Table of Contents

Title Page

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Epilogue

Other Books by Carrie Vaughn

About the Author

Copyright

Hunting and gardening had something in common: waiting. Research the landscape, understand the objective, do the prep—and then wait. No way to get around the waiting part. In hunting, he waited for the quarry to come into his sights.

In gardening, Cormac stared at a stretch of tilled and planted earth, wondering if a bunch of tiny seedlings were going to survive, and he couldn’t do anything about hurrying them along. He waited to see what bugs were going to attack, watched for stems and tendrils to expand, for buds to form and flowers to open, praying the whole time that hail and wind didn’t get to them first. On the Colorado plains, with the wall of mountains on the western horizon, you prayed a heavy spring snow didn’t destroy it all just as it was getting started. Don’t plant anything before Mother’s Day, the folk wisdom around here said.

In both hunting and gardening, you didn’t know if you were going to get what you wanted at the end of it. Anything could happen. Over the last few years he’d found he didn’t miss hunting all that much. He was learning that he wasn’t too fond of gardening. But Amelia was, and since she didn’t have a body, Cormac did the work.

They had a house now, and that meant gardening. Amelia insisted. All in all, Cormac liked having the house, on an actual chunk of acreage where they didn’t have to listen to the neighbors fighting or the traffic humming nearby. If having a house meant working Amelia’s garden for her? Yeah, that was all right. If not for her, he wouldn’t have this. If not for her, he’d have gotten himself killed a long time ago. They’d lived for years now in a strange symbiosis. By now, he couldn’t imagine living otherwise.

First thing they did when they moved in, after unloading boxes and bags from the Jeep, before even going to bed that night, was start the garden. Just digging a few holes and planting a few sage and rosemary starters. Amelia had never been happier. That warm feeling in the corner of his mind she occupied—that was nice.

Getting the place had seemed a cosmic stroke of luck. It was a word-of-mouth situation. A friend of a friend—or rather a friend of a client, since Cormac didn’t have too many friends—owned it and needed a renter quickly. A relative died, leaving a surprise inheritance; the place wasn’t fashionable even in a crazy housing market—old, outdated, too small, too far away from amenities. But it had space. It had a small creek bed with cottonwoods alongside. It had privacy and a good roof. The owner was willing to rent it out cheap for the right tenant, which apparently meant “not planning on cooking meth.” Too good to be true, Cormac couldn’t help but think. He’d deal with that fallout when it happened. Here, miles from anywhere, it was quiet. He could almost hear the grass growing.

Leaves and blooms came out the same time the late spring thunderstorms hit, and this being Colorado those storms often brought snow. Back when he was a kid on his uncle’s ranch, they’d roam the pastures looking for new calves, to make sure they didn’t freeze. On the western slope, fruit farmers lit bonfires in their orchards to save the new blossoms. While walking the property’s couple of overgrown acres, he discovered an apple tree and cherry tree starting to bloom, which was nice, and also meant another thing to worry about.

Having growing things under your care brought so much awareness of impending danger like the weather. Cormac could track deer, elk, and pronghorn. That had an element of chance, but you relied on your skill. Waiting to see what storms did to your fragile garden was more stressful than waiting to see if a bull elk was going to stay in your sights long enough to get a shot off.

He sat in the small living room—Amelia called it a parlor—listening to thunder rumbling closer and tried not to worry. Thunder felt primal and thrilling. A reminder that human beings weren’t the biggest thing in the world.

The parlor was also a study, a library, and arcane laboratory. It had a desk, shelves for books—so many books—and a cupboard for tools, lockboxes, and a dozen artifacts and oddities. A computer that they were still learning their way around. A filing cabinet that Kitty insisted would make his life easier. Too bad he usually forgot to put anything into it. The spot they used most was a big armchair next to a reading lamp and table just big enough to hold a cup of tea and a notebook. So goddamn Victorian. This wasn’t a life Cormac had ever pictured for himself.

He was enjoying it, nonetheless. A quiet night reading a book, listening to the storm roll overhead… He was settling into a boring middle age. Thank God.

Tonight, their book was about Neolithic archeology, with endless descriptions of stone artifacts and layouts of excavated tombs. This one also had chapters speculating that the symbols carved into the stone walls of the tomb might have been copies of hallucinogenic visions, which seemed weird. Amelia was right on the edge of suggesting they track down some hallucinogens, and that was where he might have to draw the line.

He didn’t like being out of control.

I know, but in a controlled environment—

A crack of thunder rattled the windows, and the power went out. Not as startling as it could have been; Amelia had wanted to light a couple of candles—she said the soft warmth was comforting, and Cormac wondered how much of that was nostalgia—so instead of being thrown into pitch darkness, they had circles of buttery light, that didn’t reach the corners of the room. They sat amidst shadows, the memory of pre-industrial nights. The words on the page turned sepia, muted.

Well, that’s exciting.

Cormac glanced out the curtained window. Not that that would have told him anything—their nearest neighbors were half a mile off. But the glow on the horizon that was downtown Denver was absent. The power outage affected the whole area.

He—or rather she—tried to keep reading, but another crack of thunder made him look up. The sound was almost constant now. Rain was beating the roof.

Then came a pounding on the front door.

Wind howled, tangling through the cottonwoods, another layer of sound to the continual rumbling in the thunderheads above them, the hammer of raindrops growing fiercer, suggesting hail. A massive storm, right overhead. Nobody should be out in this. Maybe he’d imagined it.

The pounding came again.

The door didn’t have a peephole, so he went to the window next to it and pulled back the curtain. A figure hunched on the front walkway. It seemed to be shrouded in a coat, dripping wet, nothing more than a dark shape. A streak of lightning broke the sky overhead; the moment of illumination revealed no other details. Reaching, the figure pounded a fist on the door again.

That person needs help.

Amelia’s magical protections meant that someone who wished them ill shouldn’t be able to approach the house. That this person had come close enough to knock suggested they were safe. Or at least, not an immediate threat.

When he opened the door, wind threatened to yank it from his grip, slamming it inside, and a sheet of rain pummeled him. The figure ducked from the weather, as if he thought he could escape. A man, soaking wet, gasping for breath. The last of his strength seemed to go out of him, and he collapsed across the threshold. He managed to look up, a despairing expression clouding his pale eyes.

Cormac knew him. Odysseus Grant, the magician.

Cormac grabbed the collar of the man’s coat and dragged him inside.

He paused to look down the front walk to the dirt drive—no car was parked there. There was no indication how Grant had arrived—his black dress shoes weren’t covered in mud. He was wet, disheveled, unfocused, but he hadn’t walked here. Beyond the drive, the cottonwoods were blustering in the wind, their crowns swaying, black against the lightning-touched clouds overhead.

By the time he shoved the door shut against the wind—and double checked the locks—they were both soaking wet, chilled from the wind.

Shivering, Grant was having trouble standing, like he couldn’t get his legs under him, so Cormac guided him over to the wood-burning stove in the parlor. He sank, right to the floor. Cormac stripped off his coat, tossing it to the tiled front entrance to drip a puddle on the floor there. Next, he shoved some kindling and a match into the stove’s belly to get a fire going. Pulled a blanket off the sofa and threw it over his shoulders. Grant came to enough awareness to take hold of it and pull it tightly around him.

Cormac settled on the floor nearby.

Odysseus Grant had a stage show in Las Vegas. The show was a front, cover for a man who might have been an actual wizard with deep knowledge and considerable arcane skill. Amelia admired him. Cormac was suspicious of him, but he was suspicious of just about everyone so that didn’t say much. They’d worked with him before. He was a friend of Kitty’s, and that normally spoke well of someone.

Right now, he seemed ill, still shivering despite the growing heat nearby. He hadn’t yet lifted his gaze or spoken.

Cormac’s first thought was to call Kitty to come take care of Grant. Whatever this was about he was pretty sure he didn’t want to get involved. His second thought was that Odysseus knew where Kitty lived, and if he’d wanted to bother her he’d have gone there.

Put the kettle on for tea? Amelia offered. That was usually her first suggestion for any problem that didn’t have them facing immediate danger.

“Hey,” Cormac said. “You want something hot to drink? Or a shot of whiskey?”

Finally, Odysseus Grant glanced up. His eyes glittered. “How are your protection spells? Your defenses? Are they strong?”

“They’re fine,” he answered flatly, put out on Amelia’s behalf. “What’s the problem?”

“Tea. Yes. All right.”

He’d come here, he was asking about protections, because he needed someplace safe—because he wasn’t. “What’s coming after you?”

Grant’s expression turned haunted, and he didn’t say a word.

“Right. Tea.”

Some chamomile, I think.

Got anything that’ll make him tell the truth? Cormac asked, only half joking.

Gentle goodwill. Also only half joking.

He’d forgotten—the stove was electric, out with the rest of the power. He could find another way to boil water, but that seemed like a chore. So he poured the shot of whiskey after all. Grant clutched it with the air of a drowning man and drank the whole thing. Cormac had never seen him so anxious. The man was usually the epitome of control. Cormac was losing patience and had to remind himself: hunting, gardening. Just wait.

The storm seemed to subside, moving farther east. Thunder was less frequent, and the time between the light and the sound longer. The rain had turned gentle. The power was still out.

Finally, Grant seemed to settle. His shoulders unclenched a notch. He stared at the glass a moment, skeptical. “Whiskey, you said? Nothing else?”

“Look, if you don’t trust me you shouldn’t have come here.”

Grant curled his lip in a silent chuckle and set the shot glass aside.

“Amelia says she’ll have a better idea of how good her protections are if you tell us what’s wrong.”

Narrowing his gaze, Grant studied them. “How do you do it? How do you live with an entire other consciousness in your mind?”

That didn’t really describe their relationship. In all their years together he’d never found an easy way to explain it. He said, “I’m never lonely.”

He’s stalling, Amelia said testily.

Cormac passed the observation along. “You’re stalling.”

Grant nodded, acknowledging. “How much do you know about doorways? Portals. Gates.”

“Not the kind you can close with a slab of wood, I’m assuming.” Grant didn’t smile. Barely acknowledged the joke. Cormac added, “I’ve seen them work. I’ve seen what uses them to travel.”

Kitty had vanished through a portal once, traveling from Denver to Yellowstone in a flash. They’d had to go after her by car to get her back—and save the world, it turned out. More than a century ago, Amelia had essentially placed herself in a pocket dimension, to keep her soul from dying with her body. He wasn’t sure theoretical physics discussions of multiple dimensions could explain what was going on, since that seemed mostly to do with mathematics and modeling the way the universe worked. Not that he’d retained much about it from the reading he and Amelia had done on the subject.

“So, why do you want to know about doorways?” Cormac prompted.

Grant closed his eyes a moment. “For most of my life, I’ve been guarding a portal. I inherited it from…God, I don’t even know what to call him. He was a vaudeville magician. He’s got footnotes about him in histories of stage magic from the time. I learned magic from him. And I learned Magic. Deep lore that he’d learned from mentors going back to John Dee, to Paracelsus—”

Amelia gasped at the names. The lineage. She shoved her way forward, to use Cormac’s voice: “This portal was also passed down? Was it an artifact, a spell—”

“It was a box. The size of a coffin,” Grant said. “He used it in his act—he made people vanish. And I used it in mine.”

Cormac had a sinking feeling. He asked, “You really made people disappear?”

“Everyone thought it was just the usual trick. It was essentially harmless.”

That essentially held volumes of excuses. “And now it isn’t essentially harmless, I’m assuming.”

“Decades ago, when my mentor was a young man—you know how it is, a cult summoned a monster.” Cormac did not, in fact, know how it was. Most of the cults he’d dealt with had to do with vampires, but this sounded like something else.

Amelia shushed him.

“He couldn’t destroy the monster, so he trapped it. He tied the portal that they used to the box, sealing it into a sort of pocket dimension. He was cocky, sure of himself. Sure that the prison would hold. But there’s always entropy, isn’t there?”

Entropy, the breakdown of order, the universe’s trend toward chaos and disorder. Everything died—

Unless they didn’t.

Grant was staring at the orange glow through the window of the stove. “Times are different than they were then. The events at Yellowstone—the world’s changed. The chaos is…more than what it was. Something from the other side of the portal forced it open. I couldn’t close it, couldn’t stop it. Now this thing…it’s hunting me, I think.”

Let me talk to him, Amelia said urgently. He stepped to the back of his own mind, while she stepped into the sinews of his body. The trade used to take so much effort, consciously releasing control. Now, it was second nature. Her refined English accent spoke with his voice. He paced; or rather, she did. Helped her think.

“What exactly came through to our world?”

“A bleed-off remnant of another dimension? An elder god?” Grant sat back and rubbed his face. “Angels and demons, or whatever it was that made us think they were angels and demons when they first came to our world.”

“I’m not a theologian.”

“The theologians don’t know anything about this,” Grant replied.

She didn’t want to judge, she hadn’t been there—but it was difficult, destroying a thing when you didn’t know what it was. She needed to know more. “What did this cult hope to accomplish? What rituals were they using? A witchcraft tradition, or—”

Cormac interrupted, focused on what he thought was the more immediate problem. “Where is the box now?”

“I destroyed it, hoping to destroy the portal along with it.”

So this monster couldn’t be shoved back in, re-imprisoned. This meant they’d have to build a whole new anchor, a whole new doorway.

“Wait a minute…” Grant hoped to destroy the portal? “How’d you get here, anyway? You didn’t drive, you didn’t walk—”

Grant set his jaw, his expression growing even more closed off.

Oh dear God, Amelia muttered under her breath. Out loud she said, “You were trying to separate the portal from its anchor, the box. So you could use it. Not just for your show, but anywhere.”

Grant wiped a hand over his face. “Well when you put it like that, it does sound bad, doesn’t it?”

“And you came here because, why? Why do you think we can help?”

“Amelia is the one of the most powerful magicians I know,” he said bluntly.

It was almost flattering. She said, muttering with Cormac’s voice, “Well, that’s what a hundred years of practice will get you.”

“So what, you want us to catch this monster, shut down this portal—is that all?” Cormac asked.

“Essentially.”

Cormac grabbed his phone off the desk and punched up a number.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling for help. See, I know when I’m in over my head.”

The call rang, rang, and turned over to voice mail. “Hello, you’ve reached the Manitou Wishing Well. Our hours are…”

The number went to Judi and Frida’s shop, not a mobile phone. They’d always answered when he called before; he just assumed they would this time. Never mind how late it was. How late was it? Close to midnight. He didn’t bother leaving a message.

“Who are you calling?” Grant asked.

“Friends.”

“Magicians?”

“Sort of.”

“Can you trust them?”

“I can’t trust you, buster,” Cormac muttered. “When we meet them, you’d better not lie to them. They’ll know. Now, let’s see…”

Amelia got out books, stacks of books, faded photocopies of old books of shadows uploaded online, shared among a strange community of magicians she’d found her way to. To them she’d added her own journals, notes, lists of symbols, incantations, alignments.

Meanwhile, Grant got up and started a kind of slow, limping circuit around the room. He tilted his head to read titles on the shelves, to study artifacts, reaching a finger toward one or two of them without quite touching them. A coin on a cord with the face smashed and marred. A weathered pocket-sized notebook. A one-of-a-kind tarot deck, with woodcut images of iconic Old West imagery. His scrutiny felt like an invasion of privacy.

Cormac got a better look at him. Stooped, dragging, he seemed more weary than injured. He wore a white button-up shirt with sweat stains at the armpits, rumpled trousers. Like it had been a couple of days since he’d changed clothes.

“Your adversary, whatever it was that escaped, waited for the new moon to act,” Amelia declared, consulting a calendar and her notes. “Ideally, we should wait until the full moon to banish it.”

Grant frowned. “And how much damage will it do in the meantime?”

“You tell us. Did your mentor know what this cult was trying to accomplish?”

“The usual? The end of the world? No…” His gaze turned inward, thoughtful. “They drew on a kind of druidic magic, but older. Think Stonehenge. They didn’t want to end the world, but return it to an earlier time. Primordial.”

Then the creature would be primordial. Something in the wrong time. And it had identified Grant as its captor. Was it seeking revenge?

Cormac felt an itching on the back of his neck that told him they didn’t have a lot of time. This thing hunting Grant was magical, and he’d used a ton of magic just to get here—no wonder he’d asked about their protections.

Amelia was still bent on her research. They jostled a bit, trying to move in two directions at once.

“Just another moment,” she murmured, opening another book, a big coffee table book with color photos of ancient megalithic structures. Great slabs of gray, lichen-covered stone occupying the tops of deserted hills, settled in grassy valleys. Boulders for walls, slabs the size of cars improbably set on top of them, forming chambers, tunnels, tombs. “There’s some thought that the builders of Stone Age tombs believed them to be passages. Doorways. Why shouldn’t we consider that they were?”

So all they had to do was maneuver several tons of granite into the right shape and then—

It’s the principle of the matter, not the execution, Amelia explained.

A new round of thunder shook the foundations, earthquake-like. The vibrations continued through his bones, up through Cormac’s sternum, rattling his skull. Even when the air fell still, silent, his ears rang.

Grant crouched, clutching at his chest as if having a heart attack, and Cormac considered how convenient it would be to call an ambulance and let them carry the man away to be someone else’s problem. Instead of keeling over, though, Grant tore open the top couple of buttons on his shirt and drew out a cord—an amulet he’d worn there. It crumbled in his hand.

At every doorway, amulets shattered, talismans fell to ash, symbols drawn in chalk burned up and vanished in smoke. Scorched streaks marked where painted sigils had been.

Something had just tried to get in. The protections worked, but had been destroyed in the process. Cormac’s first year without carrying any guns had felt just like this. An itching up the back of his spine. Reaching for a tool that wasn’t there. Threats, everywhere.

You and I have stood against a denizen of hell, we can stand against this.

He was hard pressed at the moment to identify the worst thing they’d ever faced. At some point he’d really like to stop having to handle anything that might qualify as worse.

Grant produced a piece of chalk from his pocket and began drawing arcane symbols by the front door, then the window, then the next window, and he kept on, searching for the next access to the outside, marking them with protective sigils. It was a stopgap at best.

A mirror, a candle, salt, Amelia said. And some of those ashes from the shattered amulets.

That wasn’t a spell she’d done before. It didn’t seem like any kind of protective—

It’s not, it’s scrying. We need information.

He went to the shelves and cupboards, gathering the implements. Spread salt on the mirror, drew a candle close. Tried to focus—this kind of thing always involved clearing the mind, being calm. Another thing that was like hunting.

His phone buzzed, and Cormac jumped in spite of himself. Caller ID was blank. Not spam, not unknown, just blank. Instinct urged him to answer. “Yeah?”

“Cormac, dear, it’s Judi. Is Amelia doing something imprudent?”

Cormac heaved a sigh of relief. The cavalry was alerted.

Well, that’s rather insulting. If I were doing this nobody would know about it unless I wanted them to!

“You know, I was just trying to call you,” he said. “I might have some idea what’s happening.”

“Oh really?” she said, in a perfect gossipy aunt voice, like he was about to spill dirt on the PTA president’s divorce.

“I’m still working out the details. My wards are all gone. Just shattered.”

“Can you get down here to the cottage? Our wards will hold just fine.”

“I don’t think they will, not against this,” Cormac said. “I don’t want you guys getting hurt. I just thought you might have some advice—”

“Cormac. Get down here. I want to hear all about it. So does Frida.”

Only a couple people in the world he couldn’t argue with and Judi was one of them. “Yes, ma’am.” The call ended.

We could just not go. You’re right, this will put them in danger—

“I think we might need their help before this is over.”

Time was, you never asked for help, she said fondly.

Well, he was getting old, wasn’t he?

He took a couple of deep breaths to try to regain his composure and concentration. Scattered debris from the broken amulets over the salt and mirror. This was evidence of whatever had attacked them. A possible magical fingerprint. When Amelia was satisfied with the arrangement, he leaned in close and gently blew out a breath. Salt and ashes shifted, fanning into a pattern. Flickering candlelight reflecting off the mirror made the pattern seem to tremble.

While he might have hoped for a clear picture in the mirror of what they were up against, like the magic mirror of a fairy tale, they didn’t get anything so straightforward. As with reading tea leaves, he stared into a cup at a mess that meant nothing to him, while Amelia conjured meaning.

Tooth and claw, she murmured. The sound of dogs baying, and a vast journey.

He wasn’t sure how she got all that out of fragments.

It’s instinct and practice.

He’d stick with the heavy lifting. “So what does that tell us?”

It’s an ancient spirit, from a deep well of animism. A primal force.

“And that helps us how?”

Still trying to figure that out.

Ah. “Grant, pack up. We’re taking a trip.”

Grant appeared in the doorway to the parlor, looking something like his usual self, imposing and in control. His shirt was buttoned back up. “Is going out there is a good idea?”

