’t pretend not to know the answer.

Eve. Eve was happening to him.

He poured two glasses of the pinot noir she favored and handed her one.

“I have to excuse myself for a few moments to make a phone call,” he told her.

She put her wine down without tasting it, her eyes clouded. “I thought we were supposed to stick together in case Pavane shows up.”

“We’ll be close enough, and I won’t be long. I can’t guarantee it, but I don’t think he’ll be able to get in here uninvited.”

“He didn’t have any problem last time.”

“Last time he had your help,” he reminded her.

“And now he has the talisman. Isn’t that a wash?”

“Not even close. He has the talisman, but to draw on its power he needs you. Besides, this place is a magical fortress; Taggart has been busy setting wards that will reinforce the residual energy throughout the house. According to him, the energy here has a protective feeling, and that makes sense for the home of an enchantress. Your grandmother guarded this place fiercely. The turret especially.”

“That was Grand’s favorite place for magic,” she explained, a faint smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “All her things were kept there.”

“It’s also probably the safest place for you . . . but I understand if you’re not ready to go there,” he quickly added when he saw her smile falter. “You’ll find your suitcase in the guest room on the second floor, a television in the den and plenty of food if you’re hungry.”

“That is good news. I did happen to notice there wasn’t any last night,” she admitted with an unapologetic shrug. “What can I say? I snoop for a living. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who didn’t at least have a jar of peanut butter and some stale crackers hanging around.”

“It’s easier to have what I want delivered when I want it. But given the risk involved, I decided it wasn’t a good idea to have strangers coming and going. You should find most of the food you like; I asked your grandmother for a list.”

“Thanks. But I’m not sure I can eat. My stomach is . . . jumpy.” She paced a few steps and spun back to face him. “Are you worried?”

“No.”

She caught the edge of her bottom lip between her teeth and studied his face, clearly trying to decide if his confidence was genuine. “What then?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Ready. That’s what I am. I’ve dreamed of this . . . getting another shot at Pavane. When it first happened, I didn’t believe he was telling the truth about the curse. Immortality? Everyone knows that’s impossible. When it became clear he was telling the truth, I was happy with the prospect of living forever.” He shook his head, remembering how short-lived that time had been, and how shortsighted he had been.

“Then I started losing people I cared about, everyone I cared about, and others began to look at me strangely, wondering why they changed and grew older and I didn’t. Hell, I was healthier and faster and stronger than ever. I tried to stay ahead of the suspicion and questions by moving from place to place, avoiding attachments. It wasn’t long until I was avoiding everything, and everyone.”

“You didn’t have anyone you could trust with the truth?” asked Eve.

“Did you?”

She looked away. “I thought I did, once.”

“And?” He angled his head so he could see more of her face.

“I was wrong about him.” She said it without bitterness; the soft thread of old pain that wound through her words was almost imperceptible. “It’s a lot to expect anyone to believe, and deal with. Anyone normal, that is.”

He nodded and drew in a deep breath. “I couldn’t live a normal life. And I wasn’t going to end up a circus freak or a specimen in some lab. By the time I was desperate enough to go to Pavane and beg him to undo whatever he’d done to me, it was too late. He was dead . . . and I was forever screwed. Literally.” He took a gulp of wine, suddenly aware of how much he’d revealed. One more thing he never did.

“I’ve waited a very long time to repay Pavane. So yes, I’m ready.” He walked over and took her firmly by the shoulders. “And so are you.”

Eve was too anxious to eat or sit. She ambled restlessly, gazing out windows and carefully avoiding the closed door of Hazard’s study. She’d already admitted to snooping in the man’s cupboards; she didn’t want him to think she eavesdropped as well.

In the living room she stood and stared at the spot where the ritual had taken place. The rug was back in place, but in her mind she saw the yellow chalk circle and remembered what had happened inside it. And what might have happened if Hazard’s plan hadn’t been ruined by Pavane. A cold, hard knot dropped into the pit of her stomach. If she let herself think about what might have happened, she would shatter, and so she stopped.

She hadn’t chosen this path—at least not consciously—but somehow this is where she’d ended up. She was accustomed to being able to look ahead at life and see exactly where she was going and how she was going to get there. Not now. The road ahead was cloaked in shadows, and like villains in an old arcade shooting game, they weren’t standing still. Instead, they were constantly shifting, revealing new truths and raising new questions. This path had to be walked one careful step at a time. And right now the next step had Pavane’s name written all over it. He could appear out of nowhere at any second, and when he did, she needed to be on-her-toes ready, emotions in check and firing on all cylinders.

Saving the man she loved would have to wait until later.

The man she loved?

When had that happened? Yesterday? Last night? During dinner at Settimio’s?

She didn’t even try to tell herself she hadn’t fallen hard for him or that she wasn’t sure what she was feeling. She was sure. Some things a woman knows in her heart long before her head is ready to make a leap of faith. From everything she’d read and seen in movies, she understood that the long, slow slide into love can be wonderful. But she and Hazard didn’t have that kind of time.

Sometimes, when danger looms and the world has been jolted off its axis, even the most sensible and careful woman in the world has to tell her head to step aside so her heart can take the wheel. And that’s what she was doing now. She was going to let her heart lead the way. That was new territory in more ways then one, and she probably ought to feel a little apprehensive. She didn’t. She felt calm, and strong. She was ready for whatever was coming. At least according to Hazard.

She couldn’t wait to see what she did next.

It was a wry, slightly self-deprecating thought, but even before she’d finished thinking it she found herself at the bottom of the staircase, looking up. Standing there she couldn’t see the turret room, but strange as it sounded, she could feel it.

Had that room also undergone a radical change? It was hard to see how it could have. There were no rooms to combine or rearrange, no walls to tear down. The only walls were inside her, and she had put them up herself.

Without giving herself time to think, or lose courage, she started up the stairs, first to the second floor and then up the narrow, curving flight of stairs to the very top of the house, moving slowly and discovering her feet had a memory all their own. With each step, pictures of a snow-covered path and white rose petals and Chloe’s pink flannel nightgown flickered in her mind’s eye. She made no attempt to hold on to any one of them for a closer look, but she also didn’t resist them, not the images or the memories attached to them. She let them come, and go, as they would. Her pulse skittered and her heart pounded as if she’d climbed a hundred flights, but she worked to keep her breathing slow and steady as she reached the top step and crossed the threshold of the turret room for the first time since the night of the fire.

She purposely didn’t turn on the light. The sun was quickly setting, but with windows encircling the room, there was still enough soft light to see. It wasn’t the way she remembered it. No surprise there. What did surprise her was how different this room was from the rest of the house. The color and personality lacking everywhere else were here in abundance.

A deep blue rug with red and gold and turquoise designs covered the wood floor, and custom-built bookcases lined the walls beneath the windows and on either side of the doorway. She wouldn’t have to search very far for something to read; books filled the shelves, and those that didn’t fit, either because they were too tall or simply because there were too many books and too few shelves, had been piled here and there on the floor. Eve had to smile at the haphazardness; some were standing, some stacked, and a handful had been left sticking out as if there might be a need to find them again in a hurry.

She stood for a moment and took it all in. The room, changed though it was, felt right to her, solid and safe. It smelled right too, like night and mystery. And Hazard, she realized, smiling again as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Feeling more at ease, she ventured a little farther, noting the easy chair and ottoman on one side of the room and the daybed on the other. There was just enough light to read the titles on some of the aged leather book bindings, many written in ornate lettering and impressed in gold. Chaos Magic, Ancient Alchemy, The Lost Art of Necromancy. No wonder Hazard was so well versed in the art.

Here was a book lover’s heaven. And it always had been, thought Eve, recalling the hours she’d spent there curled up with a book, Grand busy nearby. She reached to slide her fingertips along the windowsill closest to her, and then the edge of a bookcase shelf. Both were perfectly smooth. Just as she expected. No nicks, no scars, no traces of the past. A clean slate. All the years of messy and wonderful laughing, crying, loving that had been lived within those walls . . . gone. She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that, and so she didn’t think about it. Instead, she distracted herself by checking out what else the room held besides books.

There were brass scales and telescopes, as well as other mechanical gadgets she couldn’t name. On a table by the chair was an intriguing hodgepodge of smaller items: a crystal inkwell—complete with ink, she discovered by lifting the silver cover—and a magnifying glass, a letter opener engraved with a Celtic knot, and a fountain pen. A very old and very fine pen, she thought as she picked it up to admire the mother-of-pearl handle and silver grip.

Noticing that there were words engraved on the side of the pen, she brought it closer, but before she could read them, the lights suddenly came on and she looked up. The light wasn’t coming from the overhead light or a lamp, but from a scattering of tiny white lights that seemed to be floating at the top of each glass windowpane, as if someone had tossed handfuls of stars into the air. Eve looked around and smiled. Fairy lights, she thought, and they were. They’d transformed the room into a page from a fairy tale.

She glanced behind her and found Hazard standing in the doorway, watching her.

“How did you—?” She swirled her finger in the air to indicate the circle of light around them.

“I didn’t. The windows were custom-made for the previous owner. The lights are actually between panels of glass, and at night the wires are virtually invisible so the lights seem to be just hanging in midair. The inside panel pops out so you can replace the bulbs,” he added, anticipating her next question.

“Very cool,” she pronounced, doing a full three-sixty.

“Unus est ut unus praesumo,” Hazard said.

Eve turned and looked at him quizzically.

“I noticed you trying to read the inscription,” he explained, nodding at the pen still in her hand. “It’s Latin. One is as one dares. That pen is the closest thing I have to a family heirloom; it was the only thing left to me, all that remains from that time in my life.”

“It’s beautiful. Did it belong to your father?” She asked because “M. Hazard” was engraved above the Latin phrase.

The slight, sudden coolness in his eyes and the nearly imperceptible dimming of his smile might have been missed by someone else, someone not entranced by his every movement and slightest gesture, but the reaction wasn’t lost on Eve.

“Actually, it belonged to my mother. My father, the esteemed fifth Earl of Shafton, left me nothing . . . not entirely unheard of treatment for a bastard son.” He folded his arms in front of him and rested his shoulder against the doorjamb in a display of indifference she was certain he didn’t feel. “He was the love of my mother’s life; she was his mistress from the time she was seventeen until she began to show her age and he found someone younger and more to his taste.”

“I’m so sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say.

“Don’t be. It was a very long time ago. And there wasn’t a better mother than Molly Hazard; she taught me . . . everything. She more than made up for his failings as a father.”

“I’m glad for that.” She gazed at the inscription and then back at him. “One is as one dares. If that was her philosophy, I’d say you’ve done your mother proud. Of course,” she added in a dry tone, “you did manage to get yourself beaten and cursed in the process, and that’s only the stuff I know about.”

“It was worth it.”

Eve’s brows shot up. “Really?”

He gave a nod. “Every blow that landed. Every miserable year of being alone and afraid to do anything about it. All the anger. All the frustration. All worth it.”

“How can you say that?”

He came away from the door and walked toward her, slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. His gray eyes were dark with intent, and Eve’s breath caught in her throat.

“A week ago I wouldn’t have said it,” he admitted, stopping only inches away from her, close enough for her to smell the hint of soap on his skin and feel the heat of his body. “Do you want to know what’s changed since last week?”

Eve nodded.

His somber gaze moved over her slowly. “Everything.”

“Because of the talisman? Because you found what you were looking for?”

“No. Because I found exactly what I wasn’t looking for. I found trouble and complications and danger. I found you.”

As he spoke, he lifted his hand and played with the drawstring tie on her shirt, letting the side of his hand brush the side of her breast.

Eve shivered.

Hazard smiled.

And the love she’d only just acknowledged to herself poured through her, filling dark empty places she’d learned to pretend weren’t there.

He moved his hands to her shoulders and held her lightly. “Everything that’s happened to me, every mistake I’ve ever made and stupid thing I’ve ever done, has been worth whatever it’s cost me in blood and tears, because it’s brought me where I am, standing here with you. I choose to believe that this isn’t a random event, that it means something, that it’s the work of someone far wiser than I am.” His tone had become self-deprecating. “Because I never could have made it here on my own.”

“In that case,” she countered, looping her arms around his neck, taking pleasure in the silky caress of his hair on the inside of her wrists, “I’m very glad you just stayed out of it.”

He bent his head and kissed the hollow beneath her ear and the side of her throat and rubbed his mouth along her collarbone. “Staying out of it worked so well for me, I’ve decided to keep doing just that. No more denying what I feel when you’re near me, no more second-guessing, no more trying to save you from myself.”

A ripple of excitement tore through her as he tugged on the drawstring, not playing now.

“No more trying to control myself around you.” He loosened the bow and slid his fingertips inside; she definitely did not want to be saved from this.

“The reasons I gave for bringing you here were true,” he told her. “But there was another, much simpler reason I didn’t mention. You’re here because I want you here.”

Eve’s pulse leapt as he pulled her closer.

He held her gently, his hands exploring only the hollow of her back, but she felt him everywhere, all over her, and she ached for more. His sweater was soft beneath her fingertips, his body hard against her own. And when she drew a deep breath, she breathed him.

Desire built inside her, fed by her senses as just being in his arms flooded them with pleasure, layer upon sweet restless layer. And sweetest of all was knowing he wanted her as much as she wanted him, although in a saner moment she would argue that it wasn’t possible, that no one ever had or ever would want anyone as much as she wanted Gabriel Hazard.

