"The Weston family seat is in the West Marches, the land that borders England and Wales. The West Marches is a witchy place and intensely magical, with more crossover pa.s.sageways per acre than anywhere else in the world. Many wars have been fought all over that land. Once upon a time, or so the story goes, there had been a crossover pa.s.sage on this very spot." Kathryn reached over to tap one of the photographs.

"You mean there isn't one there now?"

As Sophie asked the question, her mind started working on the concept. What could destroy a crossover pa.s.sageway? Crossover pa.s.sageways had been around since the Earth was formed, when time and s.p.a.ce had buckled. They led to Other lands, where modern technology didn't work, time flowed differently than it did on Earth, and the sun shone with a different light.

Sophie chewed on her lip as she thought.

Sometimes explosives were used to close small pa.s.sageways if they were unstable and only led to tiny pockets of land, like caves. To destroy a major crossover pa.s.sageway, a natural disaster like an earthquake could be powerful enough. Land crumbling, tectonic plates shifting, that sort of thing.

Or magic.

Lots and lots of magic. An almost inconceivable amount of very destructive magic. A shiver rippled through her at the thought.

"No, there isn't a pa.s.sageway now, at least not a functioning one," Kathryn replied. "War happened. There was a battle on that spot, and the crossover pa.s.sage shattered. Some bright ancestor of mine decided it would be a good idea to build a house there in order to seal his conquest of the land, but the land still had all that broken crossover magic. It still does, in fact. Family legend says from the very beginning when the first timbers were raised, the house was always strange, and it got stranger as time went on."

"You have an ancestor who built on a broken crossover pa.s.sageway?" Sophie snorted.

"Boggles the mind, doesn't it?" Kathryn gave her a speaking look.

Sophie grinned. "I can just imagine how odd the house must be."

"The stories get pretty entertaining. Entire wings disappeared and reappeared, and the scenery outside the windows changed. People got lost inside, and they couldn't find their way out again. One pair of children disappeared for weeks before they reappeared again, dirty and starved, and babbling of strange adventures."

She leaned forward. "Do you have written records of what they saw?"

Kathryn shook her head. "There are hardly any written records other than land ownership, just legends pa.s.sed down by word of mouth. After a couple of generations, the family couldn't cope with the strangeness any longer. They built another house and moved and left this place abandoned. Every few years, someone would go to check on the property to see if it was still standing. My father said the last time he went, he could turn the key in the lock, but he couldn't get the door to open. The last time I checked the property, I couldn't even get the key in the lock."

Sophie looked down at the photograph she still touched, drawn there by the frisson she felt underneath her palm. Gabled and oddly shadowed, the house looked like something out of Dark Shadows, a cult show that ran on cla.s.sic TV networks and had both delighted and terrified her as a child. "Did anybody try to break a window?"

"My father said he tried, but the window wouldn't break." Kathryn smiled. "The place is like a Rubik's cube. The pieces are all there-I think-but none of the colors line up. We took to calling it the family albatross. It's been hanging around our necks all this time."

Sophie raised her eyebrow again. "Did you hire experts to try to get in?"

"Of course, but no one managed it. I don't think anyone has walked through those halls since before the sixteenth century and only then intermittently, as the house had been abandoned some time before. The G.o.ds only know what might have been left inside. There aren't any written records of that either."

"How mysterious," Sophie murmured.

Kathryn turned brisk. "Now we come to the crux of the matter. The terms of my father's will state that I am to seek out the children he rescued, one by one, and extend an offer. Each person may have ninety days to find a way to get inside the house. If anyone does figure out a way in, they may take ownership of the house, any contents that may still be in it, and the grounds, which includes five acres, a small lake, and a small, four-room house that used to be the gatekeeper's cottage. They also receive a trust that is entailed to the property. Both the property and the entailment can be pa.s.sed on to their beneficiaries."

Sophie blinked. And blinked again.

Grounds. House. Two houses.

Kathryn really was offering her an inheritance.

