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.

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.”