"We must hold against it, Gideon." Adrian raised one hand and sent a bright spiral of energy by his will into the leaking wound of the Other Place, from where Navarre had emerged. But the light was swallowed up instantly. The hole seemed to seethe and grow larger.

The cat moved closer. When he raised a paw, smoky waves flowed down. Clean gray fur vanished beneath oily ripples.

"Stay, Gideon. No good to try. Not the two of us alone. We'll need more to help us this night."

Adrian drew a harsh breath. "With three together we may hope to succeed. There is power in the woman. I can sense it clearly. But first, I'll need to convince her."

The cat meowed.

"Yes, she is still awake, hunched over a pile of dusty books, looking for more of her secrets.

Something to do with travelers and maps."

Comparative document research. Forensic map analysis.

Adrian shook his head. She had it wrong. She rifled through old documents when she should have been searching for a deeper truth, something beyond words or paper.

Something locked inside her own heart, though she knew it not.

Adrian sensed her strong magic, buried in the past where it could not be reached. Her silent resolve came from the difficult work she did. A strong woman but also a stubborn one, used to making her own rules.

A modern woman, he thought irritably. Just his luck to be cursed with such on this darkest night of the year. Was she strong enough to face what waited?

He was at the door, about to knock, when he saw her stare up at the aristocratic portrait of the eighth Viscount Draycott.

His portrait.

Before he could do more, her small communication unit chimed on the desk.

SARA SCANNED THE SCREEN of her cell phone, surprised to see the number of her superior back in Virginia. Given the time difference, her boss was working very long hours.

She took a calming breath, then answered. "Nightingale here."

"Harding. Everything okay? We agreed you were to check in every day."

"My mistake. I planned to call you in two hours, sir. What time is it there in D.C., anyway?"

"Never mind the time." Edwin Harding, Special Agent in Charge of the Forensic Analysis Section, cleared his throat. "Something's come up here, Sara. Today we ran our usual security sweep of the unit offices and found a tap on two phones. One of them was yours."

Sara stiffened, working through all the things he hadn't said. "So someone knows what I'm working on."

"Almost certainly."

"And that same person knows...I'm here. Someone outside the Agency?"

"We have to assume that's the case."

Sara shoved down uneasiness. She'd faced killers with hollow-point bullets. This was nothing to spike her pulse. "I see."

"I want you to take extra precautions. If anything seems wrong, alert me immediately."

"Understood."

"Any developments to report?"

"I've found another log entry and some early port documents. So far nothing pinpoints a location."

"You are going to have some extra help. I've just had a call from Viscount Draycott, and he has asked his estate manager to see you. Draycott says the man is extremely knowledgeable about the abbey's document collection, and he will have information you'll find useful. Ask for any help you require. Lord Draycott regrets that his business will keep him out of contact for several days."

"Understood, sir. Did he give you the estate manager's name?"

"Mr. Adrian, I believe. The connection was terrible, but I think that's it."

Sara noted the information and waited. She had been out of her office for almost two weeks, between research and travel time, and the peace of the abbey was becoming dangerously seductive after the stress of her usual assignments.

Especially the last one.

"I want daily reports, Nightingale. And keep alert. If someone puts the pieces together based on your research, he could end up on your doorstep with no warning. A treasure of this importance would be a magnet to any of our country's enemies. Stay sharp."

Then the line went dead.

THE WIND HISSED in soft warning, full of images from the Other Place, where Navarre had been captive for almost eight centuries.

Not dead. Nothing so bearable. Simple death would have been a better fate than the torment he'd known in that place some called purgatory and others called Bardo.

He had been bound in torment, held captive until a solstice like this gave him the means to escape.

Now it had come.

Death was far better than what Draycott and its inhabitants faced now, Navarre swore.

CHAPTER THREE.

BARELY TWENTY MINUTES had passed when a knock at the library door tore Sara away from a map of the medieval Venetian coast. She checked her watch, frowning, expecting to see the abbey's meticulous butler, Marston, with more coffee and excellent pastries. Though the hour was late, the man was attentive to a fault. The stories she had heard about English butlers appeared to be true.

"Yes?"

"I am sorry to intrude so late, Ms. Nightingale." The man in the doorway was half hidden in shadows. He looked determined but just a little uncomfortable. "My name is Mr. Adrian. I was told that you worked late and that I could find you here."

He wore a perfectly cut black jacket over a black sweater that looked like alpaca or cashmere.

Discreet but expensive. Almost too expensive for some kind of estate manager, not that she knew what kind of salary an estate manager made.