The incredulous laughter threatened to come back. She repeated, "A trust. You mean actual money?"

"Yes," Kathryn said. "The trust is tied up in investments, so the annual income is self-perpetuating. It isn't an outrageous fortune, but it's enough to pay the property taxes, cover the cost of grounds upkeep, and there's perhaps twenty-five thousand pounds a year over that. Depending on fluctuations in the exchange rate, that's roughly around thirty-seven thousand dollars a year. Let's face it, after so long, the interior of the manor house must be unlivable, but I've actually stayed in the gatekeeper's cottage, and while the furnishings are dated, it's cozy enough. If you buy a Pocket Wi-Fi, you can even get Internet service inside the cottage itself, although there's too much land magic in the countryside to get reliable connectivity everywhere."

"Thirty-seven thousand dollars," Sophie repeated flatly. "A year. Just for breaking into a house."

Kathryn laughed. "Keep in mind, n.o.body has managed to do it so far. And yes, we will pay to get rid of the family albatross."

"A trust that can generate thirty-seven thousand dollars a year is a h.e.l.l of a generous payment." Sophie traced the edge of the photograph with a forefinger.

"It's only a portion of the family estate, and England is an expensive place to live," Kathryn warned. "That kind of annual income wouldn't go nearly as far as it would in, say, the American Midwest. Although the cost of living is much cheaper outside of London. If somebody were interested and wanted to make a go of it, I think they could live well enough if their needs were modest and they were frugal. There would be no rent or mortgage to worry about. That would already be taken care of, which would make the money stretch a lot further. But in order to receive the inheritance, you-or someone-would have to prove that they had actually gotten inside the house."

"What kind of proof would you require?"

"Photos would be sufficient, if a camera would work inside the house, but the broken crossover magic might prevent that. If a camera would work, given the position of the buildings, you should be able to get a clear photo of the gatekeeper's cottage as you look out the front windows. Or if you could get someone to take a photo of you standing inside the house, that would also work. Failing that, a signed affidavit from reliable witnesses would be acceptable."

Sophie touched the edge of the roofline to feel the tingle of magic again. "Ninety days is a long time," she said slowly. "For a lot of people, taking a two-week vacation overseas is stretching their resources, let alone taking that much time away from their jobs."

Kathryn nodded. "I'm afraid I can't help with the issue of taking time off work, but as far as the rest of the trip goes, the estate would provide a temporary living stipend along with travel expenses." One corner of her mouth tilted up. "Honestly, I think most people have taken the challenge just to get a three-month paid vacation. They either had no interest or any ability in trying to get into the main house itself."

Instead of looking angry at the possibility of exploitation, the other woman still looked amused. Since the same thought had occurred to Sophie, she asked carefully, "That doesn't bother you?"

Kathryn shrugged. "The money comes out of the trust that was set up specifically for this property. Since it's entailed, I couldn't access those funds for myself even if I wanted to. If somebody could just break into the house, I can stop hunting down people my father rescued and making the same offer over and over again, but other than that, it doesn't particularly bother me one way or another."

"You have been doing this for over twenty years," Sophie murmured reflectively. She was almost unaware of how her fingers stroked the photograph. Almost. "You must be very tired of it."

"Actually, it's become something of a hobby." Kathryn sipped coffee and set her cup carefully back on its saucer. "My career is stressful and demanding. If I'm not careful, it can suck the life out of me. This takes me outside of that, and it even gives me a reason to travel. Finding people whom my father rescued when they were children has become rewarding and even comforting in a way. It has been heartwarming to see how far his influence spread. He saved a lot of lives, and I'm really proud of that. Of him."

Sophie rearranged the photos in front of her, watching her hands. "I'm sure not everybody would have welcomed it. Until I had a friend at the LAPD trace the phone number you left in your message and run a background check on you, I was certain you were running some kind of scam."

"True." Kathryn nodded. "And sometimes it's hard to discover that not everybody has thrived after being rescued. One died in a car accident, and someone else joined the army and was killed in battle. But more often than not, people are like yourself."

