MICHAEL TURNED OFF the main highway and drove through Petoskey's side streets. Mary looked out her window. She didn't know much about the city other than it was small, attractive and full of large Victorian houses. Petoskey's old downtown Gaslight District, an area of about six blocks, had been restored and was populated with cafes, pubs, galleries, antique shops and boutiques.

She had once driven through Petoskey. She had stopped to have a late lunch in a small restaurant and had fallen into a conversation with her waitress, who was a student at North Central Michigan College.

Apparently, her waitress had told her, Ernest Hemingway had referred to many local landmarks in his novel The Torrents of Spring. Mary had resolved to read the novel and had gone so far as to buy a copy, but she disliked Hemingway's writing, so she had never followed through with her original intention.

She tried to think back. What had happened to that book? Had she ever unpacked it, or was it still in the boxes in the garage?

Then she remembered. The book no longer existed. It had been destroyed along with the rest of her house.

Following hard on the heels of that realization, in a one-two knockout punch, an image surfaced of Justin's face surrounded by the sparkling black corona of the Deceiver's aura. Dread shot adrenaline through her veins and left her feeling sick. The Deceiver's smile had been an alien unwholesome travesty on Justin's clever face.

Her life and her sense of ident.i.ty had transformed almost beyond recognition, but her feelings for the people she knew and loved were still the same.

Justin's partner, Tony, had to be so worried, not just about Justin but about her as well. He needed to hear that Justin had died. He deserved the right to mourn instead of enduring an endless agony of not knowing. When would she find time to call him? Was it safe to contact him? Was she reaching a point when she never would?

Her mouth tightened. She wouldn't accept that. If they managed to live through this h.e.l.lish mess, she would figure out how to live with both halves of herself. She would call Tony as soon as she knew that it wouldn't put him in danger. She would tell him about Justin and tell him something about herself that didn't sound too crazy. She had to call him, if for no other reason than to give him closure and to say good-bye.

An array of colorful Victorian houses with tall, wide porches pa.s.sed by outside her window. The town twinkled with charm and serenity in the deepening twilight. It epitomized the small-town American myth, like Cabot Cove from the television detective series Murder, She Wrote.

Only people were murdered every week in Cabot Cove. Or maybe, she thought, it was more like the location in a Stephen King novel, where wholesome-looking restaurants had red-and-white-checkered tablecloths, but evil rotted underneath the quaint scenery.

The route Michael was driving clicked into a pattern. She realized he was working to get them as close to Lake Michigan as he could without drawing attention to them. Every time she turned her senses toward the sh.o.r.eline, she sensed an oily dark whispering at the edge of her mind. Her stomach tightened.

They had to pa.s.s through that malevolent barrier. Somehow they had to get on a boat and sail to an island before an impending storm hit. The task sounded worse than impossible. It sounded like lighting oneself on fire and jumping off a cliff.

She chewed her lip as doubts attacked. She asked carefully, "It's hard to wrap my brain around the fact that Astra has the capacity to create a storm so big it can block our presence on radar."

"She's not actually creating the storm," he said. "She's working with natural forces to create the storm."

Mary paused as she thought about that. She didn't see the difference. "What does it mean that Astra's calling in all her favors?"

He shot her a quick glance. "You remember the small wind spirit that helped you in South Bend?"

"Of course. And you sent it away." She remembered how bitter she felt at the time.

"There are wind spirits in the world that are much larger and more powerful."

Gretchen, the psychic Mary had visited in South Bend, had talked about wind spirits. "Do you mean like the First Nation thunder beings, the Wakean?"

"Exactly like that."

She blinked. "How did Astra grow acquainted enough with the Wakean that they would owe her favors?"

"We don't have time to talk about it anymore right now," he said. "Just trust me, if she said a storm is coming, it's coming."

He pulled parallel to a car parked on the side of the street, then signaled and reversed into the parking s.p.a.ce behind it. Mary looked at the nearby building. It was a huge old house that had been converted into a law office, already closed for the night.

"I trust you," she said. She kept her voice steady and patient. "I'm asking all these questions, because maybe I do sometimes still have a bit of a problem with Mister Enigmatic, and I need to understand what is going on."

He rubbed the back of his head. "I promise that Mister Enigmatic will take more time to explain things when we're not in so much danger."

She felt her mouth quirk into a reluctant smile. "Is that ever going to happen?"

His eyebrows rose. He smiled back. "If we can pull this off, it should happen soon. As far as the Deceiver and his drones are concerned, it should seem like we've disappeared off the face of the earth."

"Okay," she said. That sounded a lot better than lighting themselves on fire and jumping off a cliff. "I've got more questions, but they can wait. Thank you."

"I'm sorry about Mister Enigmatic." He unbuckled his seat belt, twisted and dug into his black bag. "I expect he's a pretty maddening character."

"I like him when I'm not scared," she told him. "He's a man of mystery."

He snorted and pulled a dark cap out of the bag. He handed it to her. "He's a social misfit who's not used to talking to people or explaining himself. Tuck your hair up in this. It's too distinctive."