He still hadn’t kissed her on the mouth, and the promise of it throbbed in the air around them, the deep rumbling of an approaching storm. He bent his head and his cheek brushed hers, the light contact tantalizing.

“There was an occultist,” he said, his lips close to her ear. “Last century. His name was Levi Eliphas, and he had a very interesting theory.” His cadence was slow and lulling, his voice pitched so low it was almost tangible, vibrating against her skin, as much sensation as sound. “He believed that if a man breathed in exactly the right way, in exactly the right spot on the back of a woman’s neck, she would surrender to him, mind, body and soul.”

As he spoke, he lifted her hair off her neck and the moist heat of his breath sent shivers cascading through her. The blend of sensation and anticipation was excruciating.

Please, please, thought Eve, kiss now, talk later.

“Does that really work?” she managed to whisper.

“I have no idea,” he confessed. “I only know that when it comes to you and me, you don’t have to breathe, you don’t have to touch me, all you have to do is be . . . to exist, and I want to surrender . . . everything. Everything I believe, every vow I’ve made. Suddenly I want what I’ve hated, and feared, for so long. I want to live.”

Nineteen

With his hand tangled in her hair, he tugged her head back and met her gaze, his own dark as soot, all trace of silver gone. “I want you, Eve. Enough to take any risk . . . too much not to.”

I want you . . . I want to live.

His words sent warmth spiraling through her; her heart lifted with relief, and with yearning. The yearning was more than physical, but at that instant it was the physical commanding her full attention.

And then he was kissing her and rational thought slipped further away. His tongue plundered her mouth as his hands roamed over her arched back and raked the curve of her hips. His mouth crushed hers, consumed it, with lust, with tenderness. It was an intoxicating combination, one she’d never tasted before, one she never wanted to do without again. She couldn’t. She would die if he stopped and pulled away, die of thirst, and of hunger, all of it for him, Hazard, a man she barely knew and didn’t understand and who, through some dangerous magic that was his alone, had come to own a piece of her soul. Wrapped in his arms, surrounded and overwhelmed by him, she felt as though a part of her had always been his, and always would be. Now, she thought, now she understood the weakness of an addict who would do anything, say anything, sacrifice anything, for what he needed to stay alive.

She needed Hazard. And even with her senses saturated and her mind drowning in the overflow, she recognized the corresponding need in him; she tasted it on his tongue and felt it in the strokes of his sweet, rough hands. He kissed and touched her as though he were a dying man and the only key to salvation was buried deep inside her.

She lifted into him, willing to give everything, greedy for even more . . . more of the fierce, leashed strength in his caress . . . more of the bruising perfection of his mouth . . . more of everything that was him. He tasted like wine and dark, sweet pleasure, and smelled like nighttime, like midnight secrets, like the fearless wind that sweeps everything clean and makes a new day possible.

Their kiss wound on. The floor beneath her tilted, and the ring of starry lights danced all around her. It was a moment of bliss, of grace. Wanting to hold on to it, Eve let her eyelids flutter shut, and suddenly she was flying. She felt her legs give way, her knees like butter, her bones like feathers, and then she felt Hazard lift her and carry her to the daybed.

He lowered her gently and stretched out on his side next to her, all panther grace and pirate smile. Watching her face, he trailed a fingertip down the center of her body and back up, circling her breasts in a figure eight, barely touching, putting urgency aside, wreaking havoc. When he plucked at the first tiny button of the long row on her shirt, Eve’s impatience surged; she tried to help.

Hazard brushed her hands aside, chiding her in a tone pitched low. “No. No. Not this time.”

And then he went to work seducing her—as if there was any need—one nerve ending at a time.

She wasn’t accustomed to being cherished, or experienced at being treated like the rarest and most fascinating of treasures, as if it mattered that she was loved to perfection and there was all the time in the world to do it. Her instinct to fidget or, worse, giggle, was no match for his ruthlessly patient touch, however. In the end she sighed and surrendered to him complete control of pace and tone.

And so the release of each button became a ceremony, the crook of her elbow and dip of her waist places of worship. His hands drifted over her skin, followed by his adoring and clever mouth.

When he lowered the zipper on her jeans and drizzled kisses along her hip bone, Eve quivered. When he slid lower, dragging jeans and lace with him, her breath thickened and her mind blurred.

He bent her knees, drawing one long leg up to rest on his shoulder, and kissed his way from calf to thigh. He would not hurry or be rushed, not even when she whimpered softly and arched her back like a cat after cream.

He nuzzled and licked and nibbled, and Eve shimmered beneath him. He stroked her with his open mouth and whiskered jaw, and she clawed the bedcovering she was laying on.

He made her shiver and sweat. With a velvet glove he drove her to the edge of madness and held her there, for heartbeat after delicious, unbearable, exquisite heartbeat, until craving became need and need spilled over into something deeper, and older, something timeless.

She wanted him, and she wanted him with her, in her, one with her.

Panting from the climb, hovering near the peak, she reached down and tangled her fingers in the silky strands of his hair, tugging so he would lift his head and look at her.

Come with me. Please, come with me, is what she intended to say to him.

But when he did look up and his eyes met hers, she was silent. Speechless. Lost in him.

Lost in the mesmerizing tumble of dark hair across his forehead, the smoky gaze, and wide, beautiful mouth, the elegant arrangement of bones that formed a face like no other she had ever seen.

Her silence didn’t matter. As if he heard the words that dissolved on her tongue, Hazard planted a hand on either side of her, pulled himself up in one fluid motion so that he was on his knees, straddling her, and brushed the hair from her face.

He pulled his sweater off and tossed it aside, and as soon as he did, Eve’s gaze was drawn to the mark on the left side of his chest. She couldn’t look away. For a long string of heartbeats, she couldn’t breathe. He bore the same mark, in the same place as the mark she’d been born with. The difference was that the mark on Hazard’s chest was red and slightly raised, and the flesh around it was just the least bit puckered. And it had been put there years before she was born.

She didn’t need to ask how or when or why.

“He used the hourglass to burn you,” she said.

“To brand me. To seal the curse and remind me of that night in his garden. The night my life ended . . . and became endless at the same time.”

She lifted her left hand and lightly put her fingertips to the mark Pavane had seared into his flesh, and there was an immediate surge of heat along her arm. Hazard’s eyes widened. He felt it too. It wasn’t her imagination or a trick of her passion-glazed senses. It was a bond. A connection. The same one that had been there between them from the first moment their paths crossed, but it was different now. Stronger. Brighter. It was power, Eve realized, a steady stream of it flowing between their hearts, joining them in a way she didn’t quite understand, and couldn’t come close to explaining. But she was willing to trust it.

It was time. She was ready.

She opened her arms to Hazard and he came to her, and as he did the space around them faintly glowed, as if the air was filled with sparkling gold dust, a gleaming circle within the circle of light that encompassed them from above.

Her body was still humming with desire, and it took little for him to make her blood sing and her senses clamor all over again. Only it was better this time because he was with her, his strong arms wrapped around her, his long, powerful legs entwined with hers, their bodies fitting together as if by design.

With his hands and his mouth and the grinding pressure of his hips against her own, he took her to a place she’d never been before. A place no one had ever been before, she realized hazily. How could they, when it didn’t exist until now, until Hazard and she created it together. It was where her dreams and desires and passions intersected with his, a nameless, uncharted speck in the cosmos that belonged only to them.

When they were both clinging to the last thread of reason and control, he braced his weight on his hands, staring down at her, the visage of every dark erotic fantasy she’d ever had as he made the first glorious slide of his flesh into hers.

Eve threw her head back and lifted her hips to accommodate his thrusts as they became faster and deeper, finding a steady, pounding rhythm that suited them both. She clutched his back to pull him impossibly closer, and he made the impossible possible by pulling her legs wider and higher until they were wrapped around his hips.

There was no surrender now, no submission, no quarter given and none asked. There was only skin against sweat-slick skin, and hunger, and possession.

Hazard’s passion was the flip side of her own, a single white-hot coin spinning between them until need and demand and sensation and pleasure melded together in an unbroken chain, spiraling around them and lifting them higher, always higher, until they found the most far-flung, purest peak of all, the jewel at the top of the universe, beyond the sun and moon and stars, a place without reason or control or rules, a place of giving, and glory, and where everything else, everything less, is left behind.

They stole another hour in each other’s arms, touching, whispering, and then a half hour more, before finally getting dressed, a lengthy process blessed with many interesting detours and interruptions.

They would both rather stay there, high in their fairy-lit turret, lost in the wonder and splendid newness of what they had found in each other, venturing forth only to fetch wine and cheese and bread and jam.

But they both knew that acting as if things were normal wouldn’t make it so. Hoping Pavane would just go away wouldn’t make it happen, and it was dangerous to pretend otherwise. Reclaiming the talisman had taken on a new urgency. Eve had known it was linked to the curse, but seeing the visible proof on Hazard’s chest drove the point home to her with heart-wrenching clarity. He’d told her he wanted to live, and she believed he meant it. For now. But life as he’d been cursed to live it had become so unbearable he’d devoted himself to finding a way to end it. How long would it be until the same frustrations and problems resurfaced and overshadowed whatever they had together? She refused to let that happen. There had to be a way help Hazard without killing him, and everything she knew about magic told her the talisman was the key to it.

When they’d finished dressing, she hung back and let him go downstairs without her. She wanted a few moments alone there, and he seemed to understand why without her having to explain. She’d been apprehensive earlier, wary of the changes she would find at the top of the stairs, unsure of how her heart would react being back there. Now, thanks to Hazard, she was very much relaxed, and she wanted another look, and a memory of this night to take away with her. It couldn’t wipe old memories away, but it might make them lighter.

She stood a moment in silence and then turned in a complete circle, realizing that the imprint of Hazard on that space was so vivid it left little room for anything else. All around her were Hazard’s books, Hazard’s treasures, Hazard’s scent.

At peace with that, she turned to go, and as she reached for the light switch, she caught the toe of her boot on something and stumbled. Catching hold of the door frame to steady herself, she glanced down to see what had tripped her and noticed a nail that had worked loose and was protruding from the threshold.

“It looks like they don’t build them like they used to,” she said to herself with a small measure of satisfaction. She made an attempt to stomp the nail down with her boot heel, thinking she’d never tripped over any nails in the old threshold. When stomping didn’t do the trick, she looked around for something to use as a hammer and spotted an old cast-iron doorstop shaped like an anvil. Grabbing it, she knelt down to get a better angle on the nail. If this didn’t work, she’d leave it for Hazard to take care of, but she’d done enough home repairs to at least give it a try.

Three solid whacks and the nail was almost flush with the wood. Adjusting her grip on the doorstop, she swung her arm back to get a little extra oomph, and slammed the point of the anvil into the door frame behind her.

Wincing, she turned to see the damage and found it was worse than she’d expected. The sharp edge of her “hammer” had made a deep gouge in the wood and caused the paint all around it to splinter. Already some chips had fallen, exposing the dark wood underneath, and a few others looked as though they were hanging by a prayer.

She puffed out a disgusted breath and ran her fingers over the area; even a light touch sent white flecks raining down.

Crappy paint job, she thought. She’d painted a few rooms in her time and learned the hard way how important it is to wash and sand the surface first. Otherwise the new paint doesn’t adhere properly and the teensiest little whack with an anvil will cause it to chip. Her guess was the painters had skipped the prep work on the door, which was surprising considering the great job they’d down elsewhere in the house. Now instead of helping, her little do-it-yourself effort had made more work.

Sighing, she brushed paint chips from her jeans and started to stand only to stop short when her attention was caught by what she saw at the very bottom of the area of chipped paint.

It might have been a natural imperfection in the wood, and most people wouldn’t have given it a second glance. But Eve knew exactly what it was: the top of the letter C.

“Hazard,” she shouted, shock driving the blood to her face. “Can you come back here?”

Too excited to wait for him, she grabbed the letter opener and started scraping. By the time he returned, she was almost done.

“Chloe was here,” he said slowly, reading over her shoulder as she uncovered the final E.

Intent on scraping, Eve hadn’t noticed him; now he hunkered down beside her.

“Chloe wrote this when she was eight,” she told him, her mind racing. “She did it with a wood-burning pen she got for her birthday.”

His dark brows lifted. “Isn’t eight a little young to be wielding something hot enough to char wood?”

“My father bought it for her,” Eve explained, shrugging one shoulder. “He wasn’t exactly a stickler for safety. The instructions said ‘Adult supervision required’; to him, supervision meant remaining within shouting distance. And it didn’t preclude plopping himself in front of the TV with a cigarette, a beer and whatever game was on.”

He nodded without comment.

“Grand supervised; that’s why Chloe wrote it up here. Grand never would have let her hurt herself. For all her . . . unorthodox tendencies, she was a wonderful grandmother. And trust me, when it comes to grandmothers, I know the difference between wonderful and . . . something else,” she finished on a sardonic note. She looked at the carving again. “I remember the day she did it. I was sitting right over there and . . . and that’s the point. Don’t you see? She wrote it. That means this is the same wood that was here when she was eight . . . before the fire. That doesn’t make sense.”