Cormac paused by the window. The thunder and lightning had moved on, and the cottonwoods were still, the wind settled. A light rain poured steadily, a sign that the storm was ending. The weather, taking a break.

The lights flashed back on. The persistent background noise of the house—humming refrigerator, the faint hint of electricity—returned. He hadn’t even realized how ominous the silence had been.

“You want to stay hunkered down here waiting for the next attack?”

“Point taken.”

“Amelia says look around, see if there’s anything you think we’ll need.”

Grant scanned the jars of herbs, boxes of candles, books, a couple of animal skulls, a row of rocks. He took the sage and a rusted railroad spike, bent at an angle. Cormac made sure to put out all the candles and shuffle the embers in the stove to kill the fire.

At one side of the desk sat a rock. Gray, river worn. The epitome of nondescript—by design, he suspected. It was a calling card. Another potential ally or more trouble? He didn’t know but he grabbed the rock and put it in his jeans pocket.

Before leaving the house, he made one more call, no matter how late it was. Kitty picked up after just one ring and only sounded a little groggy. “Okay, what’s wrong?”

He chuckled at the familiarity of the exchange. “Guess who turned up on my doorstep?”

“Jimmy Hoffa?”

“What?”

“That was a joke.”

He sighed with frustration. “Odysseus Grant.”

“Now I really want to know what’s wrong. Why is he on your doorstep and not mine?”

“Because you can’t help.”

“But—”

“I’m telling you right now, before you get any ideas, that you can’t help and I want you to stay the hell away.”

Silence. Kitty was never silent. She hosted a talk show, for god’s sake.

“Kitty?” he prompted.

“You can’t call me and then tell me not to help.”

“Okay. Right. Fine. But…I just want you and Ben to know I may be out of touch for a little while. And, you know. In case.”

“Is it that bad? Are you trying to say goodbye? Because I won’t let you.”

Noise in the background indicated she’d put the call on speaker, which meant Ben, her husband and Cormac’s cousin, and possibly their small son Jon were in the background.

“No,” he said emphatically. Though he wasn’t actually sure. Maybe he was saying goodbye. “Grant opened a can of worms and we’re going to Manitou Springs to see Judi and Frida about shutting it again. So if you call and I don’t answer—just don’t worry.”

“Cormac!”

“I’ll check in when I can.”

She snarled in frustration. “Be careful. I don’t have to say that, do I?”

“It’s a talismanic ritual, we have to say it,” Ben said from the background. “Be careful.”

Which meant don’t be an idiot and maybe even I love you, and all the rest. “Yeah. Got it.”

He hung up before they could say anything else.

The drive to Manitou Springs took about an hour and a half and was excruciatingly awkward. Both men were taciturn by nature. Add to that Cormac being pissed off and Grant being defensive, and the silence grew brittle. The tires humming on wet asphalt seemed loud. The storm seemed to be pacing them.

I want to talk to him, Amelia said. She seemed particularly annoyed, poking at the back of Cormac’s mind, simmering with curiosity. She didn’t seem upset at what Grant had done, messing around with dimensional portals, setting loose monsters. No, she wanted to know how he’d done it. She wanted to talk shop.

Well, I don’t want to talk to him, he answered, putting up just a hint of a wall. He hadn’t done that in a long time. It wasn’t like Grant would be forthcoming anyway. Magicians and their trade secrets and all that.

I just want to know what he did! All that power—

Cormac burst out, “What is it about you wizards and power?” He realized he could have been asking either Amelia or Grant.

I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Amelia answered, and if he could see her right now she’d be pouting.

“You can’t say no,” he added. “You see some shiny magic thing and you just have to go poking at it.”

Grant looked at him sidelong. “You’re not talking to me, are you?”

“No.”

“What’s she saying?”

Cormac huffed. “She says, ‘How else are we supposed to learn?’”

Grant chuckled. “The universe is all about power. Physics is the examination of the interaction of the four fundamental forces—”

“So what, you’re a physicist now?”

“It’s all the same world, however many dimensions comprise it.” With that, Grant settled back and closed his eyes. Cormac didn’t know if he slept or was faking it, and he didn’t much care.

For once, Amelia agreed. I’m beginning to suspect that I know more than he does.

“It’s not a competition,” Cormac murmured. It wasn’t how much you knew about magic, it was how you used it.

Grant cracked an eye and glanced over. Closed it again. Cormac heaved a sigh.

He watched the road and didn’t do too much thinking at all. Amelia was thinking plenty enough as it was. They both looked for shadows cast by lightning in the thunderheads, as the storm blew east over the plains.

Judi had given him an address that wasn’t their new age tchotchke shop in town. It wasn’t even an address so much as an arcane description. “When you get to the end of the street, there are two dirt drives. You want the one on the left, with the big owl nest in the cottonwood.”

He’d been skeptical of the owl nest description, but when he reached the end of the paved road, there it was, a neat bowl of branches in the crook of an ancient, sprawling cottonwood, visible even at night because the tree was half dead but not yet split apart and fallen, the way old cottonwoods got. It didn’t seem to have any owls in residence.

“What’re the magical meanings of owls?” he murmured.

He’d asked Amelia, but Grant answered. Cormac was sure he’d never been asleep at all. “They’re harbingers. Portents. Guardians of the realm of death. Also a sign of wisdom.”

“See, that’s the thing about all this magical symbol stuff. You can make it mean whatever you want.”

“More of the world than we would like to admit is about interpretation.”

“Yeah, Obi-Wan, I’ve got some interpretations about you dropping your problems on me.”

“I wouldn’t have come to you if I didn’t think you could help.”

That was probably meant to be a compliment.

The dirt driveway got narrower and more rutted, and cottonwood branches hung low, brushing the top of the Jeep. The recent storm had almost washed out the road, which was becoming little more than a couple of tracks in the dirt.

He about decided he’d taken the wrong drive and needed to figure out how to get the Jeep turned around when the drive ended, and the trees opened up to reveal a clearing, a grass-filled meadow that would be sunny and welcoming in daylight. Beehives were stacked to the left, a collection of bird feeders stood to the right. Straight ahead: a perfect little whitewashed cottage, like something out of a fairy tale.

“Who are these people?” Grant asked. Something about the place seemed to set him on edge. His curled fists rested on his thighs.

“You’ll find out.” Despite his annoyance, Cormac was looking forward to seeing how the most powerful magicians he knew sized each other up.

“You see there, and there. Some kind of markers for ley lines. I’ve not ever seen runes like that.” He gestured to a couple of wooden posts. Cormac would have said they were just part of an old dismantled fence line. “Are you sure you trust them?” Grant reiterated, unmistakably nervous now, tapping a hand on his knee. Another hand had gone into a pocket, probably reaching for some magical defense.

The house and the land around it were warded. Like their shop in town, Judi and Frida had amulets and symbols that you’d only recognize if you knew what to look for. Their shop had spells encouraging people to buy, making it tough to leave without a T-shirt or package of rock candy. Domestic magical protections like this often came with an added layer, to discourage people who meant ill. To make them pause and turn back, to keep them from approaching. Whatever Grant was experiencing, Cormac didn’t feel it.

Oh, this was going to be fun. “They’re just a couple of nice old ladies. The kind who pay good money to come to your show.”

Grant scowled.

A thirty-year-old white sedan with a faded “Visualize World Peace” bumper sticker on the back was parked at one end of the drive. Cormac pulled in respectfully behind it. As they left the Jeep, the front door of the house opened and a figure emerged, framed by a warm glow of light from inside. Hard to make out details with the backlight, but it was definitely Judi, hugging a bulky cardigan around herself and wearing what looked like lumpy slippers.

“You coming?” Cormac asked Grant, who was hanging back by the Jeep. Grant set his jaw and marched up alongside.

“Well, hello there!” Judi greeted them. Details resolved: she was a stout, silver-haired woman pushing seventy, kind and smiling but with steel in her manner. You didn’t stay kind and smiling at seventy without some grit. “You’re looking a bit flustered, Cormac. How is Amelia?”

“She really wants to talk to you.”

“And who is this?” She looked Grant up and down appraisingly, her gaze narrowed.

Grant remained silent, tense, regarding the house like it was a den of lions. Cormac finally said, “This is Odysseus Grant.”

“That friend of Kitty’s?”

It seemed like just about everyone was a friend of Kitty’s so that didn’t exactly narrow it down. Cormac said, “Yes.”

“Well, come in. Frida’s got tea on.”

Oh thank God, Amelia murmured.

Their home was brilliantly cluttered and comfortable. A pair of overstuffed armchairs and an antique sofa sat before a fireplace, along with a low coffee table that was piled up with books, knitting, pens and pencils, and a vase of dried flowers. Rag rugs covered the scuffed hardwood floor, and plants were everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, filling the windowsills. A low, friendly fire was burning in the fireplace. The whole place smelled of pine trees and fresh baking. Cormac wanted nothing more than to curl up with one of the fuzzy blankets draped over the sofa and sleep.

Still fidgeting, Grant was looking around wonderingly. He didn’t seem at all comforted by the setting.

Esther, the couple’s hairless cat, trotted in and hopped up on the back of one of the armchairs. She settled in, her whip-like tail wrapping daintily around her knobby feet. She gazed half-lidded at the guests, like some kind of ancient oracle. Cormac nodded respectfully to her. Weirdly, she seemed to nod back.

Grant stared. Cormac had never seen him so uncomfortable.

Frida came in then, carrying a tray to the coffee table. Her black hair, salted with gray, was twisted up and pinned at the back of her head. She had brown skin, Native American features. Cormac had never learned exactly what her ancestry was. If she wanted him to know, she’d tell him.

She took one look at the men and shook her head with annoyance.

“Let’s all sit down, why don’t we?” Judi said.

Frida managed to clear a spot before Cormac could get there to help, and soon the women occupied the armchairs, and Cormac and Grant were perched on the sofa, as far apart from one another as they could get. Esther lay on the back of Frida’s armchair and supervised.

Framed photographs, most of them snapshots, occupied the ledge above the fireplace. One in particular caught Cormac’s eye: a picture of two young women in the sunshine, trees as a backdrop. Hippies wearing flowing skirts and lace shirts, a rainbow of scarves and dozens of beaded necklaces, standing with their arms flung over one another’s shoulders, holding tight, laughing. One had shining black hair, one had blazing auburn. Frida and Judi.

Cormac started right in. “You called because you knew what was happening—”

Judi held up her hand. “Tea first.”

They waited for the pot to finish steeping. A grandfather clock was ticking in the next room.

Tell them they have a lovely home, Amelia prompted. She was better at small talk. She was better at almost everything.

“Amelia likes your house,” he said.

“We should have had you over for tea earlier. Get a chance to talk when things aren’t so exciting, hm?”

Tell them we can return the favor—

He was capable of carrying on a conversation. Really. “We just got a new place up by Fort Lupton. You’re welcome to visit. You know, whenever.”

Grant leaned back and sighed in frustration. Wearing a wickedly amused grin, Frida finally poured the tea.

Cormac might have expected delicate tea cups, an antique tea service, something with age and meaning. But the tray held mugs, the kind you bought at tchotchke shops in tourist towns. Frida handed Cormac one that read, Promise me anything but give me chocolate.

The one she handed Grant had a stylized drawing of a mountain and Colorado labeled in cursive. He stared at the liquid within.

“It’s just Earl Grey,” Judi said, an edge to her sweetness. “I could probably find some Lipton bags if you’d rather have that.”

Just to be contrary, Cormac took a big swig while it was still just a bit too hot, letting his mouth burn.

I can’t believe you two are behaving like this.

He brought chaos down on us, I’m going to hassle him as long as he lets me.

Judi’s mug had pictures of cats on it. Frida’s said, Don’t &%!* with me before I’ve had coffee.

Cormac hoped Grant was paying attention.

Judi took a sip and said, “All right. Now you can explain.”

Grant’s face seemed gaunt, craggy in the firelight. Drawn, like he hadn’t slept or eaten in awhile. But his eyes glittered, hard. “It’s…difficult to explain.”

“It’s usually best to start at the beginning.”

Grant chuckled harshly. “I’m not sure where that is.”

“No wonder you’re having problems,” Frida murmured, stroking Esther’s chin. The cat leaned into the touch.

Grant ducked his gaze and finally drank some tea, as if to hide his expression.

“He’s being hunted,” Cormac said bluntly. “He had a portal keeping something imprisoned and it got out.”

“All right. What do we know about what got out, then?” Judi was as matter-of-fact as if they were discussing gophers in the garden.

Grant’s voice ground out, “It’s otherworldly. Unbound by space or time. I think it’s looking for revenge—”

“Because it was imprisoned?” Judi prompted.

Frida said, “A thing escaping imprisonment by a white man? I’m inclined to let it do its thing.”

“It shattered all our wards,” Grant said urgently. “It could grow even more destructive—”

“Destructive by whose definition?” Frida countered.

“I had it under control,” Grant said. And maybe he had, right up until he didn’t.

Judi said wryly, “You ever hear of Faust?”

Grant scowled. “Yes, I’ve heard of Faust.”

The tale of hubris, a man who sold his soul for power and lost. Judi shrugged as if to say, You see?

“You thought you could control it,” Cormac said. “But you don’t even know what it is.”

“I can think of one way to find out more about it,” Frida said. “We can talk to it.”

“You can’t just talk to this!” Grant said.

“You ever try?” she shot back, and Grant leaned back, frowning.

Amelia was fascinated, and her presence hummed, turning over Frida’s proposal. “Amelia likes that idea,” Cormac said.

Grant set down the mug. “How do you propose we talk to it, then? Send an email?”

Maybe. “Set out bait,” Cormac said and looked at Grant.

To give the guy credit, he didn’t argue.

Behind the house on a bare stretch of ground, a circle some dozen meters in diameter was marked out with hand-sized stones, all different kinds, some rough, some smooth, granite, sandstone, whatever could be scavenged from the area. The stones at the cardinal points were larger—head sized, maybe. A lumpy chunk of granite about the size of a footstool sat in the center. It might have been meant for an altar, or the rock might have been sitting there naturally for centuries, until Judi and Frida came along and built the circle around it.

This has years of use seeped into it, Amelia observed. Powerful. She was impressed.

Lightning flashed, white and quick, and a crack of thunder followed close by. An electric chill in the air made Cormac’s hair stand up.

“It was storming like this when your wards broke?” Judi asked.

“It was when he showed up. The wards breaking was more like an earthquake.”

She nodded thoughtfully.

“This is primitive,” Grant said.

Judi tsked. “You’re one of those ceremonial types, aren’t you? All Greek letters and Latin phrases and alchemy? That system of magic privileges the kind of education that was historically only available to upper-class men. You’ve been trained to look down on traditions practiced by women and marginalized communities.”

“That isn’t what I said—”

“Oh, it’s not your fault, dear. It’s systemic.”

“Fuck the patriarchy,” Frida said cheerfully.

Wisely, Grant didn’t try to respond.

“Well, let’s get started, shall we?” Judi said, producing a stack of candles and bundles of herbs from a bag. At the altar, Frida lit charcoal in a brazier—a simple bronze bowl. Dried herbs went on that, and the smell of burning sage rose up. It was calming.

“Amelia, can you put these around?” Judi held up a set of candles.

This was Amelia’s show, so Cormac stepped back to let her handle it.

“Do you have a particular incantation you prefer?” she asked, with Cormac’s voice.

“Just whatever sort you like,” Judi answered.

It wasn’t the specific words, the specific rituals that mattered. Intention made all the difference.

Their intention here: to learn, and to restore equilibrium.

That seems vague, Cormac thought. Amelia’s worry: that the four of them would be working at cross purposes. Grant would want to contain or destroy the power that he had inadvertently unleashed. Judi and Frida would seek some kind of justice, some kind of balance. Cormac and Amelia were caught in the middle.

At each of the four cardinal points, she lit a candle and added sigils and incantations for protection. She suspected they’d need it.

Frida brought out a small hand drum, similar to a bodhran, with a small stick to beat it. Creaking, she lowered herself to the ground at the eastern marker.

Grant seemed to be at loose ends, standing near the altar, studying the sky.

“This isn’t how I would approach this,” he said, when Cormac returned to the altar and added another handful of herbs to the brazier. More sage. Lots more sage. “We need binding spells, we need to work to contain this—”

“That’s not how these two do things,” Cormac said, speaking with his own voice for the moment. “Seems like you had your chance. Let them work.”

“You trust them?”

“You keep asking that.”

Brushing off her hands, Judi called, “All right, Odysseus. You stand at the south, I think, for your fiery spirit.”

East, south, west, north. Air, fire, water, earth. Elemental magic. Not primitive, Amelia thought—primal.

“What do I do?” Grant asked, finally admitting he wasn’t in charge here.

“Don’t flinch,” Judi answered with a grin. “I’ll take west. That leaves you and Amelia at the north, Cormac, is that all right?”

It felt right.

Frida started tapping a low, double beat on the drum, like a heartbeat. Thunder rumbled; the rain held off, and even the wind seemed to pause, so that the world seemed frozen. The drumbeats echoed.

“Here we are,” Judi murmured. “You wanted to find him? Well, here he is.”

The next crack of thunder shook the ground enough that Cormac held out his arms to keep his balance. Don’t flinch, Judi had said. Right. Frida’s drumming didn’t waver.

The protections held—the established ones around the property, the new ones here in the circle. The bronze bowl of smoldering coals didn’t even tip over.

A growl echoed. It could have been mistaken for another round of thunder if they hadn’t been paying such close attention. The storm clouds seemed to press closer, traveling without wind to push them, and the growl—a sound definitely made by breath and throat—came again.

“That’s it,” Grant said calmly. “That’s what’s been following me.”

It was only sound. It didn’t seem to have form. But it was getting closer.

Frida added singing to the drumbeats, soft words in a language Cormac didn’t recognize.

“Come to our circle and rest,” Judi said. “Come rest and tell us what you need.”

This was an otherworldly version of the invitation to their parlor. Just sit and have a metaphorical cup of tea. For no rational reason, Cormac started to relax, tension leaving his shoulders. He wasn’t so braced for a fight as he had been.

The next growl ended in a soft whine. It was working, they had built safety and comfort into their circle and the being was drawn in—

And then Grant stepped forward and intoned a phrase in Latin, too fast for Amelia to hear, but definitely a spell that rattled their bones. Grant threw something into the brazier—the resulting smell was oily, a mix of tar and brimstone—and clutched an artifact in his other hand, something with quartz or a mirror that reflected and refracted light. It caught the flash of a bolt of lightning, sparking sharp as a knife.

Grant had his own plan all along—he just hadn’t told any of the others about it.

The moment both dragged to stillness and crashed upon them in the burst of an explosion. Like the moment before a toddler touched a hot burner, or before someone slipped off the edge of the cliff.

The drumbeats stopped. Judi and Frida stared in shock. The creature stalking them howled.

Amelia was thinking fast, in the same kind of sludgy, searing panic he was feeling physically. He felt her thinking, too visceral for words. They could stop Grant, or they could stop the creature—rather, they could try, but they still didn’t understand it. Information was emerging, but it wasn’t enough.

A presence had settled on them, masked by clouds and thunder. Amber-golden eyes gleaming out of the storm, narrowed and predatory. More than a spirit, but not physical enough to see the shape of it.

Grant was shouting, throwing out magic that only seemed to make it angrier.

The problem needed thought, consideration. Cormac and Amelia had less than a heartbeat to act.

Cormac charged. His muscles clenched and launched him forward before he even understood exactly what needed to be done.

Protection, Amelia thought; she grabbed a handful of sage from Cormac’s pocket and flung it in the air while chanting in yet another language that Cormac didn’t understand, and felt stiff on his tongue. Aramaic? Sanskrit? Something older than Latin.

The eyes within the storm turned to him.

Go back go back go back— Send the creature back to where it came from, keep Grant contained, build walls of power between them all, nobody gets to hurt anybody, keep them all safe—

The storm fell quiet. The wind, thunder, drumming, the subtle rumble of a growling voice—all quiet, the silence of a winter snowscape, when the air itself seemed about to crack. Grant stood frozen, arm flung out and mouth open, in the middle of speaking. Who knew what he meant to say. Frida held the stick poised above the drum. Judi’s eyes were closed, her head tipped back, arms outstretched.

Cormac’s skin itched. The chaos roiling in the center of the circle felt separate, isolated—a million miles away, though if he reached he could almost touch the edge of it, a membrane between worlds.

Whatever he’d done had worked. Grant and the creature couldn’t touch each other. But the world, all the worlds, were suspended in time.

The amber-gold eyes blinked open, glaring in surprise. Light burst out, searing and atomic. Cormac put up his arm against it but the light encompassed him, filled the world, and—

Cormac woke to calm and felt relief. The world was quiet, and he was resting on soft earth.