She took the cap and jammed it down on her head, her attention snagged by the trees across the street. Branches were beginning to whip in the rising wind that blew off the Lake. She glanced at the heavy clouds ama.s.sing in the darkened sky. If Astra could instigate something of this magnitude, no wonder Michael believed it was to their advantage to unite with her.

Mary fought to keep from sounding as awestruck as she felt. "It looks like our help is arriving."

He glanced at the sky. "It's going to be an interesting boat ride. I want you to take the nine-millimeter with you."

"Yeah, I don't think so." He just gave her a steady look. She growled, "Fine, although I don't know where I'm going to put it."

She looked down at herself. Her jacket was in a different part of the state. In their stress and preoccupation, they had left it back at the cabin. All she had was her borrowed flannel shirt, and the temperature was plummeting fast. She suspected she was going to be sorry about losing that jacket soon.

He paused, glancing around to make sure there weren't any close pedestrians. "Tuck it into your jeans under the shirt."

"Wait, I forgot. I've still got my purse." Gingerly, she took the nine-millimeter and an extra clip from him. She tucked both into her purse, grumbling, "Just my luck I'll drop the purse in front of a cop and everything will spill out."

"You'll be fine. Keep watch for me." She watched the street while he stuffed things into a backpack and wiped down surfaces. "Got it," he said after a few moments. He straightened in his seat, resting the backpack on his thighs, those sword gray eyes a.s.sessing the scene in front of them.

Her heartbeat sped up. The palms of her hands turned clammy.

She thought, here we go.

He said, "Come on."

Mary slung her purse onto her shoulder and climbed out of the Jeep when he did. She gasped as the wind, icy and wet with the storm's sullen promise, sliced through her baggy flannel shirt, flattening it against her torso.

"My hotel on the beach is so hot I won't need clothes," she said through gritted teeth. She started to shiver. "I'll have just three red triangles of cloth with strings to hold them in place. And that's my dress-up-for-dinner outfit."

"Oh, man," said Michael. "I'm so there." He grinned at her, teeth white against his dark, unshaven face.

He put his backpack on one shoulder, rounded the end of the Jeep and put an arm across her shoulders. She slid hers around his waist and huddled close to his warmth. Then he took off at a pace that was so brisk she had to trot to keep up. She bent her head and watched their legs. For every step he took she had to take three.

They walked a block, crossed the street and turned toward the Lake. The air was thick with wicked shadows. She started to breathe hard and not just from the pace Michael set.

"Keep telling me about the beach," he said. His quiet voice was unhurried.

She shook her head, unable to reply. Trepidation locked her throat, and her leg muscles quivered. Bad things waited for them up ahead, men like the ones who had tried to kidnap her. In the psychic realm something black, glistening and hungry lurked near the sh.o.r.e.

She could see it in her mind's eye, lazily testing the air with long, shadowy tendrils like tentacles. It was all she could do to force her quaking body to keep pace with Michael, to keep taking one step after another.

"All right," Michael said. He pulled her into a short, shadowed alley. They walked the length of it. "I'll tell you about the beach. We'll be finished with all of this, of course."

"Of course," she echoed.

"We'll go snorkeling any time we want," he told her. "And because the afternoons are long and lazy and full of sunshine, we'll be able to explore the nearby coral reefs for hours. Every color imaginable is in that coral reef, framed by clear, cobalt blue water." They reached the mouth of the alley and paused. "You're going to get sick of swimming."

"That's hard to imagine." Wretched with cold and fear, she sniffled and swiped at her nose with the back of one hand. "Healer and warrior. Balancing energies. Bleh. Try warrior and coward-there's a balance for you."

"You're not a coward," he said. He cupped her cheek with one big, warm hand. "Cowards don't do things that scare them, and you do."

"Don't try to tell me what a coward is," she growled. "I know exactly what I am. I am a coward. I wouldn't be here if you weren't. I'd be hiding in somebody's bas.e.m.e.nt in Tennessee."

He laughed. "Is that cowardice or common sense?" He pushed her against one wall, while he peered around the corner of the building. After a moment, he pulled back. The streetlights had come on in the darkening night. Illumination from a nearby street lamp sliced across his cheekbone and jaw. "Besides, I don't believe you." He looked down at her and ran callused fingers down the side of her upturned face. "You complain when you're scared. You don't run. Are you ready?"

She gave him a jerky nod. His dark head swooped down and he gave her a quick, hard kiss. She felt his warm, firm lips, the sc.r.a.pe of his short whiskers against her cheek, and her mouth moved against his in startled response.

He lifted his head too soon. "There's a mile-long waterfront park, with a small munic.i.p.al marina located at the western end. I've docked there before. The marina's our best chance for quick access to a boat. When we exit the alley, it will be about a quarter of a mile west, to our left. We've got to cross the highway to get to it. There are two obvious places to cross the highway. One is at a stoplight at Lake Street or there's a lighted tunnel that runs under the highway. Both are being watched, I think by humans."