Hazard stood and ran his hand across the top of the door frame. Eyes narrowed appraisingly, he stepped back onto the landing and examined it from that angle. “This is definitely a weight-bearing wall,” he concluded. “So from a technical standpoint, it would make perfect sense to leave it in place if it wasn’t damaged and build around it.”

Incredulous, she stood facing him. “Wasn’t damaged? It wasn’t just damaged, it was gone.” She waved her arm around. “All of this was destroyed and had to be rebuilt. Most of the second floor went too. The damage wasn’t so bad on the first; that’s where our room was, Chloe’s and mine. Grand’s was on the second, but right at the top of the stairs.” She paused to breathe and clear her throat. “She ran down and got us out, but she couldn’t . . . that is, there wasn’t enough time . . .”

She stopped.

Hazard nodded without comment and rubbed the center of her back for just a few seconds. It was exactly what she needed. Too much sympathy and she would cave in and let it all come rushing back.

“Are you certain that’s how the fire happened?” he asked when she looked up, her emotions back in check.

She nodded vigorously. “Yes. I’m certain.”

“You saw it afterwards? You saw the extent of the damage for yourself?”

“Well, no,” she admitted, her expression clouding. “Not exactly. I couldn’t bear to come back here. I never even drove down the street again until the other night when I came here looking for Rory.”

“So you saw only photos and news footage?”

“Not exactly,” she said again, doubts appearing like uneasy shadows. “My grandparents—not Grand, my other grandparents, my father’s family—made sure all that was kept away from us. They thought it would make it harder for us to get over it and . . . and to be honest, I didn’t want to see it. I already had as much guilt as I could handle.” She picked up the letter opener, wiped it on her jeans and put it back where it belonged. “I did read a couple of the stories that were in the paper later; I found the newspaper in the school library. They were short on facts and long on aspersions about Grand, and by that time they’d stopped running photos. And then there were the rumors; not even a couple of world-class control artists like my grandparents could stop me from hearing the rumors.”

“So how did you find out how much damage there was to the house?”

“My grandparents,” she replied. “They described it to us the next day . . . Chloe kept crying and wanting to know when we could go home, and they made it clear we wouldn’t be going back . . . that there wasn’t enough left to go back to. And weeks later, when they got the report from the fire investigator’s office, they told us what was in it.”

“So in other words, everything you know about the fire came from your grandparents.” His mouth slanted in a cynical smile. “The world-class control artists.”

“What are you suggesting?” she asked, her mind already scurrying down dark, twisted paths that might lead to the answer.

“Nothing. Yet.” He paused, thinking, his expression troubled. “I had a hunch, so I checked it out. I didn’t plan on telling you about it until I knew more. And until Pavane was out of the way. I didn’t want anything to distract you.” He slanted a look at Chloe’s handiwork. “Obviously that plan is no longer viable.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Neither do I,” he admitted freely. “This raises questions and I don’t have the answers. But I know someone who does. I think you should meet him.”

James Porter’s condo was on the uppermost floor of a brick high-rise in what was once the city’s thriving manufacturing district. Like many of his neighbors, Jim had made the move from the suburbs after his kids left home, happily swapping a half acre of lawn for a short walk to the newsstand, and his ride-on mower for container gardening on the balcony.

Sitting in his comfortable living room, no one would guess it was once part of a watch factory. A big-screen TV anchored one end of the long room, and a classic upright piano the other. On top of the piano was an array of family photos. In one, three generations of Porter men stood shoulder to shoulder in the dress blues of the Providence Fire Department. A double frame held two pictures of Jim and his wife, one a wedding portrait, the other taken of the two of them on their fortieth anniversary.

“Annie’s off visiting her sister in Florida,” he explained as he showed them to the living room, picking up a stray newspaper and golf club along the way and shoving them out of sight.

A tall man, with a full head of white hair and steel-rimmed glasses, he was a spry sixty-something. It was easy to picture him swinging a nine iron.

“Can I offer you something to drink,” he asked before sitting. “A cup of coffee? Or a beer?”

“Thank you, no,” replied Hazard.

Eve shook her head. “Not for me, thanks.”

He took the chair across from the sofa where she and Hazard were sitting and sat leaning forward, rubbing his hands together. “To tell you the truth, I’m just as well pleased she’s not around for this. Not that we have secrets between us,” he hastened to add. “You don’t stay hitched for forty-four years by hiding things from each other. But she didn’t like the way I handled things back then, and she’ll like it less when she hears what your friend Hazard here told me.”

“I don’t want to cause problems for you,” Eve said.

“You’re not,” Porter assured her with an easy smile. “I’ll have to eat crow, but I’m used to that. I want to get this straightened out for you. I’m glad Hazard called me.”

Eve forced a polite smile, anxious to hurry him along and find out the reason for that call. Aside from revealing that he’d met Porter’s son, Jack, at the hospital that afternoon and that Jack had put him in touch with his father, Hazard had been closemouthed about the whole thing on the ride there. “I appreciate you letting us come to see you on such short notice, Captain Porter.”

“Happy to oblige. And call me Jim. We’re not crossing swords in front of the television cameras now.” He glanced at Hazard. “I recall a press conference or two down at headquarters when this lady’s questions had me dancing on coals. She’s a tough cookie when she has that mic in her hand.”

“You might have danced a little,” she countered, her smile genuine this time, “but you never backed away from telling the truth.”

“That was my way.” He looked her straight in the eye. “It still is.”

“Good. Only this time you have me at a disadvantage; I have no idea what questions to ask.” Restless, she slid forward on the sofa cushion. “Did Hazard tell you what I found upstairs in my grandmother’s house . . . his house now?”

“No. All I know is that something happened in the couple of hours between the first time he called me and the second that was urgent enough to make you want to get together with me right away. Why don’t you fill me in on the rest?”

Eve briefly explained finding Chloe’s handiwork in the turret and how it suggested that at least some of the framework up there predated the fire.

“But that’s not possible,” she concluded vehemently, and then, in a beseeching tone, “Is it?”

“It’s not only possible,” he replied, “it’s likely.”

“But. . . . how?”

“Now mind you, I wasn’t there while the renovations were going on, so I have no way of knowing how much of that framework survived or exactly which beams had to be replaced. But I put in two solid days at the burn site, that is, your grandmother’s house, and I can tell you that the door frame you’re talking about was still standing after the fire.”

“Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent. I remember being up there and seeing those words your sister wrote.” He pressed his lips together and shifted his gaze away from hers for a few seconds. “There are things you see afterwards, once the fire’s out and the trucks are gone, usually just some little thing, that brings you up short and stays with you. So, yeah, I’m real sure.”

Frowning, Eve struggled to make sense of what he had said. She tried not to sound as skeptical as she felt, but it wasn’t easy. “So you’re telling me the fire started in the turret, passed harmlessly through that doorway and then destroyed the second floor and a good chunk of the first?”

“No.” He picked up a manila envelope from the table beside him. “I’m telling you the fire didn’t start in the turret. It started in your parents’ bedroom.”

Twenty

“Are you sure you want to hear this?” Jim Porter asked. Eve didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I want to know the truth.”

“All right.” He pulled some forms from the envelope. “This isn’t the official report on the fire; that would be the one on record with the fire marshal’s office. But this one is the truth.”

“And the other isn’t?” she asked.

“Let’s just say it’s not the whole truth.” He handed the report to her and continued to speak in a steady tone as Eve scanned the document. “What you want is on the last page, last paragraph.”

She found the passage he referred to and started reading; some words and phrases seemed to jump out at her almost before she got to them.

Lit cigarette . . . smoking in bed . . . flammable bedcovering . . . original horsehair plaster . . . fast moving . . .

Even with her entire attention focused on the report, Eve couldn’t make all of the words connect to her brain. It didn’t matter; the words that did blast their way through got the message across.

Smoking in bed.

Her lungs began to ache and she realized it was because she’d stopped breathing; she was just sitting there, struggling with the realization that information on which she’d built a good part of her life might be wrong.

Might be wrong?

The man who literally wrote the book on the fire was telling her that what she’d been told was not merely wrong, it was an out-and-out lie.

Eve knew the earth couldn’t be see-sawing under her, but that’s how it felt.

“What it says here . . . about a lit cigarette . . .” Both men turned to her abruptly, and she realized the conversation had gone on without her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interrupted. I’m just so . . .”

“Surprised?” suggested Porter.

“More like stunned. And confused.”

“That seems about right, considering,” he said. “I expect you have a lot of questions for me.”

“Just one for starters: is it true? Was the fire started by my father smoking in bed?”

“I can’t say for certain your father was the one who was smoking . . .”

“My mother didn’t smoke,” she blurted. “And she was always getting after my dad for smoking in bed. She complained that it made the room smell and stained the wallpaper and . . .” She swallowed and now the back of her throat hurt too. “And that it was dangerous. Sometimes he listened and sometimes he didn’t.” She dropped her gaze and stared at the empty envelope on the coffee table in front of her, making her way through a jumble of broken memories and half-formed questions. “If a cigarette started the fire, my dad was the one who lit it.”

“I’m sorry, Eve,” he said. “I know this is painful to hear.”

“It’s all painful,” she retorted, looking up at him. “It’s been painful for the past twenty years. Why on earth did you lie? Did you think it would hurt less if we thought it was a candle and not a cigarette that killed my parents and burned our house down?”

“Yes. That’s precisely what I thought. I know differently now. Hazard explained to me that you blamed yourself because you had lit candles in the turret earlier in the night. If I’d had even the slightest idea that—”

“What? If you had any idea that you’d be pointing the finger at me instead of my grandmother, you wouldn’t have lied? Did you think it was better to let her take the blame and shoulder the guilt?” she demanded, unable to keep the heat from her voice.

He shook his head. “Better? No, there was no better, only bad and worse. I thought I was picking the lesser of two evils.” He rubbed his hands together again, obviously feeling stressed, but he looked her straight in the eye as he spoke. “You and your sister were just kids, and you’d already lost so much: both your parents, your home, everything familiar. The signs pointed to your father being the one responsible, and I knew how little girls look up to their fathers and how important that is when they’re growing up. I didn’t want to see you girls lose that too. I couldn’t bring your father back, but I could let you hold on to your memories of him as a good guy. Let him go on being a hero in your eyes. I didn’t see why one mistake had to cause even more pain to people who’d had enough.”

Eve listened with a growing heaviness in her chest. She ached, but she couldn’t quite put a name to the pain she was feeling. Part of her brain told her she ought to feel relieved, but should relief feel as jagged and raw as what was churning inside her? She didn’t think so.

Porter continued. “That’s why when John Lockhart came to see me to find out how the investigation was going, I agreed to omit any mention of smoking in my final report. Earlier reports from the crew on the scene that night had listed candles as the possible cause, so I just left it at that.”

It didn’t surprise Eve to learn that her grandfather had tried to control the contents of the report; he tried to control everything that involved a member of the Lockhart family, and he usually succeeded. “So this was my grandfather’s idea?”

He shrugged. “Not in so many words. And I didn’t do it for the sake of his son’s reputation or the Lockhart name, though I knew both those things were on his mind. I did it for one reason only, the one I told you, to spare you and your sister.”

“He told me that he and your grandmother were worried sick over the custody hearing that was coming up,” Ported told her. “That surprised me. It seemed to be a no-brainer that the judge would send you to live with them. They had everything and the sun to offer you girls, and your other grandmother was . . . well, there were all those rumors.”

“Right. The rumors.” Loyalty to Grand made her spine prickle. “The rumors that made it easy to toss blame her way and know it would stick. Just a little tip of the scales in my grandparents’ favor, in case the judge didn’t think it was such a no-brainer after all.”

“I’m sorry about that too,” he said. “I’m talking about my part in the shabby treatment your grandmother got. My report could have set the record straight and it didn’t. You have to believe me when I say I never meant her any harm.”

She did believe him. He looked almost as distraught as she felt, and that made it impossible for her to hate him or even work up a decent anger.

“Heck,” said Porter, “I thought she had a lot of guts for doing what she did to get you and your sister out of there. And she was plucky enough not to let the talk get to her; she just kept her chin high and acted as if she didn’t even hear it.”

“Oh, she’s plenty plucky,” Eve murmured. “Among other things.”

“She told her story about what happened and stuck to it. Lots of folks get flustered or don’t remember things, but not her.”

“You met Grand?”

“Just the once. She came back to the house the next day. Said she wanted to see things for herself. It was cold, so we sat in my car so I could run the heater while I took her statement.” He gave a pensive half smile. “I remember I had to stop her from climbing a ladder to get inside the house . . . and it wasn’t easy.”

“Plucky,” Eve said again, thinking it was a good bet he hadn’t stopped Grand from doing anything, merely delayed her. What had she wanted in the house? Eve wondered. What did she expect would have survived?

Porter cleared his throat. “If I haven’t said it already, I’m sorry for everything. I added to your troubles when all I was trying to do was help. Like I said, the lesser of two evils. That’s what I thought I was doing.”

“You made a judgment call,” Hazard said. “Sometimes in life that’s what you’re called on to do, whether you like it or not.” He was speaking to Porter, but his pointed gaze swept to include Eve, reminding her that she’d made a similar call at the hospital that very afternoon, and he’d made one in an Irish village nearly two centuries ago. “So you do what your heart says is right and hope for the best. Sometimes it doesn’t work out the way you intend. And sometimes you get a miracle.”