Then, he panicked, because this wasn’t the state of things when he’d blacked out. When the storm had swallowed him. Gasping, he flinched and scrambled to sit.

He was by a forest at the edge of a body of water. Not Judi and Frida’s yard. No stone circle, no nearby mountains. This forest didn’t smell like the woods of the Rocky Mountains. This smelled thick, wet. A chill clung to the water.

And he was alone. Whatever had just happened to him, Judi, Frida and Grant weren’t part of it. Or something even worse had happened— No, he was the one who’d jumped into a situation without understanding it.

At least the gleaming, predatory gaze in the storm hadn’t followed him.

Behind him, the dense forest of pine trees formed a wall. Ahead—an expanse of mirrored gray water was shrouded in fog. Water rippled to the shore, which was scattered with stones, driftwood. A hint of salt in the air suggested ocean. The light was too diffuse to tell the time of day. He wished he could see farther than a dozen yards in front of him, to get a better idea of where they’d ended up.

He took long, deep breaths to settle his racing heart. The wilderness helped. His most peaceful, contented moments had been in forests. This might have been like the forest of his mind, where he and Amelia—

This might be death. Actual death. The afterlife might look something like this, like the mortal world but colder, grayer. A ferryman would arrive and carry him across—

“Amelia?”

If he were dead—if Amelia were dead—their souls should go their separate ways, right? No longer anchored to flesh and blood. They would be different, here. The idea was melancholy.

“Amelia?”

Here. I’m fine. At least I think I am.

She was still in the back of his mind, like usual. Which meant, logically, that they weren’t dead. Or not quite dead.

So where were they? What had happened?

And how did they get back?

“Can we just, like, hit the reverse button on that spell or something?” he murmured. His voice sounded too loud.

That wasn’t just a spell, it was a full-blown ritual, and no we can’t just reverse. I don’t even know what happened, and I’d hate to do this by trial and error. Where are we?

He didn’t know.

The consequences of hubris, she murmured.

All the iron in his pocket, the talisman around his neck, all Amelia’s spells and incantations—none of them had saved them. Every muscle ached. He slumped against a tree and rested. Even starting in on the question of what had happened seemed overwhelming. Grant had wanted to open a portal, to imprison the entity or send it away. He must have succeeded—he’d opened a portal, and it had swallowed Cormac when he interfered.

I am livid, Amelia said. How dare he, hitching his own spell to Judi and Frida’s perfectly reasonable ritual.

Water usually meant people. Fishermen, boats, something. If he walked far enough, he ought to find someone, eventually. Sooner, he hoped. Goose bumps covered his arms, and he rubbed them absently. He might have to figure out shelter and fire first. Test out some of those rusty survival skills.

Getting to his feet, he brushed himself off and stepped to the edge of the shore, listening for the sounds of engines, of wake splashing behind boats; heard nothing but the calm ripple of water on stone. The fog seemed to be growing thicker. Mist clung to his shirt, his jeans.

He glanced one way up the shore, then the other. “Well? Left or right?”

Right, I think.

Six to one, half dozen to the other. He started walking down the shore—to whatever he could find.

Fog roiled, the mist edging right up to rain but never quite getting there. He was still getting soaked. Moving was keeping him warm, providing incentive to keep going. He walked a little faster.

A whuffling noise up ahead made him stop. Heavy footsteps slipped on rocks. Cormac straightened, shading his eyes to see what approached. Maybe Grant’s demon, whatever it was, had found them. If there had been a portal and they’d both traveled through it— But there was no storm, no glowing eyes. Just fog, the gentle lapping of waves, and a massive lumbering shape emerging from the mist. It had golden-tinged, chocolatey fur, nubs of ears, a hump over its shoulders and great muscular slope of a back. A grizzly, nosing among the stones for anything edible that might have washed up.

His heart started racing again. This could go badly. Well, on the plus side, this was an entirely earthly, mundane threat that he theoretically knew what to do about. He was almost amused—all the talismans and magic spells Amelia knew wouldn’t replace a good can of bear spray. If only he had one.

Slowly, he knelt and picked up a couple of stones.

The bear hadn’t seen him yet, and if he kept moving slowly, carefully, it wouldn’t. He just had to get out of the thing’s way. Step by step, he backed into the trees. At least this told him something about where they’d ended up: someplace with grizzlies.

The bear came close enough, Cormac could see its nostrils twitching as it sniffed along. Standing still, Cormac was getting colder, damper. He shivered.

Lifting its nose to the air, sniffing, the bear hesitated. Its lips parted, and it gave a low snort. It seemed to scan the trees, as if it knew something was there. Okay, fine, next plan was to make a lot of noise. Chuck rocks at it if that didn’t work. The thing was way bigger, but Cormac was smarter. Theoretically.

Suddenly, the bear turned at a new sound—a rhythmic splash. A paddle, dipping, pulling. A hull slipping over the surface of the water. A canoe emerged from the mist, angling toward the shore. It held two people, a man and woman, paddling efficiently.

Hard to make out details, but they seemed…odd in a way Cormac couldn’t immediately identify.

The man, sitting in the front, shouted, “Hey, you bear, you go away! You’ve got plenty of territory, you don’t need to be here! Shoo, shoo!”

The canoe scraped up on the rocks, and the man got up, waving his arms, continuing to shout. “Hey! Shoo there!” The woman started shaking a rattle, a hollow, crackling sound.

The bear could have been forgiven for charging them out of sheer annoyance, but it gave them a look-over, grunted, then shuffled its bulk around, waddling carefully among the rocks.

That thing would be eight feet tall if it stood on its hind legs. It was massive. And Cormac never wanted to get this close to one again, outside of a zoo.

The pair hopped on shore, settling the canoe among the rocks, then stood side by side and beamed at him. They were young, maybe early twenties. They both had bronzed skin, dark eyes, shining black hair, braided and decorated with beads and shells. Their clothing wasn’t just antique but rustic, tunics made of rough weaving, belted with leather, more layers over that, and thick fur boots. Like they were part of some kind of historical reenactment group. Cormac could almost convince himself that this made sense, that he’d landed somewhere near some kind of historical fort with a living history presentation and they just happened to be paddling past as part of a demonstration.

Somehow, he didn’t think that was what was happening here.

Unsettled, Amelia made herself small in the back of his mind.

“You look a little stuck,” the woman said. “You need help?”

He didn’t know. Well, of course he needed help, he had no idea where he was or how he was going to get out of here.

“Who are you?” he asked, sounding more defensive than he intended.

“You’ll freeze out here, friend,” the man said. “Come with us, let us help you! We have warm blankets, food. Just come with us!”

Why did that sound like a threat? Cautiously, Cormac said, “I’m all right. If you could just tell me the way to the nearest town and how far it is—”

“What, you think you’re going to walk? This is an island!”

Well, that was one question answered.

The woman said, “Our village is the nearest settlement. You’re very welcome there!”

They were weirdly cheerful. They didn’t seem to mind the cold and damp. Every instinct was screaming at him that this was some kind of trick.

She deftly walked up the rocks and took hold of his hand. “Oh, you’re so cold! I refuse to let you freeze to death. Brother, we must help him!”

“Of course we must, Sister!”

Cormac jerked his hand away. “I’m not going to freeze to death. If I can just get directions—”

Sister grabbed his arm, and she was weirdly strong. “You have to at least get off the island before you can go anywhere else. There aren’t any villages here. Just the bears. You want to try your luck with them?” She tugged on his arm, guiding him down the shore. What could he do but follow?

“Then if I could maybe borrow your phone?”

They blinked in confusion. They didn’t have phones. They didn’t seem to recognize the idea of phones.

Sister laughed, still pulling him to the shoreline. “You’ll see, you’ll feel much better once you get to our village.”

They stood on either side of him and guided him into the canoe. And he just let them, because they were right. Wasn’t like he could swim off the island in this temperature.

Where the bloody hell were they?

He stumbled into the narrow boat, landing on his backside. The siblings took up their paddles, moving the canoe back into the water before he could right himself and cling to the sides. The craft wasn’t huge, maybe twenty feet long. Enough for two people to move around in. The siblings kept him between them, stowed like he was cargo. Well made, it was probably carved out of a single tree trunk. Individual strokes from tools were visible; the care that had gone into polishing it was plain. The outside was painted with bold red and black shapes, with a circle at the prow that looked like an eye.

The canoe glided away from the shore. Soon he could see nothing but fog. Sister hummed under her breath, a few repeated notes. Wearing what seemed like a satisfied smile, Brother studied the way ahead.

They acted like a couple of hunters who’d brought down a prize. And wasn’t that a disturbing thought?

These people are weird, he thought to Amelia.

Well yes, the question is what kind of weird?

If he had a clue what was going on, this might be peaceful. The shushing of the water, the muffled stillness of the fog, the visceral scent of the ocean.

“Ahh!” Brother breathed, gazing out, and Cormac looked for what he’d spotted. A jet of steam misted into the air from the water, and a dark gray shape broke the surface, smooth skin slipping along, then sliding back under. Then another burst of steam—breath, rather—accompanied by a hiss of air, and another stretch of a huge body arching over and under. Then another, and another. A whole pod of whales, moving off. They watched, full of wonder, as the pod disappeared into the fog.

The canoe continued, confident in its direction.

The fog started breaking up, turning to wisps; a glowing circle of light appeared overhead. The sun. Ahead, Cormac saw a darker shape against the gray water. Land, bristling with trees, emerged.

They steered the canoe toward a break in the forest, an open stretch of beach where the trees had been cleared. A ways up from the water sat a village—a dozen or so low wooden structures with slanted roofs, covered with painted designs. The place was busy, people moving back and forth, down from the trees and up from the water, carrying baskets, working at racks where fish dried, hacking at tree trunks with tools.

“See?” Sister said. “Home! It’s safe here, you’ll see!”

The canoe knifed through the gentle surf. When the bottom scraped dirt, the siblings jumped out, splashing onto the strand, and hauled the canoe up to dry land, with Cormac still in it. Belatedly, he thought to scramble out and try to help, but they didn’t need him.

They greeted the village in their own language. Many of the villagers stopped their work and called back, waving. They might have traded news. Cormac was left to wander, bewildered.

The fog had almost totally broken. Some mist remained in the distance, around other islands and spits of land, clinging to the tops of towering spruce trees and the mountain peaks that hemmed in this section of the world.

He saw no boats on the water besides these handmade canoes. No buoys. Not so much as a power line or radio tower in any direction. No contrails overhead. Nothing of modernity. He might have been at the beginning of the world.

Whatever portal he’d plunged into hadn’t just moved him in location; it had transported him through time. He remembered what Grant said about the magic of the broken portal: They didn’t want to end the world, but return it to an earlier time. Primordial. And here he was.

Sister had gone off but returned quickly with a big, cozy blanket that she flung over Cormac’s shoulders. He hadn’t realized how cold he had gotten, how much he’d been shivering. The blanket provided almost instant warmth.

“Come, come!” She spread her arm across his back, steering him toward the largest building and the fire burning on a stone hearth outside it. “We’ll get you feeling better in no time!” She settled him by the fire and fussed over him some more, then ran off, promising to return with food and drink, wonderful food and drink.

If this was an ancient village—he now recognized the signs of Pacific Northwest native cultures—how did she know English? She and her brother both spoke it with American accents. Maybe he was wrong about the time. This wasn’t ancient, just remote. He could find someone with a phone, he could call Judi, and everything would be fine—

A spike of panic came from Amelia.

Do you have the seer stone?

The stone with the hole in it?

Yes!

A stone with a naturally-worn hole could grant second sight, in order to see magic at work, or identify otherworldly creatures. Cormac patted at his jeans and frowned. No, he didn’t have it. Had a bunch of other stuff shoved in his pockets, but not that.

The bent iron nail, then. Amelia was sounding flustered, desperate. Get it out! Hold it in your right hand. Say these words.

He repeated what she told him, no matter how silly it felt. “Iron old or iron new, lift the veil and show me true.”

Cormac’s eyes watered. He blinked a couple of times, rubbed them on his sleeve—

They weren’t human. The whole damn village was…something else. He’d never seen anything like it, and he’d seen a lot. The villagers had arms and legs and faces, eyes and teeth, but they looked all wrong. Their arms seemed to grow from the front of their chests, without any recognizable shoulders. Their teeth were sharp, their noses upturned, pulled back from their mouths, and except for their faces, they were covered in fur.

They spoke English to him because they were magical. He could understand them because they wanted him to.

“Shit,” he murmured. What did they do now?

Kitty would say that just because they weren’t human—or not entirely human, or something adjacent to human—was no reason not to trust them. This was just a village of people trying to live their lives, right? Then why were they acting like he was some kind of prize, and not someone they wanted to help?

The rules apply.

What rules?

The rules about other realms. The fae, underhill. This isn’t the same but it might be similar. It’s not our world and they want to keep you here. Don’t accept food. Don’t drink anything. Don’t let anyone seduce you.

Now wait just a minute—

Sister returned, shining hair draped down her hunched back where her shoulders ought to be, basket propped on her hip, smiling alluringly. She looked him up and down appraisingly, admiringly. He supposed he should have been flattered. If she still appeared human to him, he might have been, but despite the sultry pose, she had a crookbacked, rodent-y look about her now.

You will not be seduced by otherworldly beings on an unknown plane of existence, Cormac, do you hear me?!

Unless it’s a mermaid.

Well. All right. If the opportunity to be seduced by a mermaid arises, we will discuss.

They were both still a little dizzy over that mermaid kiss from last year…

Sister knelt before him and placed the basket on the ground. “Here, you must be starving after your ordeal. You should eat. This is our finest food!”

Oh yeah, that was some kind of fae come-on, definitely.

Cormac managed a weak smile. “I’m still feeling a little queasy from the boat. Maybe later.”

“Oh, I have just the thing for a queasy stomach. A hot tincture. I’ll be right back.”

They had to get out of here.

We’ll recreate the ritual, Amelia said, determined. Open another portal and go back.

She made it sound simple.

One of the villagers came up behind him and sat close. This one was different. An older man, he was the most human-looking of any of them. He still had shoulders. His teeth were set in a human-looking jaw. His eyes were hazel, normal. But like the rest, he was covered in fur and his nose was upturned, snout-like.

“Hello, friend,” he said, scrutinizing.

Cormac leaned back. “Hi.”

“You’re new, I see. You have questions.”

Obviously, he wanted to snap, but didn’t. Sure, he had questions, but he didn’t know if he’d trust any of the answers he got in this place. “Who are you?”

“Oh, I came here years ago now. A lot like you did, I suppose. Got caught in a storm, and they rescued me. Brought me here. You’ll get used to it, eventually.”

He didn’t want to get used to it. He wanted to go home. “I won’t be here long. I need to get home.”

The man just chuckled, shaking his head sadly.

“What is this place? Who are these people?”

“These are the Land Otter People.”

“I’m sorry, the what?”

“You’re one of them, now. It’s what happens when they find you.”

Reflexively, Cormac looked at his hands, turning them back and forth, searching for fur and thickened claws. He touched his face. Normal, he was all normal.

Both Sister and Brother returned then.

“Here,” she said, holding out a steaming cup made out of something like bone or ivory. “Drink, and you’ll feel better.”

Drink, and he’d never want to leave, he was sure of it.

“It’s just so peaceful here,” Brother said. “You’ll see!”

“Please, drink!” Sister put the cup in his hands, wrapping his fingers around it. The fur of her hands was coarse, thick.

He held the cup, trying to look appreciative. They were watching him so earnestly.

“I will,” Cormac told them. “In a minute. Maybe…I might get warm faster if I had another blanket.”

Nodding eagerly, the siblings went off to fetch it.

Cormac dumped out the cup of brown-tinged water and threw the blanket off his shoulders. When he started to stand, the man—the former captive, he supposed—held Cormac’s arm. “You still look tired. Like you could use a rest.”

He grabbed the collar of the man’s—former man’s?—shirt. “How do we get out of here?”

“I don’t know that we really want—”

“Tell me.”

He licked his lips, and his voice went low. “I’ve heard stories…a shaman can stop them. A shaman can get you away from here, but only if they know you’re trapped. That’s the thing, your people will think you drowned or froze on the water. They’re not even looking for you. That’s how they get you.”

His family had no clue. Maybe Judi, Frida, and Grant did. Maybe they were already looking for him, and maybe they were close enough to being like a shaman that they could help—if they knew where he was. If something equally bizarre wasn’t happening to them.

Or—

He drew the smooth river stone from his pocket. A calling card, he’d been told.

He pointed at the man. “Don’t say a word to them.”

“Sure, but I really think you’d feel better if—”

Cormac was already striding away. As soon as he could, he ducked behind one of the buildings, then into the forest beyond. Ideally, he’d find a sheltered clearing among the trees, someplace he could cast some protective spells and put up some warding symbols.

The spruce trees here were ancient, immense. He paused, pressing himself to a trunk, the bark scratching under his touch. He looked up through the branches, a cathedral of wood and light.

Holding his breath a moment, he listened. Heard nothing but a woodpecker hammering a few odd beats.

He squeezed the river stone in his fist. So, what did they do with it?

The stone had been given to him as a business card. Ilena Dimitrova was a federal agent with an agency that no one would admit existed, but that seemed to show up at magically opportune moments. He’d had a couple of run-ins with them. He was supposed to call her if he encountered something magically interesting. Well, this qualified.

If he called her and asked for help, would she answer? Even across space and time? When she gave it to him, Dimitrova had told him Amelia would know what to do with it.

Spit on the stone, Amelia instructed. Rub it in with your thumb. Say adiuva.

He brought the stone to his mouth, did as she instructed. Whispered the word a few times just in case. Nothing immediately happened. He was getting cold again. The sun might be out, but the mist still got under his skin.

He risked a look back toward the village. No one had come after him yet.

“How do we know if it works?”

Not sure. Let’s start on plan B.

That was recreating the ritual that had thrown them here in the first place. Problem was, they still didn’t know exactly what Grant had done to screw it up. The shouted Latin, the crystal—

Not that I trust his magic anyway. We will rely on our own.

Doing something, anything, was better than just standing here. Well, maybe not, but he wasn’t going to just stand here.

Further on, he found the clearing he needed, a spot where one of the tall spruces had fallen and rotted in place. Ferns and undergrowth had exploded in the sun, mushrooms crawling along the crumbling wood. A few pale, spindly saplings crowded in, but none had grown more than a few feet.

He got to work hunting for stones and deadfall to make a circle. Checked Dimitrova’s stone. One side of it was still darkened with his spit. Did particles of quartz on the surface seem to flash extra bright in the sun?

Suddenly, shouting carried through the forest. They were calling in the Land Otter People’s language. The tone pretty obviously suggested, Hey, over here, this way!

“Something needs to happen real soon here.” He put the stone in his pocket.

He and Amelia had some sage left. He had a book of matches in his back pocket, but they’d gotten damp, so no fire. No candles, no amulets…

Intention, not details. We want to go home.

At least with the sun out they could tell which way was which. Amelia took over his body. Starting in the east, she used a stick to draw a rune in the dirt and chanted the words of protection she’d used back at Judi and Frida’s circle. Then south, west, north. They remembered what had happened when Grant interrupted, what it had sounded like, what it had smelled like—

A summoning. He’d cast a summoning. She did the same now, maybe not using his exact words. Intention, intention…

A cloud passed over the sun, and a low growl of thunder echoed over the mountain.

Well, that sounded familiar.

She repeated the summoning, Cormac’s voice booming.

Shouting and the thud of running feet approached from the Land Otter People’s village. He recognized Brother and Sister’s voices, calling to him in English. They had good food, warm blankets, he must stop what he was doing, they needed him— Sister screamed suddenly.

Amelia risked a glance. Brother and Sister recoiled when they came within sight of his impromptu circle. They drew back from it as if it were made of fire, and then they fled in what seemed to be terror.

So, Cormac and Amelia were either doing something right, or something very, very wrong.

The mist that had burned off through the morning returned, thicker than ever, and the ground shook with a new round of thunder. The next light that cut through the gloom came from a pair of amber eyes. Thunder growled with an unmistakable voice.

Dimitrova’s stone had gotten hot. He put his hand on it, intending to pull it out and look. But a blazing light burst over him, white and searing. It might have been lightning but it lingered, grew, and the amber eyes widened, light overpowering everything—

He was thrown into a press of people, a whole churning crowd of stinking, shouting people. The exact opposite of the vast, clean spruce forests of the Pacific Northwest.

They hardly seemed to notice that he came out of thin air to land in the middle of them. A young man shoved him hard, so that he stumbled into the next person over, who shoved him back. “Hey there, where’d you come from then?” he called in a thick, drawling accent, some flavor of English.