I never said I was thriving, Sophie thought. Her body throbbed again, the three points of fire in her thigh, shoulder, and abdomen.

But then wasn't that exactly the kind of impression her good linen suit and chunky jewelry was supposed to convey?

Kathryn studied her curiously. "The notes in your file said my father couldn't discover what your inhuman side was, so he chose to place you with magical humans. Your adoptive family in the witches' demesne-were they a good match for you?"

Sophie's hand fisted where it rested on the photograph.

Oh, they were a great match. Mom baked homemade cherry pies and sprinkled them with sugar laced with magic wishes. Dad came home from work every day at 4:30 P.M. They let me pick out the family dog, Snuggles, and every year, it took me until midafternoon to open all my presents under the Christmas tree.

She couldn't voice such sarcasm in the face of Kathryn's kindness. Instead, she said somewhat huskily, "Yeah. They were great."

So great she left the moment she could when she was eighteen. After a brief attempt to find out who her birth parents were, she had struck out on her own, and she'd been blowing like a tumbleweed ever since.

Kathryn smiled. "I'm glad to hear it. And now you're a consultant for the LAPD."

"That's right," Sophie replied. "I was until about a month ago."

One month ago, when good people I knew and cared about died. When I almost died.

But she didn't say that either. None of that was any of Kathryn's business.

"That says something about the quality of your work. They don't hire just anybody." Kathryn asked, "What are you doing now?"

Trying to recover, to figure out what to do next with her life. Slowly panicking as the medical bills roll in and the money runs out. Consulting jobs didn't come with paid sick leave.

To give herself time to reply, Sophie reached for her coffee and let the dark, roasted flavor roll over her tongue.

She said, "As it happens, I'm between contracts. I took a leave of absence from my consulting job. The LAPD wants me back, but I haven't decided yet if I'm going to return."

Kathryn leaned forward. "So you're actually in a good position to consider taking this offer. Are you interested?"

Sophie glanced down at the pictures of the house again, and she wanted to go so badly she could taste the desire.

The house fascinated her. But more than that, she could have ninety more days to fully recuperate while she decided what to do next. She could put her things in storage so she wouldn't have to pay rent while she was gone, which would stretch her current resources further.

If she wanted, she could even renew the search to see if she could discover anything more about her family and her past, although she wasn't under any illusion about that. The Earl of Weston would have had significant contacts and resources to use in his searches, and she probably wouldn't find anything more about her birth family than he had.

Old habit made her school her features in order to hide how much the offer meant to her.

"I don't know," she lied. "I need a few days to think it over."

Even as she said it, she knew she was going to take the offer. h.e.l.l, she might even escape from whatever dark menace haunted her rune readings lately, along with the owner of that predatory, handsome face.

Or if she went, she could be running right toward it. Toward him.

Ah, well. You can't fix stupid. And you can't heal crazy.

Knowing that she might be running toward trouble wouldn't stop her from going or confronting whatever fate awaited her. But it would at least make her somewhat more cautious than usual.

Hopefully.

From Kathryn's pleased expression, Sophie could tell her prevarication hadn't fooled the other woman in the slightest.

Kathryn told her smoothly, "Of course you should think it over. Take all the time you need."

Chapter Two.

As quickly as the image of the strange woman had appeared, it vanished again, dissipating on a curling breath of fog-filled air.

Nikolas spun on one heel as he looked sharply around the clearing, sword at the ready, but there was no further sign of attack. Heavy, aged oak trees surrounded an emerald lawn, interspersed with park benches. Not twenty meters away, the waist-high fieldstone fence that bordered the small park seemed as insubstantial as a shadow, as heavy fog pressed all around, blocking out the sun, limiting sight and m.u.f.fling noise.

On the other side of the fence, traffic sounded heavy and distant. A male called out, and he tensed, but the voice sounded normal, cheerful. Oblivious.

"Came on b.l.o.o.d.y quick, that did!"

Another man shouted back, "Never seen a fog roll in so fast!"