“Oh, there was a miracle that night, all right,” declared Porter, his remorseful expression becoming animated. “More than one, in fact. But I had nothing to do with it.”

“What sort of miracle?” asked Eve.

“Your grandmother getting down those stairs, for starters. I spent a lot of time afterwards examining the burn patterns and the materials and doing the calculations. There was half-century-old horsehair plaster in the walls up there, for Pete’s sake; do you know how that stuff burns?”

“Fast?” she guessed.

“Real fast. There had to have been flames on those stairs by the time she got to them. It would have taken a miracle for her to get to the bottom and still have the juice—and the air—to make it through the smoke to your room and get you kids out.”

“Where there’s a will . . .” Affection and admiration warmed her voice. “Grand has always been very protective of the people she loves.”

“Something sure was,” he retorted. “Because that’s not even the best part. I told you the fire didn’t start in the turret. Well, it didn’t even burn there.”

The revelation caused Eve’s brow to furrow.

Hazard made a low sound of surprise. “That would explain the door frame.”

“That’s right,” confirmed Porter. “The fire never reached the top of the stairs. And it should have. Fires don’t make decisions: burn here, don’t burn there. Burn left, don’t burn right. They just burn.” He said it with respect. “The fire started in the bedroom at the end of the hall and moved toward the stairs. When it got there, it should have spread out in both directions.” He moved his hands far apart to illustrate. “It didn’t. Instead it stopped on the stairs to the turret like there was an invisible, fire-repellent curtain hanging there. And if that wasn’t a miracle, it was one hell of a magic trick.”

“Wow.”

“That sums it up pretty well,” agreed Hazard.

They’d just left Jim Porter’s condo and were standing at the end of the hallway waiting for the world’s slowest elevator. Eve stared out the tall window on her left without appreciating the view of the city lights and the bay in the distance. She was still reeling from everything Porter had told her.

“It wasn’t my fault,” she said softly, trying the words on, letting the notion wash over her. “I feel . . .”

“Free?” Hazard suggested. “Vindicated? A thousand pounds lighter?”

“Exhausted. I think I’ll need a week to let it all sink in and sort out my feelings.”

He took her arm and spun her to face him, his grasp firm on her upper arms. “The one thing that matters most doesn’t need sorting. Let this sink in right now: you weren’t responsible for any of it, Eve. Not the fire, or your parents’ deaths, or any of the other things you’ve convinced yourself were your fault.”

Moved by his fervor, she searched his eyes. “How did you know Porter lied on the report?”

“I didn’t.”

“You must have had an inkling; you reached out to him even before I discovered Chloe’s name on the door frame.”

“ ‘Inkling’ is too strong a word. I had questions. And at first I didn’t even have those, only a vague uneasiness about the way the fire was supposed to have happened. The more Taggart went on about the energy in the turret and how it was a place of power, the more suspicious I became. Your grandmother is a very powerful enchantress, not as powerful as you are—or could be—but definitely no one to be trifled with. Taggart is in awe of the T’airna legacy,” he told her, a bemused smile playing at one corner of his mouth. “And he doesn’t awe easily.”

She tingled inside as he slowly slid his palms down her arms and took her hands in his as he continued talking.

“It didn’t make sense that a loving grandmother with all that power at her disposal, a grandmother willing to risk her life to save her granddaughters, didn’t use her magic to protect them in the first place.”

“Fire is a natural element,” she pointed out. “If Grand had barred it from the whole house we wouldn’t have been able to light a match or use the stove or fireplace.”

“True, but she might have been able to protect the house from any negative effects of her magic. Some heavy-duty magic went on in the turret. Haven’t you ever wondered why she didn’t take precautions to keep it from spilling into the rest of the house?”

Eve shrugged her shoulders. “I guess I assumed she had and that whatever she did failed or was just no match for the fire.”

“Did she tell you that? Did she ever explain to you what happened?”

“She tried,” Eve admitted sheepishly. “I refused to listen. I didn’t want to hear anything about magic, or about that night.”

“And I couldn’t let it go. Especially after I watched televised news reports from back then.”

She looked at him with surprise. “How on earth did you do that? That was way before the digital age, back when tapes were used over and over again.”

“Not all of them. Many of the ones that survived have been turned over to the History Center and are being archived and brought into the digital age.”

“Yes, but that’s a fairly new project,” Eve countered, “and a huge one. It will be years before those archives are available to the public.”

“Which is no doubt why the director was so happy to receive my generous contribution, and so eager to locate the footage I was looking for. Once I saw it, I knew I wouldn’t quit until I found out what really happened.”

“Why? What did you see on the film that made you so determined?”

“You,” he told her. His mouth slanted with gentle amusement. “I saw you. Minus the style and self-assurance and professional savvy, of course. But it was still you. The same beautiful eyes,” he said, lifting one hand and running the back of his fingers along her cheek. “The same sweet, stubborn chin. I played the clip over and over. In it, you were standing on the steps of the church following the memorial service.”

Eve closed her eyes, her face suddenly hot. She’d never seen the film clip he was talking about, but she remembered the day itself. She remembered being there, the flurries of snow in the air, the cold wind that whipped the tears from her cheeks, the whisper-thin layer of ice on the church steps.

“A tall, thin woman with silver hair and silver spectacles is standing just behind you and your sister,” he said.

“My grandmother Lockhart.”

“She tried to move between the two of you to take your hands as you went down the steps, but you stepped in front of her; you took your sister’s hand yourself and stuck your chin in the air and started down. And for just an instant the camera catches exactly that, the two of you apart from everyone else, together, and alone. A child protecting a child.” Emotion hovered in his voice and his hands tightened around hers as he dipped his head and briefly touched his forehead to hers. “That’s what you were, a child. That scared, lonely child made some hard decisions, and you’ve honored every one.”

He drew back to look into her eyes, smiling faintly. “That’s why I couldn’t let it go. You’ve spent most of your life seeking the truth for other people, Eve. I decided it was time someone did the same for you.”

A bell signaled the elevator’s arrival. Eve bit her lip; his words had struck a well of emotion and tears filled her eyes. Before they could spill, Hazard distracted her with one of those annoyingly smug shrugs he was so good at.

“That and the fact that I know a damsel in distress when I see one,” he said carelessly.

“A damsel? I am no damsel,” she retorted, gladly taking the bait. “And I wasn’t exactly in distress either.”

“If I’m not mistaken, it’s the sole responsibility of the party who rides to the rescue—metaphorically speaking—to identify the damsel and determine the degree of distress.”

He gestured for her to enter the empty elevator ahead of him.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said, brushing past him. “The damsel—and I use the term loosely—ought to be the one to say if she is or isn’t in distress.”

“Unless she’s bound and gagged and can’t speak for herself.”

The doors closed and the elevator started down.

“She could still signal with her eyes.”

He arched one brow. “Did I forget to mention the blindfold?”

“Yes . . . conveniently enough.”

Eve was surprised to feel the corners of her mouth turn up; surprised she could manage even a small smile with so much on her mind that wasn’t anything to smile about. And it was only because of Hazard that she could. She was very glad he was there to distract her from herself. Hell, she was glad he was there period . . . and grateful that she hadn’t been alone when Porter dropped his bombshell, grateful she wasn’t alone now. She would have gotten through it alone if she’d had to; she always did. But it was nice that for once she didn’t have to.

“Hazard?”

He angled his head to look at her. “Yes?”

“Thanks. You know, for riding to the rescue. There may have been a little bit of distress going on.”

Smiling, he reached for her hand and carried it to his mouth, murmuring as his lips touched her skin. “Any time, Enchantress.”

When they stepped from the elevator into the lobby, there was an elderly woman with wavy white hair coming toward them, moving slowly and clutching a lacy, rose-colored shawl around her narrow shoulders.

She waved her free hand to get Eve’s attention. “Dearie, would you mind holding the elevator for me?”

“Not at all,” Eve replied.

“I’ve got it,” Hazard said before she could reach for the button. He stepped back and used his shoulder to stop the doors from closing.

“Thank you, thank you,” the woman said.

When she was about two feet away from Eve, her hands fell to her sides, revealing a round gold brooch securing her shawl in front. Eve’s gaze was immediately drawn to the robin’s-egg-sized moonstone at its center. As she stared at it, the stone flashed so brightly she squinted and lifted her hand to shield her eyes. It was like staring into the sun; she couldn’t see anything. Or hear anything, she realized, not liking it. When someone grabbed her arm from behind, she assumed it was Hazard.

She was wrong.

It made no sense, and that was why he was able to figure it out so quickly.

One instant Eve was standing a few steps in front of him as he held the elevator doors open, the next there was a large potted fern in her place. Moving fast, he’d circled the plant to look for her. She was nowhere in sight, and when he glanced back, neither was the fern.

He bristled at the realization that he’d been fooled . . . by a bloody glamour. It had to be a glamour, a form of mystical disguise mages use to make things appear different than they really are. He thought back to the moment right before Eve disappeared and recalled the old woman who’d asked them to hold the elevator. The fern had obviously been an illusion, and the old woman could have been anyone . . . Pavane or someone he’d enlisted to do his bidding. She’d appeared harmless, which meant exactly nothing.

He swore quietly, disgusted with his own lack of vigilance. Had the woman been alone? He thought she had, but he also had a dim recollection of a couple of men in work clothes walking a short distance behind her. He hoped he was wrong. It would complicate things considerably if Pavane had help.

He felt like hitting something or better yet, killing someone. When he first realized Eve was gone, he froze inside. Now he was burning up. Anger and frustration were very familiar to him, but fear, the particular brand of fear that was swelling in his chest, making it hurt, making it hard to breathe, was something he hadn’t felt in so long he’d forgotten how vulnerable you became when you let yourself care too much about someone else.

He was worried about her, about where Pavane—it had to be Pavane—was taking her and what he planned to do once he got her there. Eve wasn’t defenseless by any means. She was powerful, more powerful than she realized, but Pavane had experience and the element of surprise on his side. He would have planned every step ahead of time; he would anticipate her resistance and be prepared to deal with it. Graphic images flashed before him, and it was only when he felt the sudden stab of pain in his jaw and realized how hard he was clenching it that he pushed them aside. He forced himself to relax his muscles and take a deep breath.

Panic wasn’t going to get her back, and neither was standing there indulging in fantasies of what he’d do to Pavane if he hurt her. Better to find them before he had the chance. Hazard ignored the tense black chill spreading inside and tried to think. Tracking them by himself would be slow, maybe impossible. Magic was never a level playing field. He needed help. Taggart immediately came to mind, but as he headed to the car his head cleared and he thought of someone else, someone with reason to hate Pavane almost as much as he did, someone whom Hazard bet wouldn’t flinch from doing whatever it took to stop him.

Eve opened her eyes. At least she thought they were open. It was so black wherever she was that she couldn’t be sure. Black and stuffy and cramped. And smelly. She inhaled. Oil: that’s what she smelled. Motor oil. She was in the trunk of a car.

The trunk of a car!

Panic spurted to life inside, making her breath come fast and shallow. Every gangster movie she’d ever seen and years of covering crime stories told her that being locked in a car trunk rarely ended well.

Easy, easy, she told herself, deliberately taking slow, deep breaths in an attempt to steady her nerves. How the hell had she gotten there? The last thing she remembered was getting off the elevator. With Hazard. Could it be his trunk she was in? Had he drugged her? Or knocked her unconscious before tossing her in his trunk? Was she losing her mind? Of course it wasn’t Hazard’s trunk. He had no need to shanghai her. And he would never hurt her. She knew it as surely as she knew her way home.

There was a much more obvious candidate for villain: Pavane. The thought of him had been hovering at the edges of her mind; now it pushed to the front and panic began to bubble its way back to the surface. It had to be Pavane. The fact that she had no recollection of how he’d pulled it off nor any idea what had happened to Hazard only alarmed her more.

Being a sorcerer, and by all indications a powerful one, Pavane wouldn’t have had to resort to drugging her or clunking her on the head. In fact, he’d probably consider such methods beneath him. He would have used magic, and Eve was suddenly reminded of all the things she hadn’t learned from Grand over the years, of all the wasted opportunities to acquire knowledge . . . knowledge that would have come in handy at that moment. If there’d been enough room to move her legs, she would have kicked herself.

Besides being dark and smelly, it was also quiet inside the trunk, and she jumped when the silence was broken by the metallic clink of the lock release, followed by the trunk lid lifting.

She gulped the fresh, cool air and looked up at a starless evening sky that was quickly blotted out by the craggy face of Phineas Pavane looming over her. Eve flinched and bumped her head on a piece of metal. His eyes were too black and too bright, and his thin lips were pulled back in what passed for a smile, revealing uneven teeth.

“My dear Enchantress, you look so uncomfortable. Allow me to help you out of there.” He offered his hand.

“I don’t want your help.” Her tone was stiff, like the rest of her.

Avoiding his hand, she climbed from the trunk with a notable lack of grace, stumbling when her legs resisted being asked to stand upright so suddenly. How long had she been stuck in there?

“You are a spirited one,” he observed with obvious approval. “Once you acquiesce to your fate, that vigor will serve us well. You should be warned that the sooner that occurs, the more . . . accommodating I am likely to be.”