Cormac felt profound relief that he understood him. He braced, feet apart, elbows up, so no one else could displace him. The crowd settled.

After that, he was pressed with the rest of them toward what looked like…a stage. A wooden platform raised about four or five feet off the dirt and lit with torches at the corners. Walls rose up on all sides, in a ring; the boxes and seats along it were also filled with people, restless, murmuring. There were no seats here on the floor; the audience was all standing, a crowd jostling to get closer. The space was open to the sky, which was blue with dusk.

This was a theater. A lone actor stood on stage. He seemed to have paused during whatever disturbance had just happened.

What astonished Cormac and Amelia more than anything else about this whole situation: they recognized him.

It was Edward Alleyn.

One of the great actors of Elizabethan theater, Edward Alleyn performed in the first productions of works by William Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe. But Cormac and Amelia had met him four hundred years after this, when he was the Master vampire of London.

They never got the whole story of how he had gone from celebrated actor to the ancient creature that they’d met in modern London. Seeing him here, like this, was doubly shocking. Shocking, that they recognized him. And shocking, that because of him they knew when and where they were, and that was somehow worse than not knowing. How were they supposed to get home from 1600 London?

At least, that was what Cormac was thinking. Amelia was awestruck. Do you realize what this is? What we’re witnessing? This…it’s astonishing!

Cormac was still confused. And tired.

Ned Alleyn, quite a bit younger and much more alive than when they’d met him, had resumed the play and was giving a speech.

“Now, Faustus, must thou needs be damned, and canst thou not be saved. What boots it, then, to think of God or heaven? Away with such vain fancies, and despair; Despair in God, and trust in Beelzebub. Now go not backward; no, Faustus, be resolute: Why waverest thou?”

Amelia raved. Good Lord, it’s Marlowe’s Faustus! He’s performing Faust! This is extraordinary!

This meant something, this was an important cultural moment. Cormac could understand it, but he didn’t feel it. Mostly, he was looking around, trying to figure out where the exits were and how to get there if this crowd got surly. Even more surly, rather.

Cormac, you really should pay attention—

Alleyn, playing Faust, wore a black doublet trimmed in silver that flashed in the torchlight. The crowd had somehow fallen dead quiet, not even rustling, their attention captured by the blasphemies being openly declaimed in front of them.

Alleyn’s hands moved in a nervous tic, full of anxiety. His body wavered, almost pacing, then hesitating.

“O, something soundeth in mine ears. ‘Abjure this magic, turn to God again!’ Ay, and Faustus will turn to God again. To God? He loves thee not; the god thou servest is thine own appetite, wherein is fixed the love of Beelzebub: to him I’ll build an altar and a church, and offer lukewarm blood of new-born babes.”

His eyes gleamed with the ferocity of this image, lips curling back from teeth. This wasn’t Ned Alleyn anymore; he embodied the character, the doomed magician.

Two more actors appeared, figures gliding downstage from a door in the back. One was dressed in gleaming white, with wings made of goose feathers attached to a harness hooked to his shoulders. The other wore a black cloak and painted red horns on a band tied around his head.

They moved to stand on either side of Faust. The angel pleaded with him. “Sweet Faustus, leave that execrable art!”

Faust tilted his head. “Contrition, prayer, repentance—what of them?”

The angel answered: “O, they are means to bring thee unto heaven!”

The devil stepped up to Faust’s other side, his grin gaunt and sneering. “Rather illusions, fruits of lunacy, that make men foolish that do trust them most.”

Cormac gaped and vented at Amelia: Wait a minute, are you telling me the whole angel and devil on the shoulder thing started with this?

Yes. Now be quiet and watch!

The angel begged, “Sweet Faustus, think of heaven and heavenly things.”

The devil countered, “No, Faustus; think of honor and of wealth.”

It was such a cliché, but to this audience, it was new. It was brilliant.

Faust stepped away from them both, while the figures fled through opposite doorways. “Of wealth! Why, the signiory of Embden shall be mine. When Mephistophilis shall stand by me, what god can hurt thee, Faustus? Thou art safe. Cast no more doubts. Come, Mephistophilis, And bring glad tidings from great Lucifer; Is’t not midnight? Come, Mephistophilis, Veni, veni, Mephistophile!”

Oh, this was going to end badly, wasn’t it?

A new player entered, a tall and serene noble gentleman, perfectly turned out and polished like a painting, with a doublet and hose of rich red brocade, embroidered with gold. His gaze looked down on Faust contemptuously.

Cormac’s heart started racing in spite of himself.

Faust shook his fist at this figure, demanding, “Now tell me what says Lucifer, thy lord?”

Mephistopheles spoke carefully, precisely. “That I shall wait on Faustus whilst he lives, so he will buy my service with his soul.”

Some in the audience gasped, crying out in denial.

Faust said, “Already Faustus hath hazarded that for thee.”

“But, Faustus, thou must bequeath it solemnly, and write a deed of gift with thine own blood; for that security craves great Lucifer. If thou deny it, I will back to hell.”

Mephistopheles raised his arms, revealing that he held a scroll of parchment and an ostentatious quill pen, dripping blood. Probably just paint, but the effect was riveting.

Cormac and Amelia had never summoned demons, but they’d sent a few back to wherever they’d come from, be it hell or some adjacent dimension. This kind of magic, this literal deal with the devil, was real, it happened, but they stayed far away from it. It was too tricky, the consequences of failure too dire. Already, Cormac caught the snag in what this demon offered—whilst he lives. Which, given how these things usually went, wouldn’t be for too much longer.

Kitty had once been offered a deal with the devil by Lucifer himself. She’d refused.

The silence on the stage drew on. The actor playing Mephistopheles fidgeted, glaring nervously at Alleyn. The audience picked up the restlessness, shifting and murmuring, aware that something was wrong.

The other actor said, “What say you to this our bargain? Faustus?” Ad-libbing.

Alleyn stared out, frozen mid-gesture.

A voice whispered from behind the stage, presumably the next line, that Alleyn seemed to have forgotten.

Cormac followed the line of his sight to find what he stared at. His gaze had been caught by a man sitting in one of the boxes. Somehow, despite the crowd, he had a space around him; he was the only one on the bench. He was plainly but elegantly dressed, all in black, his velvet cap decorated with jewels and a plume. Jeweled rings adorned his fingers, which he held steepled against a neatly trimmed goatee. The man was pale, ghostly pale, and a chill seemed to radiate from him. Maybe that was how he got the bench to himself. He was preternaturally self-possessed, and obsessively focused on Ned Alleyn, who seemed hypnotized.

The man in the box seat was a vampire. He studied Alleyn with a possessive, calculating air. And Alleyn seemed to know it.

“Ned!” the actor playing Mephistopheles hissed and punched Alleyn’s shoulder, and this seemed to wake him up. But instead of continuing with the play, he backed up, his eyes widening in panic. Abruptly, he turned and fled out the upstage door.

Some of the audience started shouting. The other actor spread his arms and announced, “It seems our Faustus has repented of his bargain? Hold, I’ll draw him back so he can tell us—” He fled, too, and a moment later a pair of gaudily-dressed actors, ribbons and bells stitched to their doublets and pantaloons, came out, juggling balls and shouting insults at each other. The crowd seemed only partly placated.

The vampire in the box seat fled, too. Going after his prey.

Cormac went after them both, shoving through the crowd, relentlessly shouldering them aside even as they cursed and shouted after him. Elizabethan theatergoers could swear very creatively, it turned out. Someone grabbed his shirt, as if intending to haul him back, and Cormac just out and punched his face. The man tumbled back, and the whole theater let out a roar. Fists and kicks flew from all sides now, and Cormac ducked, blocked, and dodged, taking a couple of glancing blows and shaking them off as he continued battling to the stage. The jugglers had left off juggling a while ago, but stuck around to shout insults at the crowd, which shouted them right back.

If theater were like this in the twenty-first century, Cormac might actually be convinced to go. In the back of his mind, Amelia was grumbling in frustration. Cormac was sure he would hear about it later when he wasn’t so busy.

He hauled himself up on stage. The jugglers lunged at him, clearly intent on throwing him back to the crowd, but Cormac was ready. He rolled out of their reach, then ran for the door leading backstage. They followed right behind him.

The narrow, crowded room at the back of the stage—the tiring house, Amelia supplied distractingly—was in even more of an uproar than the audience. The place barely had any room to move, stuffed to bursting with clothing, swords, pikes, banners, garlands of flowers made from cloth, a whole bucket full of tin crowns, and another bucket full of boots. A crowd of men in various states of undress shouted at each other—and they all seemed to have loud, booming voices, used to projecting from the stage. A couple of young boys in the mix wore sumptuous gowns, to play women characters. Their voices were lighter, but just as loud.

“Hey, you there! Stop!” one of the jugglers called out.

Cormac kept on, shoving and knocking actors down as he went.

Someone stepped in front of him holding a sword, and he wondered if it was real or a prop. It looked real, and sharp.

Before its wielder could use it, Cormac demanded, “Ned Alleyn, where is he? Where’d he go?”

“What? Why?” The would-be swordsman furrowed his brow.

“Where!”

The guy glanced over his shoulder. “He went out—”

Cormac ran to the doorway in the back of the room and emerged in a muddy alley, where a lantern hanging on a hook by the door gave off what seemed like the smallest possible circle of light.

“I will not go with you!” Alleyn pressed himself against the wall.

The vampire stood at the end of the alley, blocking his escape. “You are a treasure, Master Alleyn. I only wish to preserve your talent.”

Alleyn laughed sharply. “I’ve played Faustus for a decade; I would hope I’ve learned in that time not to make such foolish bargains as he.”

Trash and other debris had been left out in the alley, propped up by the wall. This included a stack of broken poles that might once have played the parts of pikes or flagpoles. Cormac grabbed one with a good, sharp end to it.

“Get back inside,” he told Alleyn, standing between him and the vampire, holding up the wicked-looking stake. Alleyn disappeared through the door without question. Like weird shit happened to him all the time, and maybe it did.

The vampire stood his ground, eyeing the ragged point of wood with a sly smile. “Well. You know what I am.”

Cormac assessed. Vampires were too fast and strong to take out in a straight-up fight, even with all the wooden stakes in the world. Normally, Cormac liked to destroy them by surprise. Right through the back. No chance for that here, but he could at least keep the guy from going after Alleyn. He kept his back to the wall, his stance at the ready.

“There’s something odd about you, isn’t there?” the vampire murmured, setting Cormac’s hair on end even more than it already was. The vampire sniffed, as if he could smell him.

The statement seemed obvious. Cormac was wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt, boots, all stiff with mud and sweat from his adventures over the last…he didn’t even know how long he’d been at this. He didn’t fit in, he didn’t belong. He could understand the speech, but the accent was strange—nothing like old English accents in the movies. His own accent was harsh, in comparison.

“It’s the two auras thing, isn’t it?” Cormac said, trying to distract him.

The vampire tilted his head, narrowed his gaze. “I know someone who should meet you.”

“Not interested.”

The vampire chuckled in that arrogant, condescending way that most vampires seemed to perfect immediately on being turned. He raised a hand, flicked a finger, and two thugs appeared from the shadows to charge at Cormac. He hadn’t even known they were there. He was seriously off his game.

They moved fast. Supernaturally fast. The scrappy one, all bone and muscle on wiry limbs, was a lycanthrope, maybe a werewolf. He had a certain gleam in his eyes; his fingers bent, the shadow of claws. Dressed in a loose shirt and short trousers, sleeves rolled up and legs bared, he loped down the alley in just a couple of strides. From the other side came a big man, bearded and growling, pale and cold. Another vampire, all his power coming through his physical presence rather than subtle intrigue.

All the protective charms and amulets in the world couldn’t help him with this.

Cormac ducked and ran; the big guy blocked his path and lunged, and Cormac swung the broken staff—scraped the guy’s arm, but it wasn’t the stab through the ribcage he’d need to stop him. Meanwhile, the scrappy lycanthrope crashed into his back and tried to grab his arms. Cormac held tight to his weapon and threw his body sideways, trying to twist out of his grip.

They had him penned in, blocking both ways out of the alley, and their vampire handler stood by, grinning.

The big one grabbed the stick, the scrappy one got an arm around his middle. On the edge of panic, Cormac thrashed.

Amelia knew better than to try to talk to him during a fight. Now, though, she was being soothing. Oddly confident. They don’t want to kill us. Let them catch us. Let’s see what this is about.

Out of breath, he sagged, at a loss. They’d wear him down in minutes, he was just about out of options—and Amelia was right. Without more than a broken stick, three against one was more than he could handle.

He let go of the staff; the burly vampire tossed it away to thud against the dirt. The lycanthrope yanked back his arms, putting them in a lock and forcing Cormac to his knees. He struggled against the pressure, just on principle.

The first vampire, a picture of elegance against his shabbily-dressed thugs, strolled over, taking his time. This was the moment Cormac would find out if he was in big trouble, if the guy planned on biting him, draining him, turning him, whatever. Or if he’d get another chance to fight.

Calm, love. Pay attention.

He took a couple of deep breaths to get himself under control. Stop the blood from rushing so loudly in his ears. If he acted like he wasn’t worried, maybe it would throw the vampire off. He avoided meeting the vampire’s hypnotic gaze. Wished he had a cross or two stashed on him, but he hadn’t expected to run into vampires when he’d decided to help Odysseus Grant.

That would teach him.

The vampire stood before him and ran a finger along Cormac’s jaw, which was starting to get bristly with stubble—so that was a sign of how long he’d been at this. It was such a cliché villain move that Cormac almost laughed.

“Who are you?” the vampire asked. “What are you?”

“Just a guy,” he said. What are we watching for? he asked the back of his mind.

Anything we can use.

All right, then.

“Bring him.”

The lycanthrope tightened his grip, and the burly vampire gave him a good hard hit to the face that left him dizzy. Next thing, a hood went over his head and he was hauled off his feet, slung over a shoulder. They moved off quickly. Every time Cormac tried to shift or squirm, the thug’s grip on him tightened.

Was 1600s London the kind of place where a couple of toughs could carry a nearly unconscious, hooded man through the streets and no one would stop them?

Oh yes, Amelia said. Yes, it was.

They had a little time to think.

Had they just changed history, rescuing Ned from the vampire?

No, Amelia assured him. The Ned Alleyn we know is older—he has years more to live before he’s turned.

The vampire would eventually succeed, then. Vampires were patient—he’d wait to try again.

There’s a story: once, Edward Alleyn played Faust, his most famous role, and was so convincing that he summoned an actual demon, right there in the theater. This so terrified him that he left the stage forever.

Is that what they had just witnessed? Edward Alleyn’s last stage performance? Or was this all some otherworldly dream? Something happening in another dimension entirely? Cormac didn’t want to think about it too hard, but he’d have to get the Master of London’s number from Kitty when they got back home, so they could compare notes.

If they got back home.

We will, we must.

Sooner than he expected he was thrown to a hard floor and the hood yanked off. He found himself in a decent-sized room with stone walls and a timbered ceiling, heavy with age and darkness. Candles in every corner gave off some light, but he still squinted against the gloom.

The place was chock full of the arcane.

Tables, shelves, and cabinets were crammed against every wall space, and more tables sprawled across the floor. One table held glassware and clay bowls, all overflowing with materials. A brazier filled with coals glowed; smoke was drawn lazily toward a nearby fireplace, so at least the place had some ventilation. Glass vials in a rack had labels tied to them with string. Another table held a dozen skulls, from a mouse to a horse; an elephant’s tusk; a rhinoceros’s horn. Yet another held herbs, a bundle of sage, a large ginger root cut in half, and a couple more items even Amelia couldn’t identify. A collection of knives to cut them with sat next to a mortar and pestle for grinding. On one of the shelves sat a round iron cage, which held a black cat, pacing back and forth, occasionally stopping to glare out with yellow eyes, arch its back, and hiss. There were three different globes set in ornate stands, and a bronze-trimmed telescope as long as Cormac’s arm. Another ornate stand held a mirror, next to a wide crystal bowl filled with water. The only open stretch of floor had a circle painted in white, enclosing a pentagram, along with dozens of alchemical marks, Greek letters, and Hebrew symbols drawn out in a dizzying pattern. This was a wizard’s lair and chemistry lab mashed together. Fuck the patriarchy, Cormac could hear Frida mutter.

Besides all that, the shelves were filled with books. Hundreds of books, leather-bound and ancient looking.

Do you have any idea how valuable those are, in this time and place? Amelia made sure to tell him. Here and now, books were a sign of wealth. Those shelves held a fortune.

The two thugs stood guard nearby. The elegant vampire circled around, eyeing him warily, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

Cormac touched the tender spot at his temple and winced. A massive headache was blooming, but it was probably as much from stress and displacement as from the blow to his head. He made sure to keep the trio in view.

A figure emerged from the gloom and clutter into the burnished light. He was somberly dressed in black, a black vest or doublet of some sort, the ruffled collar of a white shirt underneath, black trousers and stockings with a black coat over it all, and a black cap on graying hair. His beard was thin, curling. Ink stained his hands, and he wore a Christian cross and an Egyptian auk, both made of silver, on chains around his neck.

“What’s this?” the newcomer asked, entering the room, careful not to step on the markings on the floor.

The vampire bowed to him. “Master, I’ve found something intriguing.”

This guy seemed entirely human, even if he was sunk neck-deep in magic, but the vampire showed him deference, as if he was the servant and the human the master. It was usually the other way around. Something weird was going on here.

You mean something even more weird than what’s already been happening since Odysseus landed on our doorstep?

Well, yeah.

The magician approached, drawing a magnifying glass from a pouch and examining Cormac through it, starting at the top and working his way down, paying particular attention to his clothes—the knit of his shirt, the rivets on his jeans.

Finally, Cormac snatched the glass from his hand and glared. Guy didn’t even flinch. The two thugs did. The elegant vampire raised a hand, and they settled.

“Who are you?” Cormac asked. “What the hell is this?”

Meanwhile, Amelia was studying the room. Cormac looked around to let her see while also trying to keep an eye on the magician.

The magician chuckled softly. “Hell, indeed. Where did you find him? Is he a sailor? A Southwark type, certainly.”

“I did find him in Southwark, sir. At the theater.”

The magician glanced sharply at him. “You’re not still mooning after that actor.”

The vampire curled a smile to show a fang.

“And yet this one distracted you?”

“He knows what I am just by looking. He knows what will destroy my kind.”

“A man with a particular talent, then? A foreigner? I might have use for such a one.”

Cormac shook his head. “I’m walking out of here. Where’s the door?” The thugs were blocking the door, and he scowled.

“What is that accent? Where are you from?” The magician studied him again, as if the answer might be written on the shape of his face. “You have an English look about you, but rougher. Some Norse in the texture of your hair.”

Cormac, it’s definitely a summoning circle, she said. Not entirely sure what he thinks he’s summoning. But I think we can…alter it.

Turn it into a portal back home?

Just so.

So, they had to stick around, figure out how to work the ritual that would get them home. Humor this guy and trick him into helping them.

Perhaps let me handle this?

She knew what they were looking at, after all. This time, Cormac was happy enough to step aside, keeping his hindbrain’s awareness on their assailants, while she addressed the room’s master.

“I see that you’ve made a study of the kabbalistic masters, though I wonder at the texts you relied on. They must have been quite simple, merely introductory. Your attempt to integrate them with the Egyptian hierophantic lore doesn’t take any of the cultural underpinnings of either traditions into account, though I suppose you can be forgiven. Understanding of such matters was quite rudimentary in this time. Oh, and Egyptian hieroglyphics haven’t yet been translated, have they?”

It was still his voice speaking, but her words had their own cadence and diction. He wondered if they’d pick up on it. They strolled along the tables, studying the contents appraisingly, like an instructor in a classroom. “It’s a good collection of herbs, though I think you’re missing…rosemary? Surely you’ve just run out. I for one feel that rosemary is essential—”

“Who are you?” the magician demanded.

She offered a sly smile. “A mere traveler. And you—” Their wanderings reached a book, a big leather-bound tome resting open on a lectern. The text was handwritten, diagrams and drawings interspersed with splashes of ink and scratched out phrases, as if it had been written with speed and enthusiasm. Amelia read, turned a page, read the next; Cormac couldn’t make sense of it, the writing was so cramped and most of it seemed to be in other languages. Maybe even code. The magician reached a hand, acting like he wanted to stop them. Amelia gave him a hard look.

“These are John Dee’s writings.” Then, her gaze—Cormac’s eyes—widened. “You’re not John Dee, are you? You couldn’t possibly be, you’re too young. Unless you truly did discover some spell of immortality—”

That might explain why the vampires were here.