He wore no watch. No ornament of any sort. Only black. As he moved through the shadows of the room, Sara had a glimpse of high cheekbones and cool eyes that flashed with intelligence. He glanced at the maps and old documents spread on the long table. "Excuse my coming so late, but Lord Draycott told me to help you in any way possible with your research."

"So you have a particular document to show me?"

The estate manager turned, trailing one hand reverently over a shelf of leather-bound volumes. His face seemed almost familiar, Sara thought. But where could she have seen him before?

"I have a ship's navigator's records of an eastern voyage in the late thirteenth century."

Sara's interest was piqued. "That could be extremely useful. Where is it?"

The Englishman turned suddenly, his head raised as if he heard some unpleasant sound. Sara heard nothing but the rustle of the roses outside the library window. Someday she would have to ask him how they managed to have blooming roses in the middle of December.

His hand clenched.

"Is something wrong?"

"Do you hear it? Very faint. Up above us." He moved toward the window, as if following the sound.

"Only a light scraping. It's just the roses brushing against the window. I've heard it all evening."

"I wish you were right." He turned sharply and the light from the overhead sconces outlined his aristocratic face. He looked very upset, Sara realized.

She put down the map she had been studying. "You think someone is up there? An intruder?" This was serious. She closed her books and slid them into the safe beneath the desk.

"I'm afraid so." The estate manager strode toward the door, sliding back into the darkness.

"Where are we going?" Sara demanded.

But she was talking to thin air. The man had already gone, leaving the door ajar for her to follow.

ADRIAN SCOWLED.

He'd managed to take on physical form, thanks to Gideon's help, but using this tangible body was far more difficult than he remembered.

There was too much weight.

Too much delay of thought to movement. It was fortunate the American woman hadn't connected him with the portrait in the library yet. Fortunate, too, that she followed him without question.

Acutely aware of the moon rising above the dark woods, he stalked to the third floor and pushed open the door to the roof.

The woman raised an eyebrow. "You're sure you know where you're going?"

"Trust me."

"Just for the record, I trust nobody." She followed reluctantly, her body alert for signs of attack. She was used to danger, Adrian noted. And she would need all the courage she possessed to face what was waiting.

When he opened the door to the roof, the wind slapped at his face. The hole was exactly as before, black images swirling from its dark heart. The sight filled him with fury.

The woman walked beside him and scanned the gusting darkness. "Okay, this has been fun, Mr.

Adrian. But frankly, I don't see any problem here. The only things here are stones." She frowned in distaste. "Stones that are pretty dirty."

The wind shrieked. "That is not simple dirt. Nor is the roof empty," Adrian whispered. He leveled one finger. "Do you not see?"

When she shook her head impatiently, Adrian sighed. He had forgotten that mortal humans had such a singular lack of vision.

"Am I missing something or is this some kind of game?"

"Not a game, Ms. Nightingale," the abbey ghost said gravely.

"Special Agent Nightingale." The woman stood taller, her eyes wary. "And if we're done here, I need to get back to the library."

"Your work can wait for twenty-four hours. I fear you have a far greater duty that will not rest."

Her impatience was turning to something harder. "I've given you enough time, Mr. Adrian."

Intractable woman. How could he make her understand?

A demonstration was necessary.

"One moment." He ignored her frown and pointed to the center of the roof. "Stand by this chimney.

Yes, just so. Now raise your hand. Slowly," he cautioned.

Looking irritated, she did as he asked. "Well? What am I supposed to see? There is nothing..."

Her eyes narrowed. Then the words trailed away. Her glare gave way to a look of confusion as a blurred shape drifted over her hand. "What's going on?" Her breath hissed from her throat. "How did you create that illusion?"

"What you see is not of my making." Adrian watched another dark shape writhe free. To his horror, the center of the hole tore wider with every passing minute.

Navarre's gift, he thought grimly. Soon that darkness would swallow all of his abbey.

"I only pray you will believe what I tell you, Agent Nightingale. Even as we talk, time is running out. Within hours this house and all within its walls may be destroyed."

She continued to stare at her hand. "Is this some kind of biological weapon? Is it Chinese?

Russian?"

"You speak of things I do not understand." Adrian took a deep breath. "Listen well, Agent Nightingale. I have need of your help this night, from moonrise to moonrise. Otherwise all will be forfeit."

She made an irritated sound, but her eyes kept returning to the strange darkness that covered her arm. "If I believed you, which I don't, what kind of help would you want?"

"To oppose the man who did this."

"So he's a scientist?"

"Hardly. A...warrior. Once Navarre was the greatest of all. But now he is changed, and nothing is safe while he walks the night." Shadows seemed to gather along the stone parapet.