“I don’t want accommodating,” she snapped. “I just want out of here.” She glanced around to see where here was and was chilled to see rows of headstones and stone monuments on all sides. A cemetery. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that Pavane would choose to hole up someplace creepy. There were no lights and, she noted glumly, no exit in sight. The idea of trying to find her way out of there in the dark was scary, but still better than the alternative.

She turned to go, and as soon as she did, two men she hadn’t known were there closed in to stop her. Pavane waved them off with a frown, then raised his right arm out straight in front of him. He was holding something in his hand, and Eve immediately recognized the moonstone brooch the woman in the high-rise lobby had worn pinned to her shawl.

“Exsisto etiam,” he cried, and the sudden, bright flash of light from the stone brought memory rushing back.

“You,” she said, glaring at him. “The old lady in the lobby . . . that was you.”

He nodded. “It was.”

“You used a glamour.” She had learned about a few things from Grand. That was one of them.

“I did.” Preening, he swept his free hand in front of himself, and with barely a shimmer of air the old woman was standing there in his place.

“Dearie, would you mind holding the elevator for me?”

Eve recognized the woman’s voice.

He repeated the sweeping motion with his hand and the illusion was broken.

“I appear as I choose to appear,” he boasted. “You will not move.”

He shifted his attention to the two men, and Eve quickly discovered he meant that literally. She couldn’t move her legs; it was as if the commands streaming from her brain to her muscles were being blocked or overridden. Somehow he was able to use the moonstone to control her, first at the elevator and now here. Now she knew how Hazard felt when she’d done it to him at the auction.

“Go now,” he said to the two men. He pulled a small leather pouch from his coat pocket and tossed it to the man closest to him. “Give this to your master in keeping with our arrangement.”

“Master?” the man echoed, looking confused. “Oh. You mean the boss.”

“Tell him I am well-pleased with his services, and that should matters not unfold as planned, I may soon call on him again.”

“Sure thing,” the man replied, shutting the trunk.

“Wait,” Eve cried as they started to get into the car. “Please wait. Please don’t leave me here with—”

The men slammed the doors on her plea and drove away, and what meager light there had been went with them. With no moon and no stars above and fog hovering at ground level, the world around her was reduced to shadows. Cold, damp shadows. A light breeze ruffled her hair and gave rise to an assortment of unsettling sounds, perfect fodder for her proficient imagination.

She was scared. Heart-hammering, dry-throat, cold-sweat scared. And managing to hold on to her deteriorating composure only by reminding herself what Hazard had said about Pavane needing her help if he wanted to remain in that realm. Which he apparently did. He’d gone to the trouble of conjuring a glamour and abducting her because he wanted to use her, not hurt her. In fact, she got the distinct impression he looked on her as his personal Golden Goose and wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize the golden eggs he was expecting her to lay.

“Come along,” he said, dropping his hand to his side.

Come along? She was about to remind him that she couldn’t move when she discovered she could. She’d taken only a couple of steps when he turned back, his stern expression readable even in the darkness.

“Do not think to resist,” he warned her. “You cannot prevail over me without drawing on the power of your talisman, and I have seen to it that will not happen until I am ready. I also took the precaution of seeding these lovely grounds with some nasty traps, inhabited by some equally nasty old sods, on the slight chance you do manage to slip away from me. Did you know that necromancy has long been a particular talent of mine?”

Necromancy, the art of manipulating the dead. Eve shivered and recoiled at the same time. If he was bluffing, it was working. She was definitely having queasy second thoughts about charging into the darkness alone. Instead, she reluctantly followed him along the narrow paved road in the opposite direction from the one the men had taken.

When she didn’t move quickly enough to suit him, he took hold of her upper arm and pulled her along. “Quickly, Enchantress. I have no time to indulge your dawdling.”

After walking for several moments, he steered her off the road and onto an expanse of overgrown grass. Here, there were no pale, hulking headstones, only a mausoleum straight ahead. It was built of sandstone bricks and had a sharply angled roof with several decorative, cone-topped spires at each corner. If not for the location, and the headless stone angel standing guard in front, it could almost pass for a fairy tale-cottage in the woods. Like the one where the Big Bad Wolf devoured the grandmother and laid in wait for Red Riding Hood, Eve thought grimly.

Pavane hurried her up a handful of steps, and the solid-looking black door at the top swung open at the wave of his hand. Once inside, another flick of his wrist lit the candles that had been set on every available surface. Eve sucked in a quick breath. Old habits die hard and slow, and the sight of all those flickering candles still made her uneasy.

She turned her attention to the angels pictured on a trio of stained glass windows at the rear of the chamber, and tried not to think about the contents of the coffin-sized marble drawers lining the walls on both sides of her. The wall of windows curved outward, forming an impressive backdrop for the ornate stone altar. A number of items, a pendulum and chalice and dagger among them, had been arranged on top of the altar. Pavane had been busy.

He moved to the other side of the altar and waved her closer.

“Come, come. I have everything prepared, and we must act quickly; the resin of dragon’s blood is particularly unstable when it sits too long.”

“Heaven forbid,” she muttered under her breath, having no idea what he was talking about.

“Come closer, woman,” he ordered in a loud, impatient voice. “And be quick about it.”

Eve remained where she was, shoulders back, fingertips in the front pockets of her jeans in what she hoped was a convincingly fearless pose.

“No.”

Twenty-one

She stood her ground as Pavane’s surprise flashed to anger, and he gathered himself to glare down his nose at her. “No?” “That’s right. I know why you brought me here; you need my help in order to remain in this realm permanently. Well, you can forget it. After everything you did to my family in the past, and to Hazard, and God knows how many others, do you really expect me to help you to stick around so you can have another shot at it?”

“That is precisely what I expect. And precisely what you shall do. You’re far too kindly not to.”

“You’re wrong, Pavane. I don’t feel at all kindly toward you.”

“I wasn’t talking about me.”

His confidence bothered her. He’d proved he could use the moonstone to incapacitate her, but Eve suspected that whatever he was planning to do at that altar was going to require more active participation on her part. And he didn’t seem at all worried about getting it.

“The ritual requires T’airna magic and T’airna blood,” he told her. “I prefer it come from you and that you share it with me willingly, but if you prove difficult, I warn you now that I will not waste time on you. You’re not the only woman alive with T’airna blood in her veins. As you say, you have family to think of.” He rubbed his fingertips together, his needlelike gaze boring into her. “Your sister is the obvious second choice. Chloe, is it?”

Fear sliced through her.

“But she is so far away; even for me it would take considerable time and effort to bring her here. More than I can spare, I’m afraid.”

He sighed heavily, but Eve knew better than to feel relief.

“Someone more close by then,” he went on. “The crone? Or your niece. Rory. Sweet Rory, so young, so . . . malleable. And, I would venture to say, far less trouble than you are proving to be. I think it would take very little effort on my part to convince young Rory to do what I tell her to do.” Eyes glinting coldly, he raised his left hand into the air beside him and suddenly she was seeing Rory in her room at home, stretched out on her bed studying, with her iPod on and her head nodding in time to whatever song was playing.

He gave her a moment to watch, ample time for panic to come scratching.

“She will make a fine substitute. Don’t you agree?” he asked.

The fear she’d felt when he first mentioned Chloe’s name was a whisper compared to what roared to life inside her now at the thought of him getting his hands on Rory.

She shrugged one tense shoulder, doing her best not to let him see how effective a threat it was. “Another glamour?”

“No. What you see is conjured but very real, a glimpse provided by one of the many portals through time and space that exist for those who are clever enough and not afraid to use them.” He dropped his hand to his side and Rory’s image disappeared. “I’ve proven that I am not afraid. You have not. Perhaps fear is the reason you’re content for your birthright to remain lost. Perhaps you would be relieved to have your niece take your place here with me so you can go on hiding from the truth and shirking from your destiny.”

“I’m not afraid; I just don’t trust you. You could be bluffing. You said yourself you waited centuries for an enchantress with the power to call you back. That’s me, not Rory.”

“To be sure. But the ritual to allow me to remain is not quite as demanding as the one that brought me here. It’s possible any T’airna blood will do. Shall we put Rory’s to the test?” His voice had become silky and evil; as impatient as he was, he was enjoying taunting her. “It would be no trouble at all for me to summon her here now and—”

“No,” she said as soon as he started to raise his arm again. In view of everything she knew about him, the odds were Pavane was lying through his crooked teeth, but there was no way she was going to take a chance with Rory’s safety at stake. “Leave her—and the rest of my family—alone, and I’ll . . . I’ll help you.”

“Yes. I was sure you would,” he drawled. “Now let’s get on with it.”

He beckoned her closer, and Eve had no choice but to move forward until she was standing across the altar from him. Choking down her resentment and frustration, she watched as he uncovered a trio of small pots, each containing a different colored powder; he took a generous pinch of all three and combined them in a black iron burner set above a flame, and soon aromatic smoke wafted through the air. He shrugged off his coat and tossed it behind him, and then rolled up the full sleeves of his dingy white linen shirt. Encircling each of his wrists was a three-inch-wide pattern of black lines and symbols that reminded Eve of the tribal bands usually tattooed around the upper arm.

“The Bonds of Arricles,” he explained when he saw her staring at them. “They were necessary for my stay in the Void, but in this realm they are a dangerous anathema. They are an open passage to the darkness, sapping my life force. To survive here, I must rid myself of them, and that can only be accomplished through divine magic. There are so precious few conduits to the divine left in the mortal realm . . . how lucky I am to have my own.”

Eve realized he was talking about her and shook her head. “It’s a little early for gloating, Pavane. I’m not exactly Harry Potter.”

He stared at her with a puzzled expression.

“In other words I’m not a whiz when it comes to magic. Even if you’re right and there was once a family connection to divine magic, it dried up ages ago . . . and mostly thanks to you, ironically enough. You stole the talisman, and things went to crap.”

“Ah, but now I am returning it to you . . . for the time being, at least.” He reached inside his waistcoat and withdrew a small case that looked to be made of iron. That was probably the precaution he mentioned taking to ensure she didn’t have access to the talisman until he was ready. When it came to magic, iron had strong resistant properties. He opened the case and held the hourglass pendant aloft. “Here is your conduit to divine magic.”

“We’ll see. I have no idea how to use it or—”

“You need no knowledge. As I told you once already, you are. That is enough. You have the gift; my very presence here is proof of it, and I felt your power again today. I feared it would take longer to find you again, but then I sensed your power in the air, blazing so much brighter than any other.”

Eve realized he was talking about when she was with Allie at the hospital.

“So bright it lingers still,” he said. “And with your talisman in my possession I had no trouble following your path.”

Of course. Like calls to like. And no good deed goes unpunished. Apparently she was the one who’d been too quick with the gloating, thinking the magic she used to help Allie would have no dire consequences. Being stuck in a crypt with Pavane was plenty dire. She still wasn’t sorry for doing it. There were no scales that could weigh the value of Allie’s future happiness against whatever it might cost her at Pavane’s hands.

“What happened earlier was a complete anomaly.” She didn’t really expect to convince him that she was useless and he should let her go, but if she was able to kill a little time, he might weaken or she might have a brainstorm about how to get away from him without endangering anyone else. “The truth is I never use whatever power I have, well, almost never, and as a result, I know squat about magic. I guess I’m a lot like Maura in that way.”

He swatted the comment aside like a bug. “You know enough. The incantation and implements have all been prepared. When the time comes, you will focus on the talisman, forge that connection anew and allow your power to flow freely. I will do the rest. And now,” he said, eyes glittering with excitement as he picked up the dagger, “a drop of your blood to mix with mine, to bind dark magic and light, and these cursed bonds will disappear.”

He sliced his palm with the dagger and let a few drops of blood fall onto the burning plate. Then he held out his hand for hers.

She was brave and stoic until he actually cut her.

“Ouch. That stings. A lot,” she snapped when he shot her a disapproving look.

He ignored her after that, intent on the words he was quietly mumbling. Eve balled her fist and looked for something to wrap around her hand. There was nothing. Nothing except his coat and that looked like an infection waiting to happen. She couldn’t even scrounge in her purse or pockets for a tissue because she didn’t have her purse, or her jacket, she realized, wondering if they were in the car trunk and if she would ever see them again. It was hardly her biggest concern at that moment, but it ticked her off just the same. Everyone kept talking about the power she possessed, but at the moment she felt distinctly powerless.

“Focus,” Pavane ordered, and she realized he’d halted the incantation to stare angrily at her. “On the talisman. Focus on the talisman.”

“All right, all right. I’m focusing.”

She did, but not with the same passion and pure intent as she had earlier that day, not even close. Part of her wanted him to fail and be sucked back to wherever he’d come from; part of her was afraid that if they failed, he would go looking for fresh blood.

She settled on passive resistance; she concentrated all her attention on imagining a link between herself and the talisman, but without any specific outcome in mind. Pavane had boasted that as long as she did that he’d take care of the rest; so let him.

After a few moments it sounded to her as if he was repeating the same lines over and over. He was getting short of breath and perspiration speckled his brow; his eyes were fixed on the pendant with mad intensity. Twice Eve thought the marks on his wrists faded slightly, but it could have been her imagination. Both times when she blinked and checked again, they were as black and sinister looking as ever.