“No, I am not John Dee,” the man said, with some frustration. “I am one of his students. His most ardent student, seeking to fulfill his legacy. You may call me Master Roger Teakwell.”

He said the name as if they should have heard of it. Amelia hadn’t, which given her studies, meant he must not have amounted to much. She could have said something along those lines if they wanted to poke at him. But that might have given too much away.

“You see why I brought him, Master,” the elegant vampire said.

“Indeed.” Teakwell seemed to pay the vampire little attention, taking him for granted. Maybe he thought the cross he wore was enough to protect him. Meanwhile, the vampire had all his attention on the magician, studying him like a cat waiting to pounce. The magician didn’t seem to notice.

“Lovely to meet you, Master Teakwell. And you are?” She turned to the trio of henchmen, who seemed to draw back, nonplussed. To the smaller man, she said, “I believe you are some variety of lycanthrope. We have a great deal of experience with lycanthropic wolves, but that isn’t what you are, is it?”

The man threw an almost panicked, pleading look at the elegant vampire—wanting some signal for what to do. He looked at the vampire, not the magician. That was interesting.

“He is fox,” the elegant vampire said. “We call him Reynard.”

Predictable, Amelia thought. “And you are vampires. Not ancient, but with some bit of power.”

“How old do you consider ancient?” the elegant vampire asked. “I believe I am older than you’d guess.”

She very nearly met his gaze. She made him think she was going to meet his gaze, so he could exert his power over her, but never quite did. He was getting fidgety over it. “The oldest vampire I have ever encountered was almost three thousand years old. He saw the walls of Babylon when they were new.”

She had them. They studied her with these dumbfounded looks, speechless. The elegant vampire recovered first, narrowing his gaze, calculating.

Cormac was really glad it was his body standing here in front of them, and not hers. He was physically big enough, tough looking, they wouldn’t think they could control him, at least not right away. Who knew how they would have treated a woman standing here.

“Intriguing,” the elegant vampire breathed. “You’ve met Reynard. This other is Sig, and I am Marcellus.”

“Pleased, I’m sure,” she said curtly. “Master Teakwell, what exactly are you planning on summoning here? Ironic, isn’t it, that we were just at a performance of Marlowe’s Faust.”

Teakwell scoffed. “Think you, then, that you can judge me? I will not tell you my plans. I thank you for bringing me this prize, Marcellus. You are right, I think we may use him.”

Use us for what? Cormac thought.

“You have not offered your name, sir?” Marcellus prompted.

He hesitated, but Amelia went ahead and answered. “Cormac.”

“Irish,” Teakwell said. “Of course. Explains his roughness.”

The English of this time did not much respect the Irish, Amelia explained. Not so much in your time, either, Cormac answered wryly. She huffed quietly.

“Sir, are you hungry?” Marcellus said. “Might we offer you refreshment? A chance to rest?”

Was this another case where they shouldn’t take the food and drink offered? He realized how long it had been since they’d eaten. They could use some food. A chance to sit and think, maybe. They seemed normal enough. At least, normal for whatever year this was.

I think it will be all right. You’re right, you need food. And I need…

What?

You. I want to see you.

You see me all the time.

You know what I mean.

Rest. All right.

On the other side of the room, Reynard pushed back a curtain to reveal a doorway framed with more dark, heavy timbers. It led to a small, cozy parlor, with a worn rug on the floor and a couple of armchairs pulled up to a fireplace where coals were glowing. Reynard, who must have been the designated servant, added a couple of sticks and poked.

It’s strangely comforting, to think that Englishmen have been sitting in parlors like this for centuries.

It was just an upscale version of the campfire, Cormac thought. Folks had been sitting in front of fires, talking and eating, for tens of thousands of years. Even the Land Otter People had brought him to their fire. The English just made it complicated.

Teakwell gestured to one of the chairs; Cormac settled into it, and Teakwell sat in the other. Marcellus leaned against the wall by the fireplace. Cormac guessed this chair was usually his, but he didn’t seem bothered by being displaced. Sig, the burly vampire, stood planted at the doorway, hands folded. A guard. Reynard brought over mugs full of some murky drink and a platter with half a loaf of a coarse-looking, dark-colored bread and some crumbly cheese. It all looked a bit dried out, and Cormac wondered if that was normal or if Teakwell didn’t have much in the way of fine food.

Cormac studied the drink skeptically. It smelled like wine, but with a sour edge to it. Teakwell tossed back his mug, taking a long drink. Cormac sipped, winced. It was wine, but sweet and watery. Felt warm going down, though. After Teakwell tore a chunk of the loaf, Cormac did likewise. The bread would soak up the dodgy wine, if nothing else.

They were watching him, and it made him nervous. He prompted Amelia: What do you want to ask them?

I don’t want to talk to them, I want to use them.

Every now and then, this ruthless edge came out of her. This was probably why they got along so well. Nothing either one did ever really shocked the other.

“I’m not sure yet what you want,” Teakwell said. “But perhaps we can help one another.”

Cormac let Amelia carry the conversation. “Perhaps. And you want…well, based on the pages of John Dee’s book you left open, you seem to be interested in the prime question, the alchemist’s question: immortality. If I’m not mistaken, you have decided to summon some…spirit you think can help you.”

Summoned, and here Cormac was. He wondered if maybe this wasn’t a coincidence after all.

“It’s true,” Marcellus said. “Master Teakwell seeks immortality. The eternal question, as it were.”

Amelia said, “You already have the secret to that, don’t you, sir?”

Teakwell set his mug aside. “Marcellus’s kind can still perish if they are not clever enough. He said you had the means to destroy him. If I may ask, how many vampires have you slain?”

Cormac had to think about it a minute and still couldn’t answer. “I’ve lost track.”

Teakwell smiled a little. Marcellus’s eyes glimmered in the firelight.

“Then you are a death dealer,” Marcellus said.

He supposed he was.

“So you see,” Teakwell announced grandly. “I seek not simple immortality, but invincibility. It’s a species of the problem of Tithonus.”

Who? Cormac asked Amelia. Teakwell expected him to just know.

Greek mythology. Tithonus received immortality, but not eternal youth. He withered into horrific, helpless decrepitude. Depending on the myth, he is transformed into an insect. It’s a ‘be careful what you wish for’ parable.

Magicians were always careful what they asked for, meticulous in their phrasing. At least, the good ones were.

Amelia said, “And these other gentlemen are helping you?”

“They are no gentlemen,” Teakwell said, chuckling. “They are my servants.”

Cormac glanced at Marcellus, who was smiling amiably. The tension in the room was sharp. Reynard crouched in the far corner, hands steepled before his face, looking particularly predatory.

Amelia was careful to seem unconcerned. “You haven’t yet succeeded.”

“What about you? Do you hold arcane secrets to assist me? What would you demand in return?”

“I simply want knowledge, same as you. No more or less.”

“You would claim immortality for yourself,” Teakwell said, flushing.

In a sense, Amelia had already found it. Or one version of it. “Oh, I’m not so sure. I don’t think it’s the prize that everyone seems to think it is.”

“Wise man,” Marcellus murmured. “The food and drink is to your liking, I hope?”

He’d eaten a few bites and only taken a couple of sips of the wine, hoping that it wasn’t poisoned. Teakwell had been drinking, so it was probably all right, but Cormac’s stomach was unsettled.

“It’s fine. It’s just been a busy day.”

“Then perhaps we should let you rest,” Teakwell said, slapping his thighs then standing, a startlingly modern gesture. Maybe people had been slapping their thighs and standing as a way to change the subject or get out of a conversation for hundreds of years. “Your pardon, that I do not have a proper room to offer you, but this parlor here is yours, for the moment. Marcellus, might I draw you to the next room, to ask your thoughts on a difficult translation?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Say a word if you have need,” Teakwell said pleasantly before steering Marcellus back to his laboratory.

Reynard and Sig were still on hand. They weren’t going to leave Cormac alone. Teakwell didn’t dare stash him in a guest room, and now he wanted to consult his advisor outside earshot. Did Cormac feel safe enough here to close his eyes and risk falling asleep?

Do we have a choice? We aren’t safe, but perhaps we are safe enough for this. You have good instincts.

Nice of her to say so.

Truth was, the warmth of the fire had already drawn him in, and even the little bit of wine had gone some way to making him feel heavy, sunk into chair’s upholstery.

I want to see you.

He closed his eyes.

He couldn’t find the valley, their high-mountain forest, meadow, and rushing creek that was their retreat, a constructed mental space where they could imagine themselves. It seemed real. His favorite place, the one place he got even vaguely close to feeling at peace with anything, and he couldn’t find it. He couldn’t focus.

The space he stood in was foggy, blank. He stepped on a smooth floor under his feet. The air felt neither warm nor cool. He could see, but couldn’t tell where the light was coming from.

And he was alone.

“Amelia!” he called, and his voice fell flat. No echo returned, which meant he couldn’t judge the size of the space he was in. He might have been nowhere at all.

“Cormac!” a sharp, desperate call answered, and suddenly she was right there, charging into his arms. He reflexively embraced her. After a moment of holding her, he melted, and they folded against one another. She was with him all the time. They lived closer than any two people ought to live. Still, they needed this, to see one another, to feel some kind of presence, even if it was their imaginations. He swore he could feel her heartbeat, standing chest to chest like this.

“You okay?” he asked, drawing back enough to look in her eyes, to smooth back hair from her face.

She appeared to be a young woman in her twenties, dressed in a high-collared gown, her hair loose down her back. Her skin was pale, her gaze dark and piercing. She had shadows under her eyes, which wasn’t normal. In their shared mental space, she usually imagined herself prim, precise.

In response, she kissed him. Yeah, this was definitely better. Felt just as real as seeing her. He didn’t question it.

Too quickly, before he could really relax into the gesture, she pulled back. “I’ve no idea. But it’s very good to see you.”

“Yeah. What is this, what’s happening?” He looked around at the blankness of the setting that should have had sunshine and a sharp blue sky.

“If I had to make a guess—and I suppose I do—I would say we’re unrooted. Out of our place, and this has made finding our center…difficult.” Her hands clenched against his sides.

Hard, to try to reassure her when he was anxious himself. “I hate this,” he muttered.

She clasped his hands. “That’ll teach us to help wayward magicians showing up on our doorstep, won’t it?”

“I wonder what’s happening back there. You think they’re okay?” Did they all get sucked into this? If they were still in Judi and Frida’s yard, did they know what had happened to him?

“We can’t count on them to retrieve us. We must assume that we have to do this ourselves. But Cormac, I’m not sure, I’m simply no longer sure.” Her voice was strained, and she looked around as if she might find some bit of knowledge in the fog. “If I can’t hold an image in my mind, if my mind isn’t working, I’m not sure I can work magic.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, determined. He didn’t even want to think about Amelia not working magic.

“Will we?”

“What’s the alternative?” He turned up a crooked smile.

“Damn,” she muttered.

“You have a plan?”

“Yes. That is, I think I do. I think I can use Teakwell’s spell to open a portal. Whether that portal takes us where we need go— Tell me I can do this. I need to hear you say I can do this.”

“You’re the strongest, most sensible person I know. You can do this.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

“Amelia. There isn’t anyone else I’d want to be in this scrape with. You’re the only one who can get us out of this.”

“Likewise.”

Her smile was warm, all for him, and he didn’t deserve it, and he was about to lean in to kiss her, just in case he never got to do it again, when that hunter’s instinct screamed at him.

Cormac opened his eyes just as a hand gripped his forearm. He grabbed the wrist of his assailant.

It was Marcellus, wearing that sly wicked smile, that studious gaze. They both froze like that for a moment, before Marcellus let go. Then Cormac did.

“Master Cormac, we must speak. In a moment, Master Teakwell expects me to lead you through that door and to your doom. He expects you to be the sacrifice to summon the power he craves. But—” Somehow, the smile curved wider, showing fang. “If you join with me, I can bring you a power greater than any wizard has ever wielded.

“I have an enemy,” Marcellus continued, pitching his voice low, leaning closer. Cormac had to draw away to keep the iron-tinged breath from pressing on him. “This enemy will require magic to defeat him, magic I do not possess. I thought Master Teakwell might. But I believe you are more powerful than he. If you were to take his place, we would have the power to replace an even greater one than any of us. We could displace he who would be master of the world.”

This was nigh Shakespearean.

Cormac answered, hushed, “And you think you can be the master of the world instead?”

“One of us will be,” he said, matter-of-factly. “One of my kind.”

Well, shit. Cormac did not need this bullshit. They’d finished with this bullshit. “You’re talking about the Long Game. Your enemy is Roman. Dux Bellorum.”

Marcellus flinched back and hissed. “Do not speak his name!”

The Long Game was—had been—a strategy among vampires. Hypothetically, they lived forever and could use that time to try to take over the world. It had become a Highlander-like melodrama as they gathered power, acquired followers, and worked to kill each other off. Until, well…Kitty had her own allies. Her own power. They’d cut the whole thing down a few years ago. Squad goals. He’d thought it was done, finished—but this was four hundred years before that. They’d killed Roman—well, they’d brought about the circumstances of his destruction. Just Cormac’s luck that he’d get thrown back in time and have to face the bastard all over again.

Marcellus’s eyes widened. “Do you serve him? Did he send you?”

“No,” Cormac said, Amelia reminding him that they had to play nice, to get to the arcane circle and find their way home. “Of course not. I’d kill him right now if I could.” Oh, just think of all the problems that would solve later on…

Marcellus’s tension eased to a smile. “We want the same, then. Can you take the stage and play your part?”

“Like Faust?” Cormac asked wryly.

Marcellus grinned. “Just so.”

“Can I ask a question? What do you want with Ned Alleyn?”

Incongruously, Marcellus shrugged. “I like him. I want his talents to endure.”

He wondered if he should try to warn the actor, then decided Ned in this time was well aware of the danger. Maybe he would dodge—and maybe he shouldn’t. London of the future needed Ned Alleyn in charge, to stand against Roman.

Cormac’s life was entirely more complicated than he wanted it to be.

Marcellus retreated to the next room, with Teakwell. Cormac was expected to follow soon. He lingered, finishing his drink.

Cormac suspected Marcellus had delivered a similar speech to Teakwell—listen to me, we can take his power. So, which one of them was he telling the truth to?

Ink, Amelia said. I need ink and pen.

He looked around; only this small space was illuminated by light from the fire. The rest of the room was shadowed, cluttered. Squinting, letting his vision adjust, he thought he saw a desk against the back wall, a small table with a spindly chair next to it, cluttered with books and pages.

Before he could reach the desk, Reynard intercepted him. “What’re you doing?” He kept a space between them. Was he afraid?

“I need this for the spell. The ritual.” Cormac wasn’t very good at sounding earnest. He always sounded like he was sneaking. “Marcellus trusts me.”

“Marcellus is using you,” Reynard said. “I thought you understood vampires.”

He didn’t have time for this. “What’s it to you one way or another? I don’t care about him, I’m just trying to get out of here.” Okay, that sounded earnest.

Reynard stepped back. He didn’t interfere, but he also didn’t leave him alone. Cormac decided it didn’t matter.

If Kitty were here, she would try to recruit him as an ally.

Yeah, but that was Kitty’s superpower, being able to recruit just about anyone as an ally. It worked because she genuinely liked making friends—she’d have called it making friends, not recruiting allies.

Cormac had always depended on himself. Well, mostly. What would Kitty do? Was that what he was reduced to? “What’s your story? Don’t think I’ve ever met a were fox.”

“We’re solitary. Not like the wolves.”

“Wolves, I know.” He turned a wry smile. “My cousin and his wife are werewolves.”

Reynard tilted his head, and Cormac swore he could see a couple of sharp ears perk up with interest. “Truly? You count such monstrous creatures as friends?”

“Cousin’s wife—Kitty—says that it’s what you do that makes you a monster, not what you are.” That made him the worst monster out of all of them. He was trying to get better.

Reynard seemed to consider, his gaze turned inward. Then his brow furrowed. “Hold—this wolf woman is called Kitty? Truly?”

Cormac chuckled. “Says the fox named Reynard.”

“A fair hit. I like you, sir.”

Kitty would be very proud of you, Amelia observed kindly.

Assuming they ever got back to tell her about it.

Nothing on the desk seemed familiar or useful to Cormac, but Amelia knew what to do and found a small jar and a brown goose feather that had been stripped. Really old school, then. Amelia offered a memory of her younger self scavenging goose feathers from a country market and sharpening her own quills out of them. In her time, they used inkwells but they’d moved on to metal nibs. As a girl, she sometimes used quills because they made her feel ancient and mysterious.

How do you feel now?

I just want to get this finished.

He set Dimitrova’s stone on the desk and Amelia marked a symbol on it, quill scratching against the rough surface: a circle with a cross at the bottom, an arc at the top. The alchemical symbol for Mercury, Amelia explained. The messenger god, the god of communication. Divine intervention, trying to tap into the stone’s power? Sure, why not. The symbol she’d drawn wasn’t neat by any stretch. There were gaps in the line, and the ink couldn’t soak in very well. But it soaked in a little. He blew on it, to help it dry.

“What’s that you’re doing, then?” Reynard asked, craning his neck to try to see.

“Just making sure that when they do this thing, there’s a bit in there that’s me and not them.”

He made a thoughtful noise. “Are you more powerful than Teakwell?”

Cormac shook the stone. Just about dry. “I don’t give a shit one way or another.”

He didn’t blink at the expletive. “That alone may make you the better man.”

Marcellus came in then and saw them talking. “What’s this? Reynard, Sig, you go assist Master Teakwell, yes?”

Reynard flinched, ducking his gaze as he scurried to obey. If he’d had his tail, he would have tucked it. Sig, still by the door, bowed silently and slipped into the next room.

Cormac slipped the stone into his back pocket. “Ready?”

“Are you?”

He nodded at the door. Marcellus waved him through.

Teakwell was standing at the lectern, finger moving along lines of text as he read. Glancing up, he announced, “Master Cormac, you say you don’t wish invincibility, but I sense in you some other need. Some desire. Will you tell me what it is? So that I may help, of course.”

Cormac wanted to lie. He didn’t want to give this man even a scrap of information. But Amelia said, This is real magic we’re working here. Our intention must be clear. So be it.

“I want to go home,” he said. The honesty, and his deep desire for the outcome, felt painful.

“Then you will hold the circle. I will perform the incantation, and we will both benefit from the power we conjure.”

Around the circle, lit candles sat at specific points, a familiar arrangement. These were big, beeswax candles—expensive in this time and place, Amelia informed him. They burned with a buttery light, giving off a vague scent of honey. A bronze bowl on a stand was also smoking—burning coals, waiting for herbs and incense. The room had grown warm, dizzying.

Teakwell had taken off his cap and put on a long coat that swept and billowed as he moved from the lectern to a table with herbs and stones lined up. Candle flames flickered as the air eddied around him.

So much of this was about the atmosphere, the performance. Encouraging a certain mindset. Altering one’s perception. It could be focusing, but also disorienting. It was theater.

Stay with me, Amelia said. It’s all set decoration. We’re not Faust, we are outside the story.

“Here is your place,” Marcellus said, indicating a spot on the circle where three symbols converged.

Now, Amelia could study the circle as much as she wanted, identify the layout and symbols. Her comprehension grew. Cormac felt it as a simmering confidence in the back of his mind.

This ritual requires a blood sacrifice, Amelia said. Teakwell expects to sacrifice you. Marcellus expects you to sacrifice Teakwell.

Neither one of those things was going to happen.

Well, of course not! Patience, love.

The circle and symbols had been painted on the wood floor. He wasn’t going to be able to rub anything out with his boot. They’d have to turn what was already here to their own purpose.

Cormac stepped back to let Amelia work.

She knelt and traced the symbols, trying to give off the impression that she was studying them, was maybe even confused about their purpose. Then, surreptitiously, she set down Dimitrova’s stone. The inked symbol on it interrupted the existing pattern. This was his mark on the circle. And maybe whatever of Dimitrova’s magic infused the stone would help him. Every little bit…

The stone had grown warm from resting in his pocket. It almost seemed to sizzle with heat as he set it down.

Is that a good sign? he wondered.

I’ve no idea.

An extra symbol now lay on the circle, and Teakwell hadn’t noticed. It twisted the power, just a little. It gave Amelia a stake. An anchor.

Marcellus brought him the crystal bowl, filled with water.

Wash your hands, Amelia instructed.

How did he know this was water? He couldn’t believe how much they were trusting these people who were planning on killing him in a couple of minutes.

It’s fine.

He washed. It was just water with some rose infused in it. Part of the ritual, some kind of cleansing. That made him think about how badly he wanted a shower.

Focus!

Teakwell took up a place on the circle opposite Cormac. Marcellus had backed out of the way, standing against the wall with his minions. Sig and Reynard were trying to seem impassive, but their stances were wary. Marcellus wore a grin, like he was about to start cackling.

