There were women nearby, sewing, tending to children, speaking in low voices so it sounded like doves cooing.

Moira went quietly by, and slipped into her room. She exchanged her gown for riding clothes, laced on her boots. It felt wrong to put off her mourning garb so quickly, so easily, but she would travel more swiftly in the tunic and tewes. She bound her hair back in a braid and began to pack.

She would need little but what was on her back, she decided. She would think of this as a hunting trip-there, at least, she had some skill.

And so she got out her quiver and her bow, a short sword and lay them on the bed while she sat to write a message to her uncle. How did you tell a man who'd stood in as father for so many years that you were taking his son into a battle you didn't understand, to fight what was impossible to comprehend, in the company of men you didn't know?

The will of the G.o.ds, she thought, her mouth tight as she wrote. She wasn't certain if she followed that or simply her own rage. But go she would.

I must do this thing, she continued in a careful hand. I pray you will forgive me for it, and know that I go only for the sake of Geall. I ask that if I don't return by Samhain, you lift the sword and rule in my place. Know that I go for you, for Geall, and that I swear by my mother's blood, I will fight to the death to defend and protect what I love.

Now I leave what I love in your hands.

She folded the letter, heated the wax and sealed it.

She put on the sword, shouldered her quiver and bow. One of the women bustled out as she left her chambers.

"My lady!"

"I wish to ride out alone." Her voice was so sharp, her manner so curt that there was nothing but a gasp behind her as she strode away. Her belly shook, but she didn't pause.

When she reached the stables, she waved the boy away and saddled her mount herself. She looked down at him, his soft, young face bursting with freckles.

"When the sun sets, you're to stay inside.

This night and every night until I tell you. Do you heed me?"

"Aye, my lady."

She wheeled her horse, kicked her heels lightly at its flanks, riding off at a gallop.

She would not look back, Moria thought.

She would not look back at home, but forward.

Larkin was waiting for her, sitting loose in the saddle while his horse cropped gra.s.s.

"I'm sorry, it took longer."

"Women always take longer."

"I'm asking so much of you. What if we never get back?"

He clicked to his horse, walking it beside hers. "Since I don't believe we're going anywhere, I'm not worried." He sent her an easy smile. "I'm just indulging you."

"I'd feel nothing but relief if this is nothing more than that." But once again she urged her horse to a gallop. Whatever was waiting, she wanted to meet it quickly.

He matched her pace as they rode, as they had so often, over the hills that sparkled in the sunlight. b.u.t.tercups dotted the fields with yellow, giving swarms of b.u.t.terflies a reason to dance in the air. She watched a hawk circle overhead, and some of the heaviness lifted from her.

Her mother had loved to watch the hawk.

She'd said it was Moira's father, there to look down on them while he flew free. Now she prayed her mother flew free as well.

The hawk circled over the ring of stones, and raised its cry.

Nerves made her queasy so she swallowed hard.

"Well, we made it this far." Larkin shook back his hair. "What do you suggest?"

"Are you cold? Do you feel the cold?"

"No. It's warm. The sun's strong today."

"Something's watching." She shivered even as she dismounted. "Something cold."

"There's nothing here but us." But when he jumped down from his horse, Larkin laid a hand on the hilt of his sword. "It sees." There were voices in her head, whispers and murmurs. As if in a trance, she took her bag from the saddle. "Take what you need. Come with me."

"You're acting considerably strange, Moira." With a sigh, Larkin took his own bag, tossing it over his shoulder as he caught up with her.

"She can't enter here. Never. No matter what her power, she can never enter this circle, never touch these stones. If she tries she'll burn.

She knows, she hates."

"Moira... your eyes."

She turned them on him. They were nearly black, and they were depthless. And when she opened her hand, there was a wand of crystal in it. "You are bound, as I am bound, to do this thing. You are my blood." She took her short sword, cut her palm, then reached for his.

"Well, b.o.l.l.o.c.ks." But he held out his hand, let her slice across the palm.

She sheathed the knife, gripped his b.l.o.o.d.y hand with hers. "Blood is life, and blood is death," she said. "And here it opens the way."

With his hand in hers, she stepped into the circle. "Worlds wait," she began, chanting the words that swirled in her head. "Time flows.

G.o.ds watch. Speak the words with me."

Her hand throbbed in his as they repeated the words.

The wind swirled, whipping the long gra.s.s, snapping their cloaks. Instinctively, Larkin put his free arm around her, folding her into him as he tried to use his body as a shield.

Light burst, blinding them.

She gripped his hand, and felt the world spin.

Then the dark. Damp gra.s.s, misty air.

They still stood within the circle, on that same rise. But not the same, she realized. The forest beyond wasn't quite the same.