Finally he gasped and stopped, sucking in a hard, deep breath as he hunched forward, hands grasping the edge of the altar stone to hold himself up.

“You,” he spat, “this is your doing. You resist me.”

She shook her head. “No. I did what you told me: I focused. Maybe I really am like Maura. Maybe I don’t have what it takes to help you.”

“You do. You proved it once already. You used your connection to the magic of the talisman to bring me back. Why not now?”

“The turret,” she blurted. “There’s energy there, and lots of it apparently. That could have been the power boost that made the difference.”

“We were not in the turret,” he reminded her, but his brows had lowered in contemplation.

“No, but we were close to it, a lot closer than we are here.” She didn’t have a plan exactly, or really at all; what she had was a whiff of hope. If she could convince him to move to the turret, she would be on home turf, with help at hand: Hazard and maybe Taggart as well.

“No,” he said firmly. “My strength is greater here, and your magic together with the talisman’s should be power enough for your part of this. It will be enough,” he declared and reached across to grab her left hand. He clenched it tightly with his, the hourglass pressed in-between.

The gold pendant ground into the open slice across her palm, making it sting all over again; Eve could feel her blood flowing and see it dripping from her fist onto the altar. Sweat was running just as freely off Pavane’s face, and snakelike veins had popped out on his temples and the side of his throat.

Again and again he recited the incantation, but the bands didn’t budge, and he finally released her and sank almost to his knees, his arms clinging to the altar.

“I must sit.” He staggered a few steps to a bench behind him and collapsed there. His shoulders heaved and his chest rose and fell with each labored breath. “I need to rest,” he panted, “to gather myself. You do the same. When I am ready, we will try again.” His cold gaze shifted to hers and held firm. “And again and again. Until we succeed. If you are resisting my efforts, you are merely delaying the inevitable . . . and risking punishment. You cannot overcome me, Enchantress. Your power may be older and run purer in your veins, but in this place and in this time the power I possess is greater . . . and do you know why?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Because I do not fear it.”

She sat on the floor near to the entrance and stared wistfully at the closed door, all that stood between her and freedom, or so it would seem. Pavane had done nothing to ensure she didn’t bolt because he knew he didn’t have to; as long as he held over her a threat to harm Rory or anyone else she loved, she wasn’t going anywhere.

Minutes passed. Then hours. She wasn’t sure how many because her watch was also missing. At times Pavane appeared to sleep. Eve wasn’t able to, in spite of feeling the kind of exhaustion that dims your brainpower and paints your entire body with a dull ache. It could have something to do with the damp concrete she was sitting on and the rough stone against her back. It was just as well. She needed to think more than she needed sleep.

She sat up straight and rolled her shoulders a few times, and right away instinct took over. Her strength as a journalist was her ability to cut through a fog of details to get to the facts of a situation and follow them until she found the truth.

She wanted to know why tonight’s ritual failed and the one at Hazard’s house was a success . . . albeit with a surprise ending. She still thought the explanation could be that old cliché, “location, location, location,” but Pavane had been pretty quick to dismiss the idea. And as much as she despised him, the man knew his magic.

Fact: after she spent years struggling to keep magic out of her life, it had returned full-tilt boogie at the auction and refused to go away. She hadn’t set out to use magic that night, but somehow it happened. She’d frozen Hazard out of the bidding in order to win the pendant. Something wonky had also happened in the garage afterwards, but at the time she was convinced that was all Hazard’s doing.

Fact: she now knew that wasn’t possible because Hazard had no power of his own.

Since that first time, she’d also used magic to scry for Rory, to trigger Pavane’s return and to override human physiology and modern medicine to help Allie. All successfully. So why was she able to use magic on those occasions and not now? What was different this time? Better question: what was the common denominator in the others? It wasn’t the talisman; she didn’t have it when she scryed for Rory or at the hospital. It wasn’t location either, since the hospital was nowhere near the turret . . .

A soft gasp escaped her as the answer clicked into place. Pavane was right. It wasn’t the turret all the others had in common. It was Hazard.

Hazard was there the night of the auction and every time since. Memories came tumbling back to her: the mist that had hovered over them in the ballroom, the protective shield that materialized to protect the two of them from the warlocks in the garage, Hazard telling her he’d felt her magic sitting in the hospital waiting room, just as he had at the auction. He’d said it made his head ache, and that suggested a much closer connection than simply catching a glimmer of it in the air the way Pavane had.

She had felt the same connection. From the first moment she saw him, she had sensed something between them that was stronger and deeper than simple attraction. Why else would she have felt its pull when she was trying to get rid of him as surely as when she lay spent in his arms? She thought about the brand on his chest that matched the one on her own. Where did that fit in? And the curse inflicted on him by a man long connected to her family? It had happened on what was once T’airna land. And it had been done using the pendant that had started it all; a gift from a goddess, created from materials that conventional modern wisdom said existed only in fables. How did all those pieces fit together? What thread wound through time and distance to connect Hazard’s life with hers?

She had no idea. How could she? She was no longer in the land of facts; this was a land of ancient alliances and obscure prophesies and arcane laws. A world where magic trumped science. A world she had turned away from a long time ago and didn’t understand. Now, with all her heart, she wished she did.

God, she was so stupid. Of course, no normal person could be expected to understand what was happening. But then, a normal person would never find herself in the position of needing to. No normal person would ever have the very lives of her niece or grandmother or sister depending on her ability to go toe-to-toe with a sorcerer packing centuries of dark power.

Fact: she wasn’t normal. And it had been stupid and stubborn and reckless to pretend otherwise. To think that she could just opt out of the game and expect the universe and everyone in it to go along.

Maybe Pavane was right; maybe all this time she’d been telling herself she was taking the high road, she’d really been running scared. And going nowhere. Ignoring or denying reality didn’t change it. And like it or not, magic was her reality. Her truth.

At that second everything she’d been through and everything she’d learned lined up as precisely as the sun and moon and earth do for an eclipse, and let the very heart of that truth sparkle in front of her.

Magic hadn’t ruined her life. Magic had saved it.

The night of the fire it was Grand’s magic that had saved her and Chloe. The same centuries-old magic that she had carried across an ocean to make a new life. Her grandmother had been a steadfast guardian of their legacy. She had nurtured it and believed in it and held fast to her belief even when it must have seemed that it might all end with her. She had never faltered, and never pushed or demanded. She had simply kept the flame burning through the darkness.

Now it was Eve’s turn.

When Pavane called to her, she got to her feet quickly, no longer the least bit weary or uncertain. Or afraid.

She wasn’t going to help him with his ritual, and she certainly wasn’t going to let him use Rory or anyone else to do it. Pavane was a danger to her family, and he always would be unless someone put a stop to it. She hadn’t started this battle, but she was going to finish it. It would end tonight. And it would end where she chose to end it.

This time he didn’t have to urge her to come closer or move faster. She was eager to get on with it.

He’d accused her of shirking her birthright and hiding from the truth. Well, she was through doing both.

With each step she could feel the simmer of her own power. It rose from her core, hot and ready and endless.

He’d dumped the burnt powders from the bowl and was busy refilling it. When he finished and looked up, their gazes met and held. And he knew. He sensed the difference in her right away, and the subtle shift in the balance of power between them. Eve saw it in his eyes, a flicker of fear quickly gobbled up by arrogance, and she smiled.

That ruffled him enough to make him keep his eyes on her as he reached for the talisman on the altar between them. She let his fingertips brush it before using her will alone to move it away from him. His eyes went wide at the sight of it in the palm of her hand.

“Mine,” she said, and used her will again to slip the chain over her head.

“Of course, Enchantress. Haven’t I said all along that you are the key to unlocking the power of the talisman? Of course it belongs to you. I wanted only to help you, to guide you since you yourself admit you have had limited experience using your gift.”

“And you have,” she told him. “I was especially helped by what you said about portals.”

He tried to mask his uncertainty by taking back control. “Good, good. Shall we get on with it now?”

He reached for the dagger, and Eve swept her gaze over it, sending it flying away from him and off the altar so forcefully it hit the wall and fell to the floor.

“Not this time,” she told him, no longer smiling. “You’ve had the last drop of T’airna blood you’ll ever get.”

She knew what she was about to do down to the smallest detail; she’d planned it while she waited for him to wake. She’d envisioned each moment, and when she put on the pendant, the moves she’d planned took on a new, intuitive certitude. She knew things she had no way of knowing, understood things she had never understood. It wasn’t Pavane’s curse that had kept Hazard alive, it was T’airna magic. That was the magic she was able to call on when they were together. She had never done this before, but those who’d gone before her had, and their wisdom was hers. It always had been, born in her blood, speaking to her too softly to be heard above her fear.

She heard it clearly now as she held out her hands, saw him struggle to resist her will, saw him fail and stare aghast as his own hands betrayed him and obeyed her silent command. She took his hands in hers and grasped them tightly, and immediately the walls seemed to be spinning around them, slowly at first and then gradually faster so that the visual details blurred into a whirl of muted color. It was an odd sense of motion. Like sitting in a stopped train and having a car drive alongside and for just a second not knowing whether the car is moving or you are.

It grew dark around them, and cold. There was a whooshing sound that gave way to one that was keener, like wind sweeping across a canyon, carrying them with it. Eve couldn’t explain it, but that didn’t matter. She didn’t have to explain to make it happen.

The spinning gradually slowed. Where there had been stone and stale air there was now sky and budding trees and the cool clear night. They were no longer in the crypt, but in Grand’s rose garden. There had been no moon in the cemetery, but there was one here, full and pale. She looked around and with a nod conjured a circle of candles; with another she set them aflame and saw Hazard and Grand and Rory there waiting for her.

Good. She would need them for what she was about to do.

Twenty-two

This was as far as she’d planned while Pavane was sleeping. The rest had come to her later, when she claimed the pendant and put it on. She knew then what she must do, and that it must be done here, with soil steeped in memories beneath her feet and the moon in that velvet patch of sky directly overhead. There, in the place where she’d first felt her power on the same night she lost it . . . and lost herself.

She released Pavane’s hands, and he staggered a few steps away from her. There was an expression of astonishment on his face as he hurriedly glanced around, and again she saw a spark of fear in his eyes. But this time the spark ignited a sudden blaze of rage and hatred as understanding of the situation dawned on him.

Eve held her hands out, palms up, and gazed at the moon overhead. “Within this circle of light I gather what is mine. What I hold fast inside these flames cannot be taken from me; what I cast out from this light is gone forevermore.”

“Words,” Pavane said with contempt. “Speak all the words you want. You have no power over me.”

He attempted to stomp from the circle, but with a quick movement of her hand, Eve stopped him.

“You’re wrong,” she said as he turned back and glared at her. “This is not your place or your time. You’re only here because you stole and murdered and used power that was not yours to use. And all that keeps you here is the bond you managed to forge with this . . .” She lifted the pendant. “And over this I do have power.”

His upper lip curled back. “Power? Ha! You didn’t even have enough power to detect a most rudimentary glamour or to lift your foot when I bid you not to.”

“That was then,” she retorted, smiling. She turned and held her hands out to Grand and Rory. “Join me.”

As they moved to her side and linked hands with her, Hazard backed out of the way.

“No . . . you too,” Eve said to him. “You’re a part of this too. As much a part of it as anyone.”

He hesitated, regarding her uncertainly.

“Trust me,” she said.

He nodded his head once and stepped to stand shoulder to shoulder with Grand.

“It is our will to cast this darkness from our midst.” She stared into Pavane’s eyes. “Phineas Pavane, I cast you from this time and place. With the T’airna power of the past I cast you out. With the T’airna power of the future I cast you out.”

“Think of what you are doing, Enchantress. I could make you a queen,” he declared, stuffing his anger under a flimsy layer of concern. “Join your power with mine and we will be indomitable.”

“I don’t need your power.”

Grand squeezed her hand, and Rory breathed a soft, emphatic yes. Eve felt their pride in her but resisted acknowledging it with a quick glance, not about to underestimate Pavane and take her eyes off him for even that long.

“With all the power and wisdom entrusted to me, be it from blood, the elements or the divine, I cast you out.” Her voice rang out strong and clearly. “Let whatever it is that resists our will and holds you here reveal itself now so it can be severed forever.”

She pulled her hands free and held them in front of her, closing her eyes and calling to mind a detailed image of the athame she used to cut the winter rose, and as she did she felt the cool, solid weight of its silver handle in her left hand. She opened her eyes just as a dark line was taking shape before them, running from the pendant around her neck to the center of Pavane’s chest. The line was grainy and translucent . . . and not real. It was only a mystical manifestation of Pavane’s connection to the pendant. Unlike that grainy line, the link was very real, and the spell that created it powerful and devious. Eve hoped the athame would do the trick. A mystical weapon to break a mystical bond. As soon as the link was broken, nothing would stop the bonds on his wrist from sucking him back where he belonged.

“No,” Pavane cried when he saw the athame that had appeared in her hand. “You bitch. You can’t do this . . . I won’t let you. Who are you to destroy all I have worked for?”

“You know who I am,” she replied, and brought the blade up.

“Bitch,” he growled again.

Eve caught the sudden movement of his arms from the corner of her eye and looked up quickly to see his face a feral mask, with teeth bared and eyes that were no more than faintly glowing orange slits.