Pay them no mind. Teakwell doesn’t entirely know what he’s doing, but he’s got some power here. We can use it.

Teakwell began reading Latin in a resonant baritone. The words echoed; he sounded like an actor. Amelia didn’t bother translating for Cormac. It hardly matters what exactly he says, she thought testily.

Instead, she thought of Frida’s drumming. Cormac tapped his foot; the sound didn’t carry, but the rhythm was there, anchoring him. Another piece of themselves in this ritual.

Teakwell spoke of conjuring, but the symbols and patterns he’d made implied a summoning. Not creating new power, but drawing it from someplace else, which suggested a doorway. A passage between this world and another. Or at least the idea of a passage—Cormac had made two journeys this way now, and neither involved a literal doorway. He didn’t have to step through anything—the light swallowed him up and spit him out someplace else.

The trick was getting it to spit him out back home.

Teakwell spoke about power the same way Grant did, that it was something tangible that he could control. Like he could put it in a box and lock it. But it was wild—control could never be more than tenuous at best. And that assumed the magician knew what he was doing.

Cormac glanced over his shoulder, sure that he’d heard something growl. Maybe Reynard.

Teakwell continued being awfully theatrical, arms raised, droning on, too immersed in his own performance to notice that Cormac was murmuring his own ritual, a different Latin speech. He couldn’t just run roughshod over the existing spell—he had to weave his own around it. Take its rhythm for himself. Amelia liked the challenge. Cormac just wished it wasn’t under these circumstances. Theory was so much less nerve-wracking than practice.

He had a sudden urge to click his heels together. There’s no place like home.

Yes, think about home, Amelia said urgently. Think about friends. Imagine us with our friends.

Easy to do. It was all he wanted right now. But no, one other thing—he didn’t want to bring danger down on them. He wanted them to be safe.

Marcellus, still by the wall, was grinning triumphantly. For him, this was just about seeing which of them was still on his feet at the end of this.

There, in the center of the circle, a light flared. It might have been the wavering of a candle. Teakwell didn’t seem to notice—he didn’t know what to look for. Marcellus noticed, and shifted up behind Cormac to murmur at his shoulder. “Time grows short. You must act.”

Cormac ignored him, which was a challenge—he’d never ignored a vampire standing at his back like this. But he couldn’t afford to deal with him now, because the light was growing brighter, expanding. No way to mistake it for the flicker of a candle. Sounds emerged, a low rumbling like thunder, and hidden within the thunder was a heaving, growling breath. Teakwell’s voice grew louder, faster, filling with elation.

He held a dagger in his hand, shining steel, wickedly sharp, over his head.

Had Amelia read this wrong? Would Teakwell really be able to control whatever was coming through the light?

In the cage, the cat arched its back and hissed, its fur standing on end. It bared its teeth at the growing spark. Through the haze of candle smoke and burning musk, amber-gold eyes, hot as a sun, glared out, looking right at Cormac. The creature was hunting him.

Cormac wouldn’t get a second chance at this, and the eldritch creature was standing between him and the way home.

Think of the anchor, we are outside of this.

He wasn’t bound by the circle. Teakwell had meant for his spell to bind him, immobilize him so he could waltz over and slice his throat, to spill his blood to bribe the creature he thought he could control. None of it worked, he wasn’t captured, the creature wasn’t a powerful spirit, and Teakwell didn’t know.

Cormac mapped out his steps over the next few moments. Don’t think, just do.

Iron, fire, sage, salt, all laid out on the worktable against the wall, simple raw materials. Teakwell clearly appreciated the theater of it all, the robe and candles, the caged cat, John Dee’s book. But under duress, a good wizard could do just as much with a bent nail and an herbal tea bag.

A shadow flickered within the expanding glow of light, an explosion in slow motion. The shape of a triangular ear, rough with fur. The point of a tooth, though it didn’t seem to be in the right place in relation to the ear. A body, forcing its way through. A wave of heat burned Cormac’s throat when he breathed.

Focus on the job. One step, then the next. Get to the table, grab salt, sage, shake them together in his cupped hands, and fling them into the light— The response sounded like tearing metal. It might have been a scream, a howl, but low frequency, beyond bass, gut-shaking.

Teakwell’s chanting broke off, and the man gasped. “God have mercy…God have mercy! What do we do? What do we do! Marcellus!” He stood dumbfounded, studying the circle like he hadn’t seen it before. He went to the book and flipped pages. But Marcellus—he knew. His gaze narrowed, he glanced back and forth between Teakwell and Cormac, as if he didn’t know who to confront first.

Reynard and Sig were no longer in the room. They’d had the good sense to flee.

One more thing…

Really? Fine. He lunged toward the table and unhooked the door of the cat’s cage, swinging it open. The cat remained pressed against the opposite bars, static sparking off its fur, eyes round and pupils dilated. Suddenly, it launched in a dead run, out the cage and off to one of the shadowed corners of the room, out of sight.

Now it was his turn. He grabbed Dimitrova’s stone and moved.

The heat pouring from the circle had created a draft in the room, and debris was drifting, flying: bits of paper, dried herbs, ash. Enough to shift the parchment pages of the book on the lectern. One of the scraps came in contact with a candle and ignited; the fire settled on a wooden bench and spread. Teakwell screamed at Marcellus while beating his cloak uselessly on the flames. He ended up fanning them rather than putting them out. The vampire had his fingers bent like claws and lunged, as if he would slice the man’s throat. Amazingly, Teakwell dodged, pivoted. When he straightened, he held a stake in his hand. This whole time, he’d been ready for Marcellus to turn on him. Marcellus dodged, inhuman speed carrying him away.

Flames rose up throughout the workshop. All that wood, from the beams to the thatched roof—it would light up in seconds.

The rip in the circle’s center flared, bright sun on a summer’s day, and Cormac ducked his gaze against the pain of it, which enveloped him.

A growl ruffed down his neck, and what felt like a great furred hide brushed past him. Like a bear in the dark, like that whuffling grizzly on the shore, and Cormac panicked, flinging himself away from the monster. He held Dimitrova’s stone so tightly his fingers hurt. He tried to imagine it as the end of a tether, an anchor on a chain. This was his connection. If only he could follow it back, if only he could see what was happening, but the world around him had turned to smoke, closing over him like a blanket.

I want to go home, take us back to our friends, take us some place safe, we need to go, now—

The smell in the air changed from hot ash to rusted iron, forged metal buried in earth, like ancient weapons.

He crashed hard.

Getting caught outside in a blizzard can lead to a dangerous moment when, struggling against a wind strong enough to knock you down, driving ice into your face, you think you’re close to the door and safety, but in reality you’ve lost your sense of direction and are wandering in circles, freezing more quickly than you thought possible. He might have been just an arm’s length from home, but the wind shoved him away and battered him past consciousness.

He woke up in darkness, stillness, lying in a place that smelled warm and sweet. He clenched his hands, crushing thick blades of grass, staining his skin green.

This was familiar. Heart-achingly familiar. The smell, the way a faint wind rippled across the grass, so clear under the light of a nearly-full moon. The vast space around him. The prairie, the Great Plains. He knew this space almost as well as he knew the mountains. He guessed it was high summer, based on a stickiness in the air and the buzz of insects. Overhead, stars blazed.

He saw nothing but grass. No road, no fences with barbed wire, no telephone or electric poles, not a single artificial thing. Which told him he wasn’t really home yet.

There was a TV show about this shit when he was a kid.

Still cradled in his hand, Dimitrova’s stone was warm to the touch. A shining streak across one side might have been sweat. The symbol he’d inked on was still there, still clear. Mercury the messenger. God of good fortune, god of thieves. Was it glowing? Was that a hint of silver light? Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him.

Amelia?

I don’t even have a body and I’m exhausted.

What happened?

We’re learning, she said, sounding more confident than he felt. That didn’t go quite to plan, but we’re learning.

And what, exactly, were they learning?

Grant’s creature is hunting us. We are one step ahead of it. We anticipated the portal. We…just didn’t control where it put us.

“Halfway there, right?” He chuckled.

The shadow of a hand brushed his, fingers squeezing lightly. They were still in this together, at least. But where were they?

Tucking the stone in his pocket, he got to his feet, put his hands on his hips, and tried not to be furious. Or terrified. In that quiet, when he was catching his breath, he heard voices. The question was: follow the voices, see who was here? Or avoid the risk?

And then what?

We can at least look.

A short climb brought him to the top of a hill that overlooked a shallow gulch, carved by a flooding river years before but dry now. The glow of a small campfire illuminated two people seated around it, their bedrolls spread on the ground nearby. A trio of horses were hobbled, dozing peacefully. Their saddles and gear lay neatly under a wagon parked nearby, small enough a single horse could pull it.

The campsite seemed so comfortable, so safe. The conversation was low, friendly. They passed a leather drinking skin back and forth. This might have been a campfire in a million different times and places.

Cormac shivered, though it wasn’t that cold. Definitely not as cold as the country of the Land Otter People. Imagining the warmth of both the flames and the company made him feel colder than he was.

He’d never thought he’d miss his friends and the familiarity of home so much. When the portal’s light took him, he’d been thinking of home, so desperate to get back to his friends—so why had he been dumped here instead? He stayed back because he was pretty sure these people couldn’t help him. Engaging with them would just cause trouble.

The pair stayed awake long after he assumed they would have let the fire die down and gone to sleep, but they kept feeding sticks into it. They must have hauled the wood in from somewhere; there were no trees in sight.

Turned out, they were waiting. Soon enough, the sound of loping horses grew close. Two arrivals reined back to a walk and one of the riders called out.

“Hola, Pedro! Cómo estás?

“Bien, Don Ricardo! Qué noticias tienes?”

“Nada, nada, todo pacifico.”

The riders dismounted, untacked their horses, rubbed them down, and hobbled them with the others. When they came to the light of the fire, one of the others held out a plate of food, whatever it was that had been cooking, to one of the newcomers. But only one. The other didn’t seem bothered that he wasn’t offered his own plate or a drink from the skin. He sat, conversing as amiably as the rest.

When this one turned his face to the light, Cormac was shocked to recognize him, even more shocked than he had been recognizing Ned Alleyn.

This was Rick. The vampire Rick, once the Master of Denver. Kitty said that he was five hundred some years old, which was hard to imagine. Rick in Denver had been urbane, vaguely aristocratic. Soft spoken with a kind manner that nevertheless didn’t suffer fools or bullies.

This Rick had been living rough for a while. His simple jacket and trousers were faded and weather-stained, his boots scuffed. His dark hair was tied back in a tail, and he had a beard. He rode the horse like he’d been doing it his whole life. Like he’d stepped out of a Western. No, not a Western—this was earlier. Colonial. All of them dressed like re-enactors in Boston or Williamsburg, some place like that, in pale shirts that tied at the neck, vests, dark trousers, leather belts. The weapon Rick pulled from the saddle holster was a musket, along with a powder horn and leather pouch for musket balls.

Rick claimed that he’d been part of Coronado’s expedition into the Southwest. How much of the time since had he spent like this, riding over the plains with bands of trappers, traders, trailblazers?

Imagine his stories. Why does he never speak of this?

Why would he? When you had that much history, would one part of it stand out more than any other? Kitty had been trying to get stories out of Rick for years, but he never talked. Who was it said the past was another country? Something like that.

Kitty would have a meltdown if she could see this.

If we tell her about this, will she believe us? If they asked Rick, would he admit it?

That assumed they’d be able to get back home. Save that question for later.

The man who’d arrived with Rick was native, long black hair held back with a band, a buckskin jacket over his shirt. He ate the food he was offered but didn’t speak at first. When he did, Cormac didn’t recognize the language. It wasn’t Spanish. Could have been any one of a dozen indigenous languages of the region. Comanche, Kiowa, Pawnee, Apache… The native man spoke; Rick nodded, then followed up in Spanish. He was the translator. Five hundred years meant a lot of time to learn languages.

Cormac wanted to get closer, to get a better look. Between him and Amelia they might be able to parse more of the Spanish, get some idea of where exactly they were, what year it was. He stayed down, crawling farther along the hill, closer to the circle of the fire.

Rick looked sharply outward, right at Cormac. Murmured something to his fellows, then picked up his musket. Damn vampire senses—probably heard Cormac’s heartbeat, or saw his body heat in the middle of nowhere, where there shouldn’t have been anything but prairie dogs. The others also reached for weapons.

“Quíen está allí?” Rick called.

Freezing, Cormac held his breath, hoping to hide among the grasses, but it was too late. Rick stepped closer, wary.

This is your territory. I could steer us through Elizabethan London, but this is all yours.

This was more than two hundred years before his time. He supposed he didn’t have a choice but to try.

Slowly, Cormac got to his feet, hands in the air, trying to look harmless. Hoped that hands up was enough of a universal gesture. He wondered how he was going to explain himself, showing up in the middle of the prairie without a horse or supplies, without so much as a canteen of water. His clothing was soot-stained, torn; his stubble was nearly a beard. He wouldn’t blame them for just shooting him, he looked so rough.

“Sorry. Ah…no hablo español.”

Rick’s expression remained stony. “Es Inglés? De Inglaterra?”

Close enough. “Yeah.”

Rick offered a thin smile. “I know a little.” He lowered the musket and held his finger and thumb close, almost touching. “La guerra grande de los ingleses—Yankees, now, verdad? Need learn more, when they come here.” His accent was thick, hesitating. The Rick Cormac knew was refined, articulate, and spoke fluent English with an unplaceable, bland American accent. But that was centuries in the future.

Vampires had to change to survive, he supposed. Rick in Denver never spoke of Ricardo, a rough Spanish gunman on the frontier. Even this Ricardo was almost three hundred years old. Who had he been before this?

One of the others laughed. So, at least one of the others knew a little English. “They no come so far. You watch.”

“No sé, no sé,” Ricardo said, turning up a hand. “Pero, ellos son obstinados.”

“Where is here?” Cormac ventured. “Dónde, here?”

“España Nueva. Los provincales. We make route for trade, east to west.” He gestured with his hand. “Para los Yankees y su oro.” His grin was wry.

Cormac whistled low in spite of himself. These guys were blazing the Sante Fe Trail. Had to be. God, he wanted to talk to Rick. The Rick of his time.

Would Rick remember this? The odd English-speaking stranger in the middle of nowhere?

Ricardo asked, “De dondé es? You…where you come? Why you here?”

“Amigo, I am very, very lost. I just…need a safe place to rest for minute.”

“Bien. Welcome to our fire.”

“Gracias,” he murmured. “Gracias.”

When the portal had taken him, he’d asked for safety. He’d wanted his friends. He wouldn’t have named Rick among his friends, but maybe…maybe this was what had been possible.

“Pedro, más comida, por favor,” Rick said, as the others made space at the fire. An extra plate of food was handed over. Boiled meat and some kind of pemmican, it looked like. The water sack came around, and then a sack that held something distilled that burned and had no flavor.

Another hearth, another offer of food and drink. This journey had been surprisingly hospitable. Cormac sought a deeper meaning in it all, but only for a moment. The liquor warmed him.

The native man said something while looking at him—clearly some kind of judgment.

Ricardo translated. At least Cormac assumed he translated. “He say you smell like monster.”

He was streaked with soot and ash from the fire in London. From his first adventure, salt water had dried and crusted on his jeans. He was sweat stained and exhausted. “How does he know what monster smells like?”

The pair exchanged a few more words; Ricardo chuckled and the native man flashed a brief smile.

“Maybe I say wrong word. Are you a monster?”

“I’m just having a very, very bad day. Día muy mal.”

“Ah. Claro.”

He sat quietly after that. Conversation in Spanish continued among the others. Cormac watched the fire, growing warm and sleepy from the food. Closed his eyes, realizing he felt safe enough to doze. This was so achingly familiar. Wilderness, a campfire, flickering flames and the smell of smoke, horses, sweat. Low, comfortable conversation.

He could rest for a moment. Just rest. He squeezed his eyes shut against a sudden stinging. Tired, he was just tired. What if he never got home? What if he couldn’t get home? Maybe he could stay here, in this rough simple life. Horses, prairie, a comfortable fire at the end of the day. Maybe this crew needed an extra man. He was good in a fight, could figure out the rest. Learn Spanish, even. He could stay here.

And suddenly, as if yanked through time yet again, he was someplace else and Amelia was standing in front of him. They weren’t in their mountain valley. This—it was a parlor. Lush upholstered chairs sat next to polished wood tables in a room decorated with plush rugs, floral wallpaper with looping roses, heavy drapes drawn back from tall windows. No view was visible outside. Books, paintings, figurines, tchotchkes, Victorian accoutrements, filled the space, every shelf and surface. A fire burned in a fireplace, and the mantel over it held a ticking clock—he couldn’t read the time on it.

Disoriented, he studied the room, searching for a familiar detail. The only thing he recognized here was Amelia.

“What is this?” he breathed. The answer came to him as soon as he asked: this was Amelia’s mind, her setting, her most familiar and comforting memory. “Why haven’t you ever showed me this?”

She shrugged a little, revealing an uncharacteristic moment of shyness. “It’s so domestic. Conventional. So unlike you. I didn’t think you would like being here.”

He couldn’t resist; he smoothed back a lock of her hair over her shoulder that didn’t need to be smoothed back. “I wish you’d showed me.”

“As a girl I would spend hours curled up in that chair, reading. It’s where I first dreamed of magic, and of travel.” Her gaze held warmth, her smile was fond. “One thing I’ve learned about travel is it means more if you have someplace to go home to. I used to think I never wanted to come back here. But here, the world was so full of possibility. And I was safe.”

“Amelia—”

She took hold of his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. In the living world, he looked terrible, ungroomed, unwashed. Here—the same. Right now, this was how he saw himself. But she was perfect. As primly turned out as ever, skirt and blouse clean and pressed, hair brushed and held back from her face in a clip. Her dark eyes shone.

“If you want to stay in this time and place, if you think it’s best to stay rather than risk another trip, I will acquiesce. I will stay with you no matter what.”

“Do you have a choice?”

“Do we want to find that out?”

The clock ticked, the fire crackled. He touched her chin, tilted her head back, kissed her. And that also felt like peace and safety. He sighed.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere. No tools, no circles, no magic, nothing but what’s in my pockets. Can we even work that spell again?”

Her poise slipped; she sagged against him, and he gladly took her weight. “It’s a different kind of magic. Wilder. Less about rules and symbols and words and more about feelings. And if it goes wrong—”

“Can’t possibly go more wrong than the last one,” he said.

“Oh, I think it could. God, I wonder if we accidentally burned down all of London? How will we ever find out?”

“Home. We have to get home.”

She nodded. “I have ideas. We’ll try tonight if you’re willing.”

He could use a full night’s sleep. A hot shower and a cold beer. Mostly, he wanted to be finished with this nonsense. “Tonight,” he agreed.

The inked symbol on Dimitrova’s stone was definitely glowing. It had taken on a shining edge, as if the ink were still wet. They didn’t know what it meant. More accurately, it could have meant any number of things.

Perhaps Dimitrova is trying to send a message.

That was optimistic. It could be that the stone had some magic that they’d inadvertently activated, that might interfere with what they were about to try. Something from Teakwell’s workshop might have clung to it and followed them here. The portal itself might have marked the stone, damaging it. An anchor could keep a ship steady in port—or prevent it from moving on to where it wanted to go. What was this one doing?

The three mortal men let the fire burn down to coals and went off to their bedrolls. They offered Cormac an extra blanket, and he spread it out, lay back, but didn’t close his eyes, didn’t sleep. Ricardo walked off by himself to keep watch. Handy, having a nocturnal being around to take the night watch. Cormac wondered how he spent his days. That wagon was just big enough for a man to lie down in.

A little while later, when the camp had gone still except for deep breathing and faint snoring, he got up and gathered what little he had. On a whim, he took one of the tin plates stacked by the fire and nudged a glowing coal onto it. A little bit of fire in case they needed it. He went past the slope where he’d first arrived. The patch of grass was still crushed where he’d landed. Nothing else gave any sign of what had happened here, that magic had touched this spot.

We need a circle. It doesn’t have to be big. Doesn’t have to be precise.

He set down the plate with the embers, held it down with Dimitrova’s stone, and got to work, stomping through the thick grasses, crushing their bases. This was how crop circles got made, just a couple of guys stomping through stalks of grass. His wasn’t going to be that pretty.

This prairie grass wasn’t like crops. It was so thick, he couldn’t get to the ground underneath. He wouldn’t be able to scratch symbols in the dirt if Amelia needed him to.

Then we’ll do without.

A thing he’d learned about Amelia, she worked hard to sound confident even when she wasn’t, quite.

Where is north?