"All this astonishment has given me a thirst. Meet you at the pub in fifteen?"

The second voice called out, "Aye!"

Dismissing the exchange as harmless, Nikolas turned his attention to the carnage he had wrought.

Four slain Hounds lay scattered around the small clearing, and killing them had not been neat or simple. On edge, muscles still leaping with the aftermath of combat, he studied their ma.s.sive, fur-covered bodies. Each weighed eighteen, twenty stone easily. They looked like a cross between wolf and mastiff, and something else that was entirely monstrous.

Despite their size and weight, he knew from dark experience that they could run tirelessly for kilometers, track with relentless tenacity, and rend a body to pieces with long, knifelike claws and razored teeth.

Instinct urged him to leave the scene quickly while the unnatural fog still lingered and could mask his presence, but he held himself in check. As he waited, he bent to wipe his sword clean on the gra.s.s and slipped it back into the sheath he carried on a harness between his shoulders. When the blade slid home, he felt the spell on the sheath activate, cloaking both sword and sheath from sight.

His wait did not go unrewarded.

As he watched, the body of the nearest slain Hound shimmered and began to change. Bones realigned, fur disappeared, and the long, wicked muzzle shrank back until the monster had disappeared and a dead man lay in its place.

Once they had been killed, the Hounds always shifted back to their human forms.

With the toe of one boot, Nikolas flipped the body over and took in the dead man's features. It was n.o.body he recognized. He searched the man's clothes, pulling out everything and stuffing the contents into his pockets to examine later. As the bodies of the other Hounds shimmered and changed, he did the same to them.

None of the slain men were Morgan, but Nikolas already knew that. Morgan was infinitely more dangerous than these creatures and would be so much more difficult to kill.

Nikolas lived for the chance to be the one who accomplished that feat. If Morgan were killed, his death would be a ma.s.sive blow to the Queen and her Hounds. His death could change the course of the war between the Light and the Dark Courts.

Magic sparked here and there in the items Nikolas took-a ring on one male's finger, a medallion worn on a necklace on another. He took those items carefully, using a handkerchief to keep from touching them until he got a chance to examine them more closely.

When he was finished, he gave the bodies one last, frowning glance. How had they found him? Had he somehow given away his location, or had the encounter been sheer bad luck? And who had called the fog down to cloak what had obviously been intended to be his murder?

Morgan would have had more than enough magic to conjure the fog, but Nikolas didn't sense his presence anywhere nearby, and if Morgan had been near, he would have been present for the attack. Nikolas would give Morgan credit for one thing-he was not the type of man to stand back and let others fight his battles for him.

Had it been the unknown woman Nikolas had seen?

He had felt her first, a cool breath of presence entirely different from the red-hot killing rage that had ruled him only moments previously.

When he had turned to confront this new threat, he had seen her-dark, curling hair, pale skin and a scattering of freckles across a thin, angular face. Black Irish coloring, with high cheekbones pressing against the delicate skin that stretched over them. Lips, plush and pink. Eyes a light, indeterminate color, possibly gray or hazel. Height, irrelevant.

His first reaction had been irrelevant as well. She looked tired, possibly ill, he thought, and her face was too thin, almost gaunt.

Then their gazes had collided, and those pale, uninteresting eyes of hers had widened. She looked stunned that he had seen her, and as she opened her mouth, he moved to forestall whatever she might have said. It might have been a spell or a curse, or a simple how do you do. He didn't give a s.h.i.t.

After he had lashed out at her, the vision had splintered. Now he couldn't sense her anywhere.

But he knew what she looked like. He knew what her Power felt like. If she had been working in collusion with Isabeau's Hounds, she had just signed her own death warrant. Didn't matter when or how long it took. If Nikolas ever ran into her, he would make sure she regretted her collusion before she died.

The fog was beginning to disperse, the veil on the carnage in the clearing growing thin. His clothes were wet with the slain men's blood. It was time for him to leave, but first he had to cleanse the scene.