She wasted no time planting her feet, her body braced for whatever came. She felt more than saw Hazard straining at the tether of his self-control, and knew that if she didn’t act fast, he would. If there were dragons to be slain, he wanted to be the one to do it, risks and consequences be damned; she knew that and loved him for it. And chivalry aside, he had a reason of his own to slay this dragon. But tonight was about more than rescuing her or evening the score with Pavane. Much more. She needed Hazard there in order to do this, but he couldn’t do it for her.

With one hand, Pavane made a circle in the air above his head and set wind swirling around them, a wind so vicious it felt more like a wave of water than air. Rory lost her balance and crouched down to brace herself with her hands on the ground. Hazard gathered Grand close and used his body to take the brunt of the punishment as they were pelted with crushed stone lifted from the garden path and anything else in the vicinity light enough to be swept up and flung at them: trash cans, rusty garden tools, fence pickets.

Eve focused and struck back, sending her will forth to push against his. They came together with a thud that she felt as pressure inside her head, and then the wind quieted as suddenly as it had come. And Pavane hissed in anger.

Here was the battle. Dark against light. Pavane wanted to possess her power and her soul. He couldn’t, so he wanted to destroy her instead.

And she wanted the same, to destroy him.

“I cast you out, back to the dark,” she cried, tightening her grip on the athame.

“Do that and what you love will cease to exist,” Pavane warned, and in spite of herself the words made Eve pause. He pointed his finger at Hazard. “Cast me out, and my last act in this realm will be to end the curse and let him die.”

“You can’t end what never was,” she retorted. “Your curse was a joke, a failure.”

“It was not a joke to him. He lives.”

“Not because of you,” she said, certain of that though she couldn’t explain why. “Hazard is alive because of what’s inside him; he lives because he carries what you crave . . . what you cheated and bullied and killed to possess: the magic of the talisman. You meant to curse him, and instead he was given T’airna magic to safeguard. “

“You lie,” he shouted. He lifted his arms and held them bent in front of him, with his hands fisted, and the Bonds of Arricles on his wrists turned the fire red of a blacksmith’s tongs.

“Eve, look . . . what is that?”

It was Rory’s voice, and Eve thought she was asking about the marks on his wrists until she saw the heavy black shadow that seemed to be oozing from the pores of Pavane’s body.

He’d told her the marks represented an open portal to the Void; now the marks were smoldering and something evil was crawling out of him and tainting the air. He was using the portal to draw the darkness here, she realized with a rush of new fear. The shadowy substance hung in the air around them, a strange, sinister presence spreading outward. As it neared the candles, Eve watched, anxious to see if her circle would hold. Whatever it was, she didn’t want it out there roaming free. It reached the edge of the circle and stopped, like water backing up behind a damn. Inside the circle it grew darker, and the air became saturated with the shadows, which felt oily on her skin and her tongue.

She called out to the sorcerer. “Don’t be a fool, Pavane. Whatever this is will end you too.”

“I am willing to chance that it will end you or one of yours first, and your circle will split open. Spare yourself that pointless sacrifice by releasing me now. We can agree to be done with each other and go our own ways.”

She wouldn’t agree to that even if she believed him, which she didn’t.

She couldn’t let him go as long as he had any connection at all to the pendant. He’d proven how resourceful he could be; she didn’t want another T’airna woman to have to fight him centuries from now because she failed to finish the job. She’d thought of magic as a gift, and as a burden, but never before as a responsibility.

Gathering her energy, she released it full force and straight ahead, driving the shadows away enough to see the dark line stretching between Pavane and the pendant. She focused, reared back and brought the athame down with everything she had.

The fact that the line was a magically wrought figment didn’t keep it from feeling real—unyielding, electrified, solid-as-hell real. When the blade struck the line, a high-pitched screech ripped through the night and ten thousand volts of very real pain shot up her arm. The sheer force of it made her stumble; the sheer agony of it made her drop the athame and clutch her shoulder, where the pain had stopped and pooled and gone to work ripping the joint apart, bone by bone, tendon by tendon. That’s how it felt anyway. Hot, paralyzing agony.

She wanted to cry but swore instead.

Still holding her shoulder, she bent to look for the athame. The shadows pouring from the Void were so thick she could no longer see her feet, so she crouched and used one hand to feel around the ground for it.

“You can’t do this.”

Eve froze, not sure it if the insidiously assured voice came from somewhere out there or from right inside her head. Either way, the message was unmistakable. But was it true?

Maybe she couldn’t do this.

She had no training. No experience. She didn’t even know all the rules. What the hell had made her think she could pull it off? Maybe the insight and unswerving confidence she was willing to believe were hers simply because she put on the pendant and said she was ready were as illusionary as that dark line . . . only not as impervious. Because now, at the worst possible moment, her confidence had faltered.

She abandoned her search and stood.

Maybe she couldn’t do this.

Before the lump in her throat had finished forming, Hazard was at her side, his body so close to hers there was no room for shadows in-between. He bent his head and put his mouth close to her ear.

“You can do this,” he said, his voice deep and strong. “You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever known. Not because I love you, because you are. You can do this. You were born to do this. And I was always meant to stand by your side when you do.”

He lifted his head and their gazes met, his gray eyes holding nothing back as he pressed the athame into her hand.

“Finish it now,” he urged.

Eve’s fingers curled over the handle as she turned and lifted her arm in a single fluid motion. She thought only of her intention at that moment, and as she started down with the blade, Hazard reached to cover her hand with his so that they were acting as one.

There was the same loud piercing sound when the blade made contact, but this time it was met by Pavane’s enraged howl as they destroyed his only tie to their world.

Eve’s blood sang with a surge of power purer and stronger than any that had gone before. She threw her head back, turning her hand to lace her fingers with Hazard’s around the athame, gathering that boundless power, using it to turn all the evil and darkness that was in Pavane, and all the evil and darkness he had drawn there, back on him.

His departure was a reversal of his arrival, and just as rapid. He began to fade, his form softening to a column of jelly, then dust, then nothing. He and the dark shadows that oozed from him were gone in a small burst of smoke and sparks that sizzled and lingered a few seconds longer and disappeared too.

There was a half a second of silence, and then Rory whooped and there was a resounding “Saints be praised” from Grand. But Eve turned first to Hazard.

He was winded, his face drawn and pale. He still managed a look that made her feel as though it was the sun shining down on her instead of a silver-white moon. “You did it.”

“We did it,” she corrected, shaking her head in amazement as she tried to absorb what had just happened. More than two hundred years of evil had just bitten the dust, and it couldn’t have happened in a more fitting place as far as she was concerned.

“All I did was hold your hand,” he said.

“It was more than that . . . you made it happen. I felt it and so did you. What I told Pavane about the magic of the talisman being in you was right. I’m sure of that.” She shoved the athame in the waist of her jeans and laid her hand on his cheek, feeling stubble and heat. “Thank you.”

His smile was no more than a slight twist of his bottom lip, and even that seemed an effort as he bent his head and brushed her mouth with his. “My pleasure, Enchantress.”

As soon as the words were out, he went down on one knee, and for one crazy, careening heartbeat Eve thought he was about to propose. Then he was flat on his back, not speaking, not moving, his skin chalk white except for his lips, which were too red.

Eve dropped to her knees beside him. “Hazard? Gabriel, are you all right?”

“He doesn’t look right.” Rory had come to kneel next to her. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Eve replied, shaking off a suspicion too scary to think about. She touched his face, her brain tripping over the fact that he looked like ice but felt like scorching coals, as though an inferno were blazing just beneath his skin, burning him alive from the inside out. That wasn’t normal.

Of course it wasn’t normal. They’d left normal a long way back.

“I don’t know,” she said again, shoving her hands into her hair, not sure whether to shake him or slap him or scream at him. “Oh God, I don’t know.”

“Eve, listen to me.” Grand’s voice was calm.

Eve looked up at her anxiously. Gratefully. Of course Grand would know what had happened to him and how to fix it. The vise squeezing her heart loosened a notch.

“Do you know what’s wrong with him?” she asked.

“Yes. And somewhere inside, so do you,” her grandmother said, her expression soft over steel.

Shaking her head, Eve turned back to Hazard. “No. I don’t.”

“What neither of us knows is exactly why,” her grandmother went on in her unflappable way. “But there’s no time now to look for reasons and explanations. This man is mortal, and his body was never intended to be subjected to the power of magic.”

“Except that, if I’m right, he’s been subjected to it for a couple of centuries and handled it just fine.”

“In a dormant state,” Grand said gently. “Eve, I believe you are right. I believe that for whatever reason, Gabriel Hazard was chosen to carry and safeguard the T’airna magic belonging to the talisman. As long as that magic was inactive, he was safe. But tonight you called on the power inside him, and by doing that you loosed fire and fury that no mortal could endure.”

“All right, but that’s over now,” she said, stroking his arm as if to soothe him even though he lay absolutely still. Too still . . . beyond soothing. She tried not to think about how much hotter he felt than he had just a moment ago. “Maybe whatever this is will pass. We could move him inside so he’ll be more comfortable. He might just need to sleep it off. Or an ice pack. It could pass. It could,” she insisted in the face of her grandmother’s discouraging silence.

“It won’t,” Grand said quietly.

“Then I’m calling 911.” Resolved, Eve started to get up but stopped when she felt Grand’s hand on her shoulder.

“That would be a waste of time, dear. He’ll die while doctors try to find a cure that doesn’t exist. Science can’t fix this,” she said to Eve in a voice of finality. “Only you can.”

Eve quickly looked up. “How?”

“By restoring the talisman to its original state.”

“And if I do, he’ll be all right?”

“I can’t promise you that. I have no way of knowing for sure,” Grand admitted. “But if you don’t do it, I fear he won’t survive.”

“But if magic is what’s kept him alive all this time, much longer than he ever would have lived without it, and I take that magic from him—assuming I can even do it—then . . . then . . .”

“Then he could die,” Grand said for her. “Yes. But if you don’t do it, and quickly, it’s my belief that he will die.”

“And mine.”

Eve glanced past Grand and saw Taggart standing just outside the circle.

“I only saw the end of what happened here,” he said, “but that’s enough for me to know that what your grandmother says makes sense. You have to help him.” He was pleading with her, and impatient at the same time.

“I want to help him,” Eve retorted. “But I don’t want to kill him doing it. I can’t do that . . . I can’t take that chance. And that’s what I’d be doing, taking a chance with his life. Do no harm. Isn’t that the golden rule? If I call for that magic I’d be . . .” She waved her hand as she struggled for words. “I’d be stirring it up all over again, and that could kill him. But if I wait, he might be able to . . .” She sighed, uneasy in the face of Taggart’s open disapproval. “I could be doing him harm. Can’t you see that?”

“What I see is a good man dying because he stuck his neck out to help you, and you not having the gumption to do the same for him.”

Eve flinched, but he wasn’t done.

“Maybe it is a chance you’ll be taking, Enchantress,” he said. “But you’re acting as though you have a choice and you don’t. So just do what you need to do and hope that luck is with you.”

You can’t rely on luck.

Who was it who told her that? Madame Lavina. It felt like weeks had passed since then.

Take a chance.

You can’t rely on luck.

What the hell could she rely on? Grand’s opinion? Taggart’s?

She gazed down at Hazard, watched the painfully slow rise and fall of his chest and remembered resting her head there, right over his heart, right over the mark they shared. That felt like weeks or months or lifetimes ago too. But it wasn’t. She’d known him only a handful of days and he had changed her forever. He’d given her back herself.

It was as if a veil had lifted inside her, and thanks to him she had the courage to face what was hidden behind it.

Now the very magic that had brought them together threatened to rip them apart. Did she have the courage to face that?

No. The answer erupted inside her, burning her throat. She couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t bear to lose him now that she’d finally found herself . . . he was part of that self.

She leaned forward to lay her head on his chest and listen to his heart beat. It sounded very far away.

“I love you,” she breathed into his shirt. “Everything I am is yours. Please come back to me.”

As she lifted her head, a passing breeze made the candle flames flicker and wave so that the light seemed to dance around them, and when she looked at his face in that dancing light, the memory of seeing that face lit by another circle of candlelight, on another night, came sweeping back to her. It was the night she cast the Winter Rose Spell. She did have the promised vision that night in the turret, and the face she had seen was Hazard’s.

Hazard was her one true love. Her soul mate. Her destiny.

And clearly she was his. A destiny two hundred years in the making was not to be taken lightly, or surrendered easily.

You can’t rely on luck. But what was lost can be regained, if the heart is willing.

That was the rest of Madame Lavina’s advice to her. And her heart was willing . . . willing to risk everything for their shared destiny.

She just hoped it wasn’t too late.

It couldn’t be. Reality bends to desire. And no one had ever desired or wanted anything as much as she wanted to hear Hazard’s voice, and feel his fingers on her skin and that silly little thrill she felt every blessed time the man looked at her and smiled.

Slipping the pendant off, she placed it carefully on his chest, not at all surprised to see the crystals in the hourglass turn red. Then she took a deep breath and did what she needed to do. Right away a shimmering mist appeared around the two of them, mist like the one that had saved them from the warlocks that first night, and had stopped Hazard from tangling with Pavane before the time was right. She understood now that the mist appeared only when she and Hazard and the talisman connected in a certain way, and she wondered if it had been there tonight when they came together to battle Pavane for the last time.