The moon’s path showed east and west, and the stars were brilliant, vast, numberless. Their sparkle was clear, unencumbered by artificial light and pollution. He’d never seen the Milky Way this bright, a glowing wash cutting the sky, full of patterns, textures, even colors, faint reds and stark blues.

“This. So beautiful.” Ricardo had appeared on the nearby slope, staring up like Cormac was. Cormac hadn’t heard him approach—of course he hadn’t. He managed not to flinch.

“Never gets old,” Cormac sighed.

“You, ah…no sleep?” He phrased this politely, but his tone held suspicion.

Cormac didn’t know where to begin to explain this. “I don’t belong here. I’m trying to get home.”

Ricardo shook his head, brow furrowed—he didn’t understand. “Casa? Home?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Dónde?”

He waved vaguely. “It’s complicated.”

Ricardo’s blank stare indicated he still didn’t understand. But he said, “You need help? Ayuda?”

Cormac chuckled. “Not sure there’s anything you can do.”

“I have much…time. I…see much.”

The circle was just about finished, a space about a dozen feet in diameter stomped as flat as he could make it, though a few stalks still stuck up here and there, resisting the abuse. Cormac paused and studied the vampire.

“Do they know what you are? Your friends?”

Ricardo tilted his head. “Do you?”

“You’re a vampire.”

He seemed taken aback at this, as if he was used to people not knowing. “How…you know? You see it?”

“I just know.”

“They know, yes. Pedro—he is Pedro Vial, the tracker. You know of him?”

“No.” But he was going to look him up when he got home. If he got home.

“One cannot be close, to live with men like this, and have big secrets. They know.”

“How do you survive the days? There’s no shelter here.”

“The wagon. Pedro and Raul help. I take blood—only a little blood. I live long because of friends.”

“How old are you? Cuántos años?”

He only chuckled. “And you? Cuántos años?”

“I don’t even know anymore,” he murmured. He regarded his circle, considering. Amelia had gone quiet, lurking in the back of his mind, just listening. She had a plan, but he couldn’t tell what it was. He suddenly asked, “How much do you know about magic?”

“Ah, la magia?” He flicked his fingers in the air, a universal sign, apparently. “No sé mucho. I see much strange. Monsters, sí? Pero no sé la magia.”

This sounded like the Rick Cormac knew. Gentle, self-effacing. Claiming ignorance to deflect attention. He was three hundred years old, how could he not know anything about magic?

You know Rick, Amelia said. Our Rick—he doesn’t know because he doesn’t want to know. Have you ever heard of a three-hundred-year-old vampire who would even consider living like this, in the rough with no followers, no servants? Yet here he is.

Rick wasn’t like other vampires. Never had been. So Cormac had to take him at his word, that he didn’t know anything about magic.

I’m ready now.

All right, then. “Maybe stand back a little.” He gestured and felt ridiculous shooing Rick away like a dog.

“I watch?” Ricardo asked. Cormac questioned Amelia, who said, Yes, he may watch.

“Yeah. Sí. But…be careful. I’m not sure what’s going to happen.”

Ricardo moved farther back.

Cormac stepped to the back of his own mind.

Somehow, a sprig of dried rosemary in his pocket had survived their adventures. She crumbled this over the embers, and it let off a thread of woody, sweet smoke. His shoulders unclenched. This smelled of home cooking, of comfort. By the smoldering coal, the ink on Dimitrova’s stone still seemed to shine with its own light. It might have been reflected starlight.

Starting at the eastern point, she walked clockwise around the circle, humming under her breath. Sometimes she spoke words Cormac didn’t understand, using his voice, and that was always strange. But after a few moments he recognized an old cowboy song, full of loneliness and longing, where the prairie was endless and far from the home you knew.

At each of the four quarters, she broke off stalks of grass and braided them together, a different pattern at each point, marking out the boundaries, building power within it. Using the landscape itself, the magic inherent in the world around them. Honestly, Cormac liked this sort of ritual better than the arcane rituals of Teakwell. This felt older, simpler.

She had him kneel in the center, warming his hands over the embers, the anchor stone shining before him. By now, the embers should have faded, burning themselves out. But their light was increasing, expanding into a familiar white glow that reached to the edge of the circle. Ricardo swore in Spanish, reflexively raising his musket. Cormac hoped he didn’t do anything stupid.

A low rumble of thunder shook the ground. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky; starlight bathed them with a pale light like the glow from a lightning strike.

This time, Cormac was ready. He grabbed Dimitrova’s stone and willed it to be a lifeline to home, a life preserver tossed to him in a stormy sea. He knew exactly where he wanted to go, and when. He had only to will himself there.

Wait—

When a soft growl rumbled, when the elder beast’s amber gaze peered through the light, he was ready for it.

Not yet—!

He sensed a body covered in fur, a wave of hot, meat-scented breath. Amelia opened a portal—and the eldritch creature was there, waiting for them. He still couldn’t get a good look at it, which didn’t seem fair. You couldn’t hunt something you didn’t know anything about.

Of course, Cormac wasn’t the hunter here.

It’s from another plane of existence, Amelia said. We’ll never get a good look at it.

They didn’t need to get a good look at it, really. They just needed to keep it from escaping from its own realm. And somehow get home in the meantime.

“Qué es ese?” Ricardo exclaimed.

The creature turned and huffed a breath, releasing smoke that churned in the light. Its attention seemed caught, riveted on the vampire. Ricardo levelled the musket. Never mind that Cormac was standing in the range of fire. Not that a musket shot would actually do anything to the creature.

The light was as bright as it was going to get. Any chance he had, he had to take now.

“Hey!” he called. The amber eyes turned; the impression of a large, furred shape shifted toward him. Cormac batted at the air in front of him; his hand should have passed through air, but somehow the fog seemed to have substance, chilled, dry. He waved through air again, imagining smacking the thing on the nose—

The brush of fur, the heat of breath. The thing growled, charged. Ricardo might have called out, but Cormac didn’t understand.

He jumped forward and let the light take him.

He was getting better at this. This time, he landed on his feet, the stone in his hand, his senses alert.

The bright light was gone. So was the creature. And however much he wanted to be back in Judi and Frida’s yard in Manitou Springs, or anywhere with a friendly face—this wasn’t it.

He was on another grassy plain, but this was too lush to be the Great Plains, and the sky was too closed in, bounded by hills, streaks of clouds pressing down, partly obscuring the stars, like a lid on the world. The sky was black, moonless, but the stars of the Milky Way still arced overhead, a brilliant light across the sky. He could almost see by it. Wherever, whenever this was, the stars at least looked the same.

Nearby stood a mound of earth, an unnaturally round hill maybe a dozen feet high, with a gaping black hole in front. A tunnel entrance, which suddenly seemed like a mouth, exhaling cold. A weight of stillness hung over him.

A basket filled with greenery—root vegetables, sprigs of berries and herbs—lay at the tunnel entrance. Beside it sat a series of clay jars and bowls filled with various items: beads made of stone or maybe polished wood, chunks of flatbread, strips of dried meat. A polished ax head made of green stone.

What’s in there? he asked Amelia.

These were usually burials. Bones, ashes. The artifacts of death.

He held back, unwilling to get any closer. Who did this belong to? What people were buried here? There was no sign of any settlement that he could see, no flicker of fires, columns of smoke, or anything like a structure anywhere nearby.

They kept their tombs isolated. Their villages were elsewhere.

“Nela?” a voice said. Startled, he flinched.

A figure came around the mound. They wore a simple belted tunic, furs over their shoulders, feathers in their hair. They carried a spear, point out, wary. They spoke again, a short, declarative statement.

What language is that? Cormac didn’t recognize it.

I have no idea, Amelia answered wonderingly.

Well, that was new. She usually had some idea. Where was this?

The European cultures that built structures like this were active five thousand years ago. This is from the same era as Stonehenge and Newgrange.

Farther away from home than ever.

As she came closer, he got a better look at the figure, who appeared to be a woman. She wasn’t tall, but wasn’t unusually short, with a stocky build and a fluid way of moving. She was older, her sun-darkened skin lined with years, graying hair twisted back and secured with what might have been bones, trimmed and carved with symbols. White pigment streaked her cheeks, three lines on each; two lines on her chin that resembled fangs. Her clothing rattled with shells and beads, pouches and amulets dangling from a cloth belt. The fur over her shoulders was a blend of gray and tawny, thick enough to run hands through—was it wolf? It might have been wolf, and that added to his uneasiness though he couldn’t have explained why.

Your best friends are wolves of a sort. She might hunt wolves—or she might consider wolves her allies.

Did that make her safe? Someone who might help? Or was she dangerous?

The woman repeated the statement.

He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

She seemed to study him, tilting her head, scanning him up and down. If it were him, he’d be searching for weapons, for signs of threat. He wasn’t carrying anything. He tried to seem friendly, harmless—if she decided to run him through with that spear, he wasn’t sure he could dodge.

She lowered the spear. Said something else he didn’t understand and gestured behind her. Did that mean to go with her? Where? He had no idea what was happening—he ought to be used to that by now.

He followed her because he felt like he didn’t have much to lose.

Just down the slope of the hill, flickering light drew the eye: a campfire. Another hearth, and this was comforting. Part of the pattern. She gestured to it, spoke softly. The intention seemed relatively clear—did he want to come and warm himself? He followed her to the fire and settled across from where she sat.

Her eyes—dark, shining orange in the flames—studied him, then glanced away. She produced a bowl containing some kind of porridge made of cooked grains and dried berries and offered it to him. Hospitality, another intention that transcended time, place, language.

“Thanks,” he said, bowing his head a little as he accepted, hoping she understood the gesture if not the word. What an odd bit of fortune, that everyone he’d met on this trip had offered him food. Whatever else he was feeling after everything, he wasn’t hungry or thirsty.

There were no utensils; he used his fingers. The mashed grain was bland, but the fruit was tart, to the point of stinging his tongue. The bowl was carved and polished wood, finely made. He’d expected simpler, rougher.

Primitive? Amelia hinted wryly.

Don’t underestimate primitive—yeah, he got that lesson. These people had built large tombs, monuments. They’d changed the landscape. They didn’t have metal or writing, but they had civilization nevertheless. Primitive didn’t seem the right word anymore.

The woman tore off a bit of flatbread and ate quietly.

Who was she? The caretaker of the mound? Some kind of priestess, or a traveler who happened to make camp nearby and sensed him snooping? He tried to look for some clue among her things. She didn’t have much; she could have carried it all in a bag. She sat on a blanket, spear at hand. Along with the wooden bowl, she had a flat woven basket near the fire. On it, bundles of dry herbs were arranged. Amelia recognized rosemary, St. John’s wort, mint. Next to the herbs lay several carved stones, a quarter-sized disk of hammered gold, a piece of bone on a leather cord.

They radiated a sense of the arcane. They were tools, ingredients. Potential. Even Cormac recognized it. For her part, Amelia’s mind raced with possibilities.

Still chewing bits of bread, the woman worked. Amelia recognized the motions, the intentions. She took a small clay cup and poured water into it from a skin. With a flint knife the length of her finger, she cut pieces from several bundles of herbs, crushed them with her fingers, and dropped them in the cup. From a closed pouch she drew out a piece of spongy, gray material—a mushroom. She shaved a few slivers into the cup.

Amelia seemed to have a jolt of recognition at this, but she still wouldn’t say what she thought was happening. She wasn’t worried, and Cormac tried not to be.

With her knife, the woman carved out a spot at the edge of the embers and set the cup in it. Got a little too close to the heat and quickly drew her hand back, shaking it, hissing. It was such a familiar gesture, so universal, Cormac smiled. The woman caught this and smiled a little in reply. She studied her hand—no harm done.

While her potion heated, the woman began to speak. Maybe she was talking to him, but she didn’t seem to expect an answer. He still didn’t understand a word, but her voice had the tone and cadence of a storyteller. At one point she looked upward, sweeping her hand in the same arc as the Milky Way. Once when the world was new, he imagined her saying. Once, all was darkness, formless. And then the sky was made, and then the earth, a great gulf separating them, and gods and spirits travel between them.

This world was new, to him. Imagine: no cities, no roads, few buildings, and those made of mud and sticks, transitory. No metal except a bit of gold. This might as well have been the beginning of time. But this world must have seemed old to her, full of stone monuments and burial mounds, a thousand years of stories lying behind her. The mound on the hill might have seemed just as mysterious to her as to him. The stars were equally ancient to both of them. Five thousand years was nothing on the scale of the universe and its fourteen billion years. On that scale, they came from the same place.

Her voice was soothing, hypnotizing. He only meant to close his eyes for a moment.

Amelia stood before him. They weren’t in the valley, they weren’t in her parlor. They were right here on this ancient plain, next to the tomb. They both looked like they always did, him in jeans and a T-shirt, her in her blouse and skirt. Her hair was loose, draped around her shoulders. He didn’t know why he expected them to look different here, dressed in furs and handwoven tunics. For some reason he expected them to look like they belonged here, but they were themselves.

She was staring up at the stars, wearing a wistful smile.

“Hey,” he said, and his voice sounded loud, disruptive.

“I want to remember this,” she said. “We will never see stars like this again.”

When he held his breath, stood very still, he was sure he could see the sky move, the stars inching across the heavens. The movement made him dizzy, and he almost stumbled. Had to shake his head to pull himself back to earth. Amelia remained gazing upward, rapt.

“I have a question,” he asked.

She glanced at him, her lip curling. “Only one?”

“We understood the Land Otter People because they were otherworldly, because we were outside of time there. Why isn’t it like this here? This feels the same. So…mythical.” This place felt…weird. Fraught. Like time itself was broken, frozen, and they would never move forward again.

“This is our own history. She isn’t supernatural.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know, love. But I hope to learn all I can.”

That was just like her. Flung across space and time, unbelievably lost, and she just wanted to learn. He went up to her, touched her. First her shoulder, then her hair, smoothing it back. Waited for her reaction—this might very well annoy her, she was so caught up in the moment. Her face just about glowed in the starlight, and she was right—they would never have a moment like this again. He kissed her. Her arms closed desperately around him.

They held each other, and she murmured, “I could never have survived this on my own.”

“We haven’t survived, yet. It’s not over.”

“Oh, hush.” She kissed him again.

A hand on his shoulder woke him up. Instantly he sat up, blinking, fists clenched for a fight.

The woman in the fur, the shaman, priestess, whatever she was, knelt beside him, a brow lifted wryly. She spoke, her tone suggesting a question. He shook his head, and she pursed her lips.

The sky was deep blue, fading in color toward the east. Near dawn.

The woman gathered her things, pulling a bag over her shoulder, tucking the knife into a belt sheath, putting the carved stones and amulets into a pouch. The fire had burned down to embers; the cup was still nestled in the ashes. Protecting her hand with a piece of cloth, she drew the cup from the fire and scooped a couple of glowing embers into a bowl. This, she held out to Cormac, speaking a word that was definitely a command. She gestured with it insistently. Gingerly, he took it. For a culture without matches or lighters the best way to start a fire was often to carry the existing fire with you. Whatever was happening, the woman needed fire for it.

She started up the hill toward the tomb, pausing to call over her shoulder to Cormac. Again, somehow, her intention was clear: come on, follow. He did so.

They reached the tomb. The sky was growing lighter, blue washing out to gray. The entrance seemed no less dark and ominous; Cormac could see carvings in the first stones that lined the tunnel. Spirals connected with wavy lines, boxes with ovals that looked like eyes.

The woman pointed at the embers he carried, then to a bundle of sticks and kindling next to the offerings at the tomb. She spoke, making a gesture a few paces out, to a slab of stone in the middle of the grass outside the tunnel. He stared a moment, uncomprehending, though he was getting a better sense of her language’s shape. Sharp syllables, short phrases. Amelia explained that this language wouldn’t be closely related to anything modern—this was long before any of the Indo-European-derived languages spread across Europe.

I wish you had your phone to record this.

He had other things on his mind at the moment. The woman repeated the instructions urgently. She held her hand up and wiggled her fingers.

“You want me to start a fire?” he asked, stupidly. She wasn’t going to understand him any better than he could understand her.

I think you’re both communicating admirably, considering.

Well, thanks for the encouragement.

He collected the fuel, arranged it in the spot she indicated, and her expression relaxed. She incorporated him into her preparations so easily. Had she expected him? Did strangers suddenly appear outside tombs all the time? He didn’t want to think much about that.

At any rate, building a fire was something he knew how to do. He blew gently on the embers, the kindling, and nursed a thin flame to life. Carefully fed it fuel, and soon a decent little fire was burning on the flat stone.

Meanwhile, she’d taken a piece of charcoal and drew marks on the tunnel entrance, additions to the carvings already there. More lines, more spirals, drawing the eye even more strongly to the passage.

The first light of the sun seared over the horizon, blazing right on the mound’s entrance.

An alignment, Amelia exclaimed.

Every other day of the year, sunlight wouldn’t penetrate. But now, this one day, the light would illuminate the whole tunnel. And then what?

A howl sounded across the valley—deep, hollow, familiar. It had pursued him this whole adventure. Now, though, it sounded plaintive. Lost, calling out for pack mates who weren’t there. At least, that was what it seemed like to Cormac.

Straightening, the priestess cocked her head to listen. She met Cormac’s gaze, and he saw something familiar there. Determination, resolve. She wasn’t afraid—not of the howling, not of him. She exuded confidence, and god help him, if he had to trust her, he would. For no good reason other than she wasn’t afraid.

The fire was burning in earnest now. The howl came again. The sky continued to brighten. The entrance of the mound glowed golden, and the light was creeping deeper into the tunnel. The patterns and shapes painted and carved into the walls shone clear. They seemed to shift in the light as the sun rose, a kind of slow, deceptive animation.

The priestess retrieved the cup with the potion that had been simmering in the fire for most of the night. She pulled Cormac to his feet by his shoulder, so they stood face to face. She gave the potion in the cup a quick stir with her knife. A grassy, musty odor rose up, smelling like forest soil and decay.

She took a long drink, then offered the cup to him, with a command. Drink, no doubt. Or Your turn.

“What is this? What’s it going to do?”

She repeated the command, closing his hands around the cup, pushing it toward him, insistent. She said more, an explanation that was lost on him.

He asked Amelia, What’s this going to do to us? What weird microbes were in the water, diseases he had no resistance too, stomach-turning herbs—

We’ll find out, she answered. Not helpful.

The priestess had drunk it. Whatever this stuff was, she was in on it, too. He drank mouthfuls of it, going all in.

She took the cup from him and dumped the dregs on the fire, which sparked and spat. Speaking low-voiced, droning words—a chant, a prayer—she walked a circle around the fire, gesturing out to the sun, back to the tunnel. She traced the movement of the sun and moon, from east to west, her voice rising. Just like Amelia had done at their last stop. Another universal gesture.

The hairs on his neck stood up, even as the chill burned out of the air. Something was happening, some kind of pressure closing in on him that made breathing suddenly difficult. Nerves, it was just uncertainty, rootlessness, fear.

She is drawing power and closing the boundary around it. Amelia was riveted. Impressed, even. Making mental notes.

A bank of mist lingered on the plain below them, that the sun couldn’t seem to touch. From the gray, a set of glowing amber eyes peered. There came the sense of a lumbering body, mangy fur. Too many legs. The edge of a howl.

“Do you see that?” Cormac gasped.

The fog moved closer; the air grew thick, heavy. Like his ears wanted to pop but couldn’t. The whole world had gone wavering, heat mirages passing before him, dissipating.

The woman took up her knife and a drum. Raising the knife, she shouted, the culmination of her chant, a command given to the whole world. She beat the drum with the leather-wrapped butt of the knife. The noise rattled Cormac’s bones.

The creature’s next howl came out as a roar. Suddenly, the fog split apart—no, Cormac could somehow see through it, he could see more clearly than he ever had in his life. It wasn’t a fog, had never been a fog, it had been confusion, obfuscation, and now that was gone and all was clear, everything clear.

The creature emerged, and Cormac got his first good look at it.

A wolf.

It wasn’t like any wolf he’d ever seen. This thing was huge, monstrous. Large as a bear, with powerful shoulders and hindquarters, rangy legs, and a long snout with lips curled back from terrible teeth.

Direwolf, Amelia murmured. Prehistoric. Larger. Wickeder.

A direwolf from some other existence, intruding on a world where it didn’t belong.

Cormac blinked, squinting, trying to bring his wavering vision into focus. There’d definitely been something hoopy in that drink. The world seemed to have taken on an extra palette of colors; shapes had extra lines around them, pulsing. Except the wolf, which was perfectly visible. Hyper clear.

He could see the ineffable.

Somehow, he wasn’t afraid. His heartbeat remained steady. He was calm.

