“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, bollocks.” But he held out his hand, let her slice across the palm.

She sheathed the knife, gripped his bloody 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. Gods watch. Speak the words with me.”

Her hand throbbed in his as they repeated the words.

The wind swirled, whipping the long grass, 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 grass, 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 bloody hell 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 spacious 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 glass 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?”