Quietly, she said words to invoke the Goddess Danu and ask her help in restoring the magic of the talisman. She finished with gratitude and a plea that it be done with harm to none.

She felt movement in the air above where Hazard lay, and miniscule specks of light swirled around the hourglass, its crystals now dazzlingly bright.

Something was happening, and the effect of it rippled outward, like rings of current from a stone tossed in a lake. The butterfly effect, Eve thought, aware of the ruffling of the grass and rustling of leaves. Soon there was the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance, and overhead the sky was ablaze with shooting stars.

When the swirl of light around the talisman dimmed, and the last star had shot across the sky and disappeared, Eve released the breathe she was holding, not surprised that her chest went on aching.

It was done, she thought, and she waited for Hazard to open his eyes.

Epilogue

In summer, when roses spilled like scarlet blankets over the high stone walls, filling the air with their unique, almost unbearably beautiful scent, the garden at 128 Sycamore Street was the perfect setting for a wedding, and there was no place on earth where Eve would rather be standing when she clasped hands with Gabriel Declan Hazard and promised him everything, and forever.

If it had been up to her, they would have done it months before, back when March was melting into April, with nature still waking from winter and Grand’s once resplendent flower beds shabby and bare of blooms. They would have done it without a harpist and a four-tier cake too beautiful to cut and a crisp white carpet strewn with rose petals. Without the circle of white chairs trimmed with wildflowers and white tulle bows; without dozens of friends and family gathered to witness the start of their new life together, and to share in their joy.

When it came to marrying the man she loved, none of that mattered to her. What mattered was that she had come whisper close to losing him—the one man she thought she’d never find and worried might not even exist—and she hadn’t. In defiance of logic and collective wisdom, and against all odds, Hazard had opened his eyes and come back to her.

Eve would have wed him that very moment, or any of the countless thousands of moments since, but Hazard would hear nothing of it. He was determined she would have the wedding of her dreams, and her sister had been quick to second the idea. And so she was outvoted, and the months-long endeavor began, starting from the ground up. Literally. By night Hazard studied old photographs of the property; by day he shoveled and sweat and planted and trimmed to restore the gardens to their former glory.

Only Rory and Grand were allowed to help. He taught Rory a myriad of useful things, like how to use a wheelbarrow and sift stones from topsoil and tell flower from weed, but most important, he taught her that there are decent men in the world, men worth waiting for, no matter how long the wait. The physical labor was backbreaking, but whenever Eve suggested hiring someone to help unroll all that sod or take down that dangerously tall tree standing between the sun and the sunflowers, Rory would shake her head and roll her eyes and remind Eve that this was a labor of love, and a labor of love was something you had to do yourself.

From the mouths of babes . . .

Watching from the kitchen window as the two of them worked side by side, with Hazard teaching her niece about life and Rory providing him with a crash course in pop culture, Eve had to agree. The restoration of the garden was, in many varied and subtle ways, a true labor of love. If she hadn’t already fallen hopelessly in love with Hazard, she would have tumbled head over heels on the spot.

Grand’s contribution to the project was to pour lemonade and stand by, armed with an umbrella for shade and a plethora of opinions and advice. In her own inimitable way, she had also seen to it that every last rose and peony and lilac was in perfect bloom when the sun rose that morning; Eve wouldn’t be surprised if the blue sky and gentle cooling breeze were also her work.

While the others were getting the yard in shape, Chloe devised a plan to turn it into an enchanted garden for the big day, with fairy lights and garlands of fresh flowers and songbirds in gilded cages high in the surrounding trees. Eve loved the idea, though the number of lists and phone calls and decisions involved in making it happen left her head spinning . . . and gave her a new, deeper understanding and respect for her sister’s talents.

It was almost a shame Chloe was getting out of the wedding-planning game. She’d found a kindred spirit to take over the business, and she was returning to school to study mythology, a youthful fascination rekindled by a new friendship with the best man at one of her weddings . . . that March wedding off the coast of Greece to be exact. He was a college history professor, and also a kindred spirit.

It was still too soon to be certain where it would lead; impulsive, fall-in-love-first-think-later Chloe had decided to take this one slow; the romantic in her wanted to discover if he was her one true love the old-fashioned way. Rory considered that to be an annoying waste of a perfectly good talisman, but Eve needed no further proof that when it came to matters of the heart, T’airna luck had changed. The talisman had brought Hazard and her together, and at the same time, half a world away, Chloe had met a man who breathed life into an old dream . . . maybe more than one.

Things were definitely looking up. And come January and Saint Agnes’ Eve, Rory would still be a few weeks shy of her sixteenth birthday. Maybe the next winter rose would bloom for her.

Now finally the day had arrived. Hazard was predictably gorgeous in a classic black tux, and she had never felt as girly and graceful as she did in the silk chiffon and lace confection of a dress. The late afternoon ceremony, which took place at the heart of the garden, was simple and beautiful.

The minister, an old friend of Grand’s, read from the Bible and from Shakespeare, and offered words of advice for the days ahead.

“Do not think that you can direct the course of love,” she told them, “for love, if it finds you worthy, shall direct you.”

And then it was time for their vows.

To love and to comfort; to honor and keep,
I give you my hand, my heart and my love.
Forsaking all others, with this ring, I thee wed.

Still holding hands and looking only at each other, they heard the words that officially merged the long and winding paths they had traveled alone into one they would follow together.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife—and may your days be good and long upon the earth.”

Those last words brought a smile to Hazard’s face that few present could fully appreciate.

“Amen,” he said softly.

And then the kiss . . . a light touch at first, with all those people looking on, a slow brush of his warm mouth against hers, something a little giddy and a little restrained that grew longer and deeper because they couldn’t help themselves. With Hazard’s hands at her waist, the kiss became a promise, and a preamble to all the kisses to come.

Slightly breathless, grinning happily, they turned together to the cheers and applause of their guests. Chloe, the maid of honor, gave a little squeal of excitement and hugged Eve before returning her bouquet to her.

After congratulating Hazard with an enthusiastic slap on the back, Taggart grinned at Eve.

“The best man gets the second kiss,” he told her, claiming his.

“And the grandmother of the bride gets the next,” Grand exclaimed, opening her arms to Eve and gathering her close. “You are the most beautiful bride there ever was. ’Tis truly a magical day.”

“I second that,” said someone, and Eve looked up from hugging Rory to see Jenna and her husband waiting to congratulate them.

“Beautiful and magical,” Jenna declared, hugging first Eve and then Hazard without missing a beat or a word. “My God, this place is like the Brothers Grimm meets Disney . . . the flowers . . . the birds . . . your sister is amazing. And your dress. Oh my God, that dress is a million times more gorgeous with you in it than when I saw it on the hanger. Don’t you agree?” she asked Hazard, who had unleashed a roguish smile.

“Most definitely,” he drawled, his smoky eyes on his bride.

“I know that look,” Jenna laughed. Slanting a sly look at her husband, she added, “I’ve been on the receiving end of such a look once or twice myself.”

Now Hazard did turn his attention to Eve’s dear friend and used his deepest, smoothest voice. “And deservedly so.”

Jenna preened playfully. Over the past few months, as Hazard slowly came out of his self-imposed exile, the two of them had become partners in teasing banter. “A silver-tongued devil with the face of an angel. Has anyone ever told you that you have the face of an angel?”

“Only you, Jenna,” he replied, patient as she reached up and grasped his chin to give it an affectionate squeeze.

“The angel of sin,” she cooed. Sighing, she said to Eve, “You lucky broad.”

It was a perfectly Jenna-esque parting shot, and she moved on reluctantly because others were waiting to offer their congratulations. There was Angela Beckett and a few friends from work, a few friends of Grand’s, Chloe’s professor and Toby-just-a-friend from the night Rory went missing.

Eve’s smile was aching long before the whirlwind of cocktails and dinner and dancing al fresco came to an end. When Hazard waltzed her to the edge of the dance floor and then escaped with her into the shadows and along the side of the house away from the driveway, she went willingly and giggling.

“I have something to show you,” he told her.

“I have something to tell you first,” she said with another champagne-induced giggle.

He stopped and turned to her, moonlight gilding the elegant lines and angles of his face. Smiling, he touched a stray lock of hair that had escaped her chignon. “What do you have to tell me?”

“Two things. That I love you.”

“And I love you,” he said, and dropped a soft kiss on her mouth. “What’s the second thing?”

“My feet hurt.”

He laughed and dropped to a crouch in front of her.

“Lift your foot,” he instructed and then slid her strappy stilettos off one at a time, tucking them in his jacket pockets. “Better?”

“Much.” She wiggled her toes in the cool grass and followed him to the sidewalk and then across the street and down a little way until they reached a house with a brick wall in front.

He sat on the wall and pulled her down onto his lap. “So you don’t dirty your dress,” he explained as she looped her arm around his neck.

“Thank you. Though I don’t expect I’ll have occasion to wear it again.” She sighed wistfully. It was a spectacular dress.

“Our daughters might,” he said.

This time her sigh was one of pleasure. “What a lovely thought.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “Unless we have sons.”

“I hope to have both.”

She lifted her head so he could see her raised brow. “One of each?”

“At least. Provided that suits you.” He paused for a few seconds. “I grew up very much alone in my own home. I went off to school when I was eight, and then to the Royal Navy, and then to anywhere and everywhere. I spent years—you know how many—telling myself I didn’t care about family and didn’t want one.” His mouth slanted into a rueful smile. “I lied. I would love to have a family with you . . . to start a dynasty with you,” he said with rising passion. “I think we’d make one hell of a dynasty.”

“I can see it now . . . born of an enchantress and a centuries-old man . . .”

“Damn right,” he said, his arm tightening around her waist. “I want a family; it’s why I love having your family in the house. And that will be enough if you don’t want children, or don’t want them right away, or—”

“I do,” she interrupted, stopping him with her fingers pressed to his lips. “I do want them, and sooner rather than later since neither of us is getting any younger.”

“Speaking for myself, I’m very happy to be getting older every day.” He slid his hand higher and moved it in small circles on her back, just above where her dress dipped low. “I know how important your work is to you, and—”

“It’s not,” she interrupted again. “Not as important as it was. Not as important as you . . . as us. I don’t think it could ever be that important to me again. My life is so different now . . . I’m different. There are a lot of things I have to think about once things settle down; I have to figure out how marriage and magic and family and work all fit together.” She paused, gazing down the street at Grand’s house . . . her house . . . their house. “I have to think about what work I’m meant to do. How I can do the most good with all that I’ve been given. That matters to me. It always has.”

She laughed, and pleasure rippled through her as he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

“But enough about me and my work and my dynasty,” she joked. “You brought me here to show me something.”

“Yes, it’s my wedding gift to you.”

“I thought these earrings were my gift,” she said, tapping one platinum and diamond earring. The earrings were beautiful and suited her perfectly, and were so spectacularly out of her price range she couldn’t even come close to guessing what they must have cost him.

He shook his head impatiently. “Those anyone could give you.”

“Anyone with pockets as deep as the Grand Canyon,” she agreed, rolling her eyes.

“I wanted to give you something no one else could.”

He smiled and pointed; Eve gazed up at the turret. The tiny white lights in the windows were lit, making the room look as though it were filled with stars. Her gaze moved higher, and she saw what he was pointing at, the reason he had aimed a spotlight at the very highest point on the house.

“A weather vane,” she exclaimed. “A raven. I love him . . . and he looks exactly like the original.”

“He is the original,” he told her. “I found him buried under a ton of junk in that old shed at the very back of the yard. I had to clean him up and sand some rusty patches, but he’s as sturdy as ever.”

Blinking to keep a sudden swell of tears from spilling, Eve tightened her arm around his neck. “When did you . . .?”

“This morning at the crack of dawn,” he said when her voice faltered. “I couldn’t chance putting him up sooner because I wanted it to be a surprise. I scouted out a couple of places before deciding that this wall was the best vantage point.”

“I . . .” She flung her other arm around his neck and kissed him hard. “I can’t believe you did that for me. I can’t believe it even occurred to you. I can’t believe you didn’t just toss it out with the other junk you unearthed back there.”

“Not a chance. When I realized what it was, my heart nearly pounded a hole my chest . . . it was like I’d struck gold.” He found that stray lock of her hair and wound it around one finger. “You once told me that no matter where you were playing in the neighborhood, you could look up and see the raven and know that’s where home was. And that it made you feel safe. That’s what I want, Eve. For you to feel at home here again, and safe, with me.” He turned her face to him and held her gaze. “This was the best way I could think of to show you that.”

Before she could respond, he pulled her to him and kissed her, and for one drifting moment the world stopped. There was no sound, no movement; there was only the two of them, and that perfect night, and all the perfect and not-so-perfect nights and days ahead for them. Perfection was lovely, but not a requirement as long as she could fall asleep in his arms every night and wake up by his side in the morning, with a raven, her raven, standing watch.

Dazzled by his kiss, she rested her head against his and gazed up at his gift to her.

“Thank you, Gabriel. Now that he’s back in his rightful place, it really looks like the home of an enchantress.”

“And not just any enchantress,” he observed in a tone that was only half-teasing. “None other than the Lost Enchantress herself.”

Eve smiled into the night. “Not anymore.”