The woman beat the drum in time to the slow steps the creature took toward them. Its tail drooped. Its fur was matted, tangled, streaked and stained with mud. Cormac had seen plenty of wolves, plenty of werewolves. He knew their body language—couldn’t not, being around Kitty and Ben. This wolf was tired. Scared.

It seemed to be having about as good a time as he was.

It’s lost. This whole time, it’s been lost.

The priestess sang tunelessly, but her voice held yearning, persuasion, and a promise of peace. As much as Cormac wanted it to, the hallucinogenic potion she’d fed him didn’t make him suddenly understand her. But if Cormac had to name the song, he would have called it a lullaby. The wolf’s ears perked forward. Its hackles flattened, its mouth closed. Lowering its snout, it whuffed around the fire then let out a sigh.

The sun came fully over the horizon and shone directly into the tomb’s entrance, perfectly aligned this one morning to illuminate the whole passage. It was like a doorway opening.

A doorway opening.

The wolf, whatever it was, wherever it had come from, might have been lost for ages, trapped in whatever realm Odysseus Grant was supposed to be protecting. And then it got out, and then—it was trying to get home.

The priestess was trying to send it home.

From across the clearing she caught Cormac’s gaze and nodded, continuing to beat the drum, singing in a rhythm a bit slower than a heartbeat, evoking the feel of rushing blood. She couldn’t stop, which meant Cormac was the one who’d have to convince the wolf to go in.

He knew how to talk to wolves, right?

Kneeling, keeping low to the ground, he turned his gaze so he wasn’t looking right at the wolf. He sorted through the offerings, through the baskets that held food. Found dried meat, pungent berries, honey. Enough to attract the attention of any canine.

Drawn to his motion, the creature pressed forward, ears up. Even its tail started to lift, showing interest.

Cormac tossed a chunk of dried meat to land under its snout, hoping it didn’t prefer ripping into living flesh. The wolf remained cautious, nosing the meat, turning it over a couple of times—then carefully taking it into its mouth. It looked up for more, and Cormac held out another piece, this one smeared with honey. The wolf stepped, stretching forward.

“Come on, buddy,” Cormac murmured. “It’s all good.” He didn’t drop it this time. He waited, waited… The direwolf leaned forward, snout reaching, and plucked the meat from his hand. Hot, earthy breath washed over him.

Soon, the sun’s rays would move past the mound entrance. Cormac dared a look down the passage—and saw blazing light, that familiar glow that marked all their transitions. The portal, opening. Now, it had to be now.

The wolf nosed up close to him, whuffing, searching for more. Like a big dog. It even smelled like a dog, with wet fur and bad breath. Cormac cupped berries in his hand. The wolf licked them out with a big, sloppy pink tongue. Vicious monster. This was what Grant had been afraid of?

Grant had never stopped to listen.

“Buddy, I need you to go in there, okay?” He tossed a piece of meat into the passage. Nose to the ground, the wolf went after it. Cormac brushed his hand along its back as it passed by. Rough fur, full of warmth, the flex and stretch of muscle underneath.

And then it was gone into the light. Vanished to mist, just like that.

The sun rose; the gold light shifted.

The drumming trailed off, and the woman’s voice faded.

Cormac turned to her, pleading. “Me. Will it work for me?” He tapped his chest, pointed into the passage. Begged with every bit of his expression, hoping she understood. Please, help me get home. He pulled Dimitrova’s stone, his anchor, from his pocket. It wouldn’t mean anything to her. “I need to get home.”

We could learn so much from her, Amelia said. What if this is the beginning of magic? Think of all we could do here—

And hope the doorway was available again, in what? A whole other year before the sun rose in that exact spot, lighting the passage in just this way again? He wasn’t sure he wanted to wait that long. Especially not in a place without antibiotics and hot running water. Or beer.

They had beer in this time.

Good beer?

Well.

We have to go, he told her, considering what he would say if she argued. If she wanted to stay. If it really meant so much to her—

Of course we have to go home, she said. I’m merely being…wistful.

Nodding, the priestess resumed her beat on the drum. Again, and again. This rhythm was faster, with an added syncopation—like launching into a run. This time when she sang, her voice was urgent. Not a lullaby. He wanted to hug her, but that would interrupt the drumming. He just bowed his head. Hoped she could see his gratitude.

Squeezing Dimitrova’s stone, he filled his mind with thoughts of home and plunged into the passage as golden light flared around him.

A moment, a breath, a heartbeat—the light faded, and he stepped out under a different sky.

He was almost afraid to look around to see where he’d landed this time. He heard crickets. Trees rustling in a breeze. A chill touched the air, which smelled—

Of pine forest. Of mountains. This smelled like home.

He stood in a yard next to a cute, whitewashed cottage. Scattered junipers and pine trees surrounded the property, and mountains sheltered it all. He was in a space marked out by a stone circle. A familiar stone circle, candles burning around it, along with coals that smelled of sage. Judi and Frida stood side by side, at north. Grant stood south. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

Just as he’d left them. They’d hardly moved. They were staring back at him, apparently dumbstruck. What time had it been when he left? Middle of the night, right? Or had it been early? The sky was shading into deep blue, the phase of dawn before light turned it gray. Another sunrise.

Didn’t matter. He was alive, and he was home. He heaved out a heartfelt sigh.

All is well, Amelia breathed. Maybe not all, but they were close enough to it that Cormac didn’t argue.

“Oh shit,” Frida finally exclaimed. “I thought we had a problem here.”

Cormac turned on her. “What do you mean thought? That was a big fucking problem!”

She drew back; the others flinched. This was probably as much emotion as any of them had seen him express, ever. God, he was exhausted. He rubbed a hand through his hair and scratched his beard, which somehow felt gritty. He had a goddamn beard, surely they noticed that he hadn’t had that when he started.

“His beard,” Grant said—he noticed. “He’s got a beard.”

Judi looked him over, soot, grime, and all. “Well, dear, it looks like you’ve had an adventure.”

Chuckling, he shook his head. Where did he even start? Well, he had an idea where he wanted to start. He stalked over to Odysseus Grant, who was looking ruffled and unhappy and trying to hide it.

Cormac glared. “I really want to punch you right now.”

The guy only raised a brow. “Tell me you stopped the demon, and I’ll let you.”

A dark SUV powered up the drive then, spitting gravel, rocking and jostling over the ruts, raising clouds of dust. Agent Ilena Dimitrova scrambled out of the passenger side before the car even stopped, almost tripping over herself, which wasn’t like her. Wildly, she looked around through her glasses, taking in the people, the circle, the ritual tools. She finally jabbed her finger at Cormac. “What the fuck have you been doing?”

“Nice to see you too, Agent,” he said tiredly.

“Bennett—”

He raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Not my fault,” he said, which sounded lame, but he felt he needed to get that out of the way.

She was in jeans and a black T-shirt, her dark hair braided down her back. Not her usual professional federal agent getup, with her suit and chilly demeanor. He must have woken her up.

The windows of the SUV were tinted, but ducking and tilting his head, he could make out her partner, Agent Lynch, in the driver’s seat. Just sitting there, hands resting loosely on the steering wheel, smirking. He was apparently letting her handle the spooky shit.

They were like a magical Mulder and Scully. He wondered how often people made that joke at them, and decided he wasn’t going to ask.

“Cormac, you going to introduce us to your friend?” Frida said, more than a little hostile.

“Oh, I know who you all are,” Dimitrova said. And that wasn’t the least bit creepy. “Goddammit, four of the most powerful magicians west of the Mississippi are all right here in the middle of a damn ritual and you’re going to tell me it isn’t your fault?”

Well, isn’t that flattering? Amelia said, preening.

“Amelia wants you to know she’s flattered,” Cormac said. “Everybody, meet Agent Dimitrova of the Paranatural Security Administration.”

He still held the stone, clinging to it like someone was trying to pry it loose. He forced his fingers to relax, to open, so he could study it. The sign of Mercury he’d inked on it was gone. Any shine it had acquired, any glow, its heat—all gone. It was just a rock now.

He tossed it to Dimitrova, who caught it easily. “What can you tell me about that?”

She held it in one hand and rubbed it with the other, then pressed it between both palms for a moment, her brow furrowed.

“You called,” she said. “But I couldn’t figure out where you were, so I sent out a line. And the line kept shifting. I almost couldn’t keep hold of it. Then it ended up here—”

“Thank you,” he said. “Just…thank you. It helped.”

“You still haven’t explained any of this,” Grant said. As if he deserved an explanation after everything.

“That eldritch creature? That dark menacing threat you and your mentor kept locked up all those years? Was a wolf. Just a big scared interdimensional wolf trying to get home. And you were so fucking terrified.”

Still, Grant didn’t reveal the least bit of emotion. His thoughts remained hidden. He said, simply, “I knew you were the right person to ask for help.”

Cormac should punch him. Not a jury in the world would convict him.

Walk away. Just walk away, love.

He could almost feel her hands on his shoulders, urging calm. He stalked off a few paces and put his hands on his hips. He really wanted a shower.

“Hello, it’s nice to meet you,” Judi said to Dimitrova, a strategic interruption. Her own kind of magic. “Do you like tea? I can brew up some mint in just a few minutes. Invite your partner in, if you like. Then maybe we can all sit and talk about this most powerful magician west of the Mississippi business.”

Dimitrova seemed nonplussed. “Yeah. All right.”

Cormac would give a lot to read the dossiers the PSA was obviously keeping on them.

“I’d also love to hear about that, if you feel like talking.” She nodded at the stone in Dimitrova’s hand, and that might have been how Judi learned every single thing she knew. She just asked.

You taking notes?

Oh yes, Amelia said.

“Cormac?” Judi turned to him next. “Feel free to use the shower. I have some extra sweatpants, but I’m not sure they’ll fit. Maybe a bathrobe while we run your clothes through the wash?”

Cormac’s clothes might not survive the wash. Along with the beard, he’d acquired several days worth of sweat and grime. His jeans were streaked with mud and ash, and his shirt was torn in the front. He didn’t even remember that happening. He supposed he should just let Judi mother him. He really wanted that shower. “I look that bad, do I?”

“You’re a bit ripe.”

“You haven’t asked what happened.”

“You’ll tell us when you’re ready. Come on, everyone. Inside. Even you, Odysseus dear.”

While the others filed into the house, Frida stayed behind, stomping through the space, knocking over candles and stepping on the flames, waving sage over the stones. She cursed the whole time. Might have been some ritualistic phrase, but her tone suggested it was just basic cursing.

Sometimes, all you really needed was basic cursing.

Amelia wrote everything down. Tried to write everything down, at least. Every detail they could remember, a thorough accounting of everything that had happened, with particular attention to the magic. Whole worlds, filled with magic. She had learned so much and wanted to remember.

Cormac mostly got out of her way, but it turned out he had the better memory for the non-magical details. The tools and weapons at the village of the Land Otter People, the layout of the London streets around what had turned out to be the Rose Theater, when they checked some reference books. They called Ned Alleyn, Master of London, and described Marcellus. Ned didn’t deny that Marcellus was the vampire who had turned him, something like twenty years after the encounter they’d witnessed. He didn’t admit it, either. He’d laughed and said, pointedly, “Marcellus has been gone for centuries and isn’t worth speaking of.”

Cormac suspected that was a story he was never going to get.

“But I met him,” Cormac tried to explain. “That last performance of Faust at the Rose Theater. The one that drove you from the stage.” A long pause answered this, so that Cormac had to prompt, “Ned? Mr. Alleyn?”

He answered curtly, “My life abounds with fanciful legends. I can’t be expected to remember them all.” Then he hung up. Ned was usually a talker—but not about this, apparently. Now Cormac knew how Kitty felt.

Pedro Vial had his own Wikipedia article that had information about him traveling the earliest version of the Santa Fe Trail. Nothing about traveling it with a vampire, though. Not that Cormac expected anything. History was full of nooks and corners where the uncanny could hide.

Amelia wrote about the magic she’d cobbled together throughout the journey. Cormac wrote about the smell of the campfire and the model of the musket Rick had carried. No one would ever read this account they were creating. It was just to help them remember.

Cormac asked Kitty to pass along a message to Rick. He wasn’t sure Rick would talk to him—they weren’t exactly friends, at least not in this time. Cormac wasn’t even sure that episode had happened in this world. Maybe it had been a different Great Plains, a different Rick.

The account of their last adventure, the Neolithic mound and the priestess who tended it, was the longest, maybe the most fraught, because Amelia had to guess so much. What herbs had gone into the drink, the nature of the pigments she used, the alignment of the tomb, which had already been ancient. She could guess that the woman had used some kind of hallucinogenic mushroom, but which? What part of the world had they been in, and how much had it changed between then and now? Did those ingredients even still exist? This was a whole new book of shadows.

They looked at hundreds of photos of Neolithic burial mounds and the remains of dolmens across Europe and the British Isles but didn’t find any that looked like the one they had traveled to. It might have been destroyed in the centuries since. Dismantled, looted. Many of them were.

Some archeologists said that the people who built such tombs believed them to be portals between the land of the living and the dead. Cormac and Amelia still weren’t sure what they believed, no matter what they’d experienced.

They were still catching up on the sleep they’d lost and the cups of tea they hadn’t been able to drink. A hot cup of English Breakfast tasted better than it ever had in either of their lives.

A week after the adventure, after sitting in Judi and Frida’s living room trying to explain what had happened, everybody bristling because they didn’t trust Dimitrova and Lynch, who didn’t trust anyone else in turn—though Esther the cat had curled up in Cormac’s lap and purred, which had been weird but also nice—Cormac and Amelia were still writing at the desk in the parlor. A fire burned in the stove, and another thunderstorm rolled in and tossed the branches of the cottonwoods.

A knock came at the door.

“Shit, not again,” Cormac muttered, dropping the nice fountain pen Amelia insisted on using and leaning back in the chair. Couldn’t they just ignore it? There wasn’t a law saying anyone had to open the door when someone knocked. That was a courtesy, not a requirement.

But it wasn’t like they got random people knocking at their door way out here. It might be important.

Aren’t you curious?

Well, Amelia was curious. Sighing more dramatically than necessary, Cormac went to look at the front porch from the window.

Rick glanced over and smiled.

Cormac opened the door.

Rick was an elegant man with stylish dark hair, wearing a dark turtleneck and tailored trousers. Clean shaven, this time. He stood with hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat. “Ah—hello.”

Cormac just stared at him. It took him more than a moment to connect this man with the rough Spanish scout and translator from centuries ago. For all that he’d thought he wanted to talk to Rick, he didn’t know what to say now.

“Kitty called,” Rick said. “Passed on a rather intriguing message.”

He’d told Kitty to tell him, I want to ask you about Pedro Vial. “Yeah. I thought that might actually get you to talk to me.”

“May I come in?”

That was never a simple question when vampires were involved.

Rick noted the hesitation. “Really? I suppose we could do this at Kitty’s place, but then you’ll have to tell her what happened.”

He’d been avoiding that because he didn’t want her and Ben to worry.

In the end, he stepped aside because Rick had given him food and a warm spot by his fire when he needed it. “Come in,” he said. “I’m not going to offer you a drink.”

“That joke never gets old,” Rick said in a tone that suggested it did, in fact, get old. “So. Which of us starts?”

Cormac did need a drink and poured himself a finger of bourbon. They settled in chairs by the stove. “If I told you I traveled back in time and met you somewhere on the earliest version of the Santa Fe Trail, what would you say?”

“I’d say there are more things in heaven and earth. We both know that.”

“Colonial Spain. Late eighteenth century, I guess.”

“Smack in the middle of the Great Plains? Modern day Kansas, I think? Around 1780?”

“So that was you.” Cormac had been sort of hoping that Rick wouldn’t remember. That it had happened in some alternate world.

“Yes,” Rick said matter-of-factly.

“I’m confused,” he said, and Rick tilted his head as if to say, well of course. “We met then, but you never said anything now. You didn’t…remember. Did you? Did you know me from then and just not say anything? Or did it not happen, and then suddenly it did—”

“Ah, a time paradox. Is that what you’re asking? Did you change the past, or was that moment always part of my past?”

“You didn’t recognize me when we first met.”

Rick tapped the armrest and gazed at the glow in the stove’s window. In this light, his pale skin seemed almost warm. “When I first met you—in person, not by reputation—I didn’t pay much attention to you. I’ve met dozens of men like you over the years. Closed off, mercenary, cultivating dangerous reputations. It’s a thing that happens when you’re around for centuries. Certain kinds of people show up over and over again. Sometimes it’s a look, a voice. A set of behaviors. I had no reason to believe I’d ever seen you before, or that you weren’t just reminding me of a dozen other loners and hunters. Dangerous men racing headlong toward death.” He chuckled a little. “I didn’t expect you to live long enough for me to bother learning anything about you. I had no reason to think you had anything to do with my past. You didn’t look much like yourself, then.”

Cormac had shaved back to his usual mustache. He was much more clean and put together—less overwhelmed by exhaustion and panic—than he had been, then.

“And,” Rick added, “you’ve changed in other ways since we first met.”

“What reminded you? When did you make the connection?”

“Your message. The mention of Pedro Vial. I haven’t heard that name in a very long time. Then…you ever have an experience where you smell something, or hear a piece of music, and it brings up a whole set of memories you thought you’d forgotten? That did it.”

“Does that kind of thing happen to you a lot? With five hundred years of memories?”

“Not as much as you would expect, simply because so much from my past is just…gone. Songs that will never play again. Places that have been demolished or transformed. Not many people know about Pedro Vial now. Mostly historians who specialize in that period. You certainly shouldn’t have known of him. That name, that whole scene…you…crashed on me. Like it happened yesterday. I’m sorry, I know it seems like I should have remembered you.”

“So you always remembered it?” Cormac asked, a little desperately. As if the whole fabric of time and space depended on the answer. “You don’t have two different memories, or your memory changed—”

“It happened, yes. I remember bedding down at dawn and Pedro asking, Dónde va el hombre inglés?” Rick slipped into the language and diction of that man of two hundred years ago. The voice was so familiar to Cormac, the sense of displacement almost made him dizzy. Just what Rick had been talking about, the way memory crashed on you. “I told him that I thought you went home.” He flashed a smile. “I’m glad I was right. You weren’t sure it had really happened, were you?”

Cormac shook his head. “It was all…weird. Strange. Maybe that whole thing wasn’t as strange for you as it was for me.”

“Those were wild times. Wild places. On multiple boundaries in multiple directions, between nations, between old ways and new. Everything was changing faster than it ever had before. In any given place you might hear a dozen languages spoken. That’s part of why I stayed in the region, exploring it—everything was new. To see a man suddenly appear in the middle of the prairie, asking for help, it was not a strange thing in those days. I could tell so many stories…” But his voice faded, and he didn’t tell any.

“You ever think about writing a book? A history?”

“That’s Kitty’s line.”

Amelia was uncharacteristically quiet, and Cormac nudged her. Was there anything she wanted to know? Any questions for him?

She answered, My mind is aching with everything I don’t know. For now I think I’ll just listen.

“I haven’t told Kitty about any of this.”

“Because you don’t want her to worry or because she’ll tell you to write a book?”

Cormac chuckled. Maybe Rick and he would never be best friends, but they both appreciated Kitty, and that counted for something.

“That was just last week for you, wasn’t it?” Rick said. “It all just happened.”

“Yeah.”

“And for me, more than two centuries ago.” He shook his head absently.

Thunder rumbled distantly. Normal thunder, part of a normal storm, fading as it blew east. Cormac had noticed Rick’s car parked in the drive—he’d gotten here the normal way. Nothing to worry about.

“Thank you,” Rick said suddenly.

“For what?”

“For reminding me of Pedro. I hadn’t thought of him in a long time, and…he was a good friend. It’s good to remember my friends.”

Cormac swirled the last bit of liquid in the glass. Thought of pouring himself another, and decided he would. As he sat down with the fresh drink, he said, “You feel like telling me about him?”

Rick thought a moment and answered, “Yes, I think I do.”

To read more about Cormac and Amelia, look for The Cormac and Amelia Case Files, available in ebook and print.

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Carrie Vaughn’s work includes the Philip K. Dick Award winning novel Bannerless, the New York Times Bestselling Kitty Norville urban fantasy series, over twenty novels and 150 short stories, two of which have been finalists for the Hugo Award. Look for her next novel, The Naturalist Society, about 19th century birdwatchers, awkward love triangles, and the magic of binomial nomenclature, due out in 2024. She’s a contributor to the Wild Cards series of shared world superhero books edited by George R. R. Martin and a graduate of the Odyssey Fantasy Writing Workshop. An Air Force brat, she survived her nomadic childhood and managed to put down roots in Boulder, Colorado. Visit her at www.carrievaughn.com.

Broken Roads

Copyright © 2024 by Carrie Vaughn, LLC.

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictional or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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