"The horses are gone."

She shook her head. "No. We are."

He looked up. He could see the moon swimming behind the clouds. The dying wind was cold enough to reach his bones. "It's night.

It was barely midday and now it's night. Where the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l are we?"

"Where we're meant to be, that's all I know. We need to find the others." He was baffled, and unnerved. And could admit that he hadn't thought beyond the moment. That would stop now, for now he had only one charge. To protect his cousin.

"What we're going to do is look for shelter and wait for sunrise." He tossed her his pack, then started to stride out of the circle. As he walked, he changed.

The shape of his body, the sinew, the bone. In place of skin a pelt, tawny as his hair, in place of hair a mane. Now a stallion stood where the man had been.

"Well, I suppose that would be quicker."

Ignoring the knots in her belly, Moira mounted.

"We'll ride the way that would be toward home.

I think that makes the most sense-if any of this does. Best not gallop, in case that way is different from what we know."

He set off in a trot, while she scanned the trees and the moonstruck hills. So much the same, she thought, but with subtle differences.

There was a great oak where none had been before, and the murmur of a spring in the wrong direction. Nor was the road the same. She nudged Larkin off it, in the direction where home would be if this were her world.

They moved into the trees, picking their way now carefully, following instinct and a rough path. He stopped, lifted his head as if scenting the air. His body shifted under her as he turned.

She felt muscles bunch.

"What is it? What do you-"

He flew, risking low branches, hidden rocks as he broke into a strong gallop. Knowing only he'd sensed danger, she lowered her body, clung to his mane. But it came like lightning, flying out of the trees as if it had wings. She had time to shout, time to reach for her sword before Larkin reared up, striking the thing with both hooves.

It screamed, tumbled off into the dark.

She would have urged him back into a gallop, but he was already shaking her off, already turning back into a man. They stood back-to-back now, swords drawn.

"The circle," she whispered. "If we can get back to the circle."

He shook his head. "They've cut us off,"

he replied. "We're surrounded."

They came slowly now, slinking out of the shadows. Five, no six, Moira saw as her blood chilled. Their fangs gleamed in the shivering moonlight.

"Stay close," Larkin told her. "Don't let them draw you away from me." One of the things laughed, a sound that was horribly human. "You've come a long way to die," it said.

And leaped.

Chapter 8

Too restless to sleep, Glenna wandered the house. It was big enough, she supposed, to accommodate an army-certainly large enough to keep four relative strangers comfortable and afford some privacy. There were high ceilings- gorgeous with ornate plaster work-and steps that spiraled or curved to more rooms. Some of those rooms were small as cells, others s.p.a.cious and airy.

Chandeliers were iron, the style intricate and artful and leaning toward the Gothic. They suited the house more than anything contemporary, or even the elegance of crystal.

Intrigued by the look, she went back for a camera. While she wandered, she paused when the mood struck, framed in a portion of ceiling, or a light. She spent thirty minutes alone on the dragons carved into the black marble of the fireplace in the main parlor.

Wizards, vampires, warriors. Marble dragons and ancient houses secluded in deep woods. Plenty of fodder for her art, she thought.

She could very well make up the hit to her income when she got back to New York.

Might as well think positive. Cian must have spent a great deal of time and money refurbishing, modernizing, decorating, she decided. But then, he had plenty of both. Rich colors, rich fabrics, gleaming antiques gave the house a sense of luxury and style. And yes, she thought, the place just sat here, year after year, empty and echoing.

A pity, really. A waste of beauty and history. She deplored waste.

Still, it was lucky he had it. Its location, its size, and she supposed, its history made it the perfect base.

She found the library and nodded in approval. It boasted three staggered tiers of books, towering to the domed ceiling where another dragon-stained gla.s.s this time- breathed fire and light.

There were candlestands taller than a man, and lamps with jeweled shades. She didn't doubt the lake-sized Oriental rugs were the genuine articles and possibly hundreds of years old.

Not only a good base, she mused, but an extremely comfortable one. With its generous library table, deep chairs and enormous fireplace, she deemed this the perfect war room.

She indulged herself by lighting the fire and the lamps to dispel the gloom of the gray day. From her own supply, she gathered crystals, books, candles, arranging them throughout the room.

Though she wished for flowers, it was a start. But more was needed. Life didn't run on style, on luck, or on magic alone.

"What're you up to, Red?"

She turned, saw King filling the doorway.

"I guess we could call it nesting."

"h.e.l.l of a nest."

"I was thinking the same. And I'm glad you're here. You're just the man I need."

"You and every other woman. What've you got in mind?"

"Practicalities. You've been here before, right?"