"There's something else out there," she said. "Something in the psychic realm. I don't know what it is, but it's big. It feels malevolent."

"I know," he said. "I sense it too. It's watching the sh.o.r.eline. We could wait for a break in the traffic and dash across the highway to the park. That would avoid the two crossings, but there's not a lot of cover in the park, and that's where the creature is lurking."

She watched his face as she said, "We're not going to get to a boat without a fight, are we?"

"No. The question is do we pick a human fight, or a psychic one? And either fight might draw attention from the other realm." He c.o.c.ked his head, which brought his gray eyes into the light. "How do you want to play this?"

She licked dry lips and twisted her hands together. "You're the fighter," she said. "Use your best judgment. I'll back you up. Just tell me what you want to do, and I'll do it."

He said, "I'm tired of skulking. We'll cross at the stoplight on Lake Street, and humans be d.a.m.ned."

She tilted her face up and looked into the light-filled eyes of the tiger. With sudden surety, she knew he wasn't afraid. He stood poised and balanced on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, an archetypical warrior wearing only the lightest of human facades. A realization occurred to her that felt as though it echoed back through time.

"You're a madman," she muttered. "I've always known it, haven't I? And I'm mad too for following you."

"I gave you a choice," he said. His gaze sparkled with brilliance.

She glanced in the direction of the Lake, toward the black thing that waited to wrap them tight in its tentacles and suck the life out of them. She said again, "We'll do it your way."

He smiled.

They stepped out of the alley. They walked west toward the Lake Street intersection and Petoskey's munic.i.p.al marina. The sidewalks were deserted. Once again, Mary had to trot to keep up with him.

The wind had increased to a ferocious velocity. Across the vehicle-lit highway she could see the wide stretch of lawn that was the park. Beyond that curved the vast shadowed bowl of Little Traverse Bay. The water foamed with high, white-capped waves.

They approached a tree that creaked audibly as the wind whipped its upper limbs back and forth. Mary eyed it with wariness as she walked past. Ahead she could see the stoplight where they would have to cross the street. She caught a glimpse of the white arm of the dock as it protruded into the bay.

As the first heavy drops of rain lashed down, she thought perhaps the storm was already beginning to help them. People had moved inside to shelter.

Hopefully any guards watching for them would have wanted to get out of the storm too, and would be less vigilant. Wouldn't they?

All too soon she and Michael reached the intersection. They had to wait for the light to change to create a break in the constant flow of traffic. Michael squeezed her shoulders one last time before his arm slid away.

Feeling anchorless, Mary shifted from one skittish foot to the other as her nervous gaze darted over the brilliantly lit, moving traffic. A parking lot dotted with cars lay on the other side of the highway along with a building attached to the marina.

The light changed. Traffic rolled to a stop. Michael moved across the highway with the smooth, purring grace of a Porsche. She followed humbly, clutching her purse.

They reached the other side of the crossing. She noticed what she had forgotten to look for before. A railing and sidewalk led downward to the entrance to the lighted tunnel. She looked sideways at it as she caught the faintest echo of chittering. Humans weren't the only creatures that guarded the tunnel that night.

"Mary," Michael said in a conversational tone.

Her attention snapped to him. "Yes?"

"When the fighting starts, I want you to move to the slips. Pick out a boat and wait for me there."

"All right, but I've got to warn you, I don't know anything about boats."

"Just pick one that seems big and fast," he said casually over his shoulder. "If it looks racy, it probably is."

She nodded, although he was already four feet ahead of her and picking up speed.

Heavy clouds lit with lightning. Moments later, the rumble of thunder reached her ears. The rain started to fall more heavily. In the glow of the street lamps, the air was filled with streaks of silver.

Michael reached into his backpack, pulled out a bulky ammunition belt and slung it over his neck and one shoulder. Then he drew out his knife sheath and belt and buckled it to his waist, all while he walked in a fast, ground-eating stride toward the parking lot and building.

Last he pulled out his semiautomatic. He held it in one strong, muscle-corded hand, nose pointed to the ground. He let the backpack fall to the ground and broke into a run.

Four men appeared around the end of a nondescript van. The increasing rain obscured visibility, but she thought they were uniformed policemen. They started to pull their guns.

Michael whirled. He threw a black missile with such force it shattered one of the van's windows. Then in the same seamless, balletic movement, he spun until he faced the building adjacent to the parking lot. He sprinted headlong for the nearest wall.

Mary watched as he ran up the side of the building and disappeared onto the roof.

She blinked, feeling slow and stupid with surprise.

Did she just see what she thought she saw?

Her footsteps brought her beside the backpack Michael had dropped where she came to a stop.

The men by the van finished pulling their weapons. They shouted to one another and began to run. They were all much slower and clumsier than Michael.

Her astonished gaze traveled from them back to the roof of the building. She felt like she had just been transported into a John Woo movie.

The van exploded.

A fireball enveloped two neighboring cars. The concussion knocked the men off their feet.

A scant fraction of a second later, a fast-dissipating blast of hot air slammed into her. She staggered, more from shock than anything else.