“Try not to kill us, Ms. Lane.”

I slid behind the wheel. “Viper, SR10 coupe. 6-speed, V-10, 510 horses at 5,600 rpm, 0–60 in 3.9 seconds,” I babbled happily. He laughed.

I kept us alive. Barely.

I think it’s human nature to nest. Even the homeless stake out that special park bench or spot beneath the bridge, and feather it with items prized from someone’s trash. Everybody wants their own safe, warm, dry place in the world and if they don’t have one, they’ll do their best to create one with what they’ve got.

I was nesting on the first floor of BB&B. I’d rearranged the furniture, stashed a boring brown throw in a closet, and replaced it with a silky yellow one, brought two peaches-and-cream candles down from my bedroom, plugged in my new sound dock behind the cash register and tuned it to a cheery playlist, and propped photos of my family on top of my predecessor’s TV.

MacKayla Lane is here! it all said.

OOP-detector/monster-killer by night—bookseller by day was a much-needed respite. I liked the spicy fragrance of candles burning, the clean, new scent of freshly printed newspapers and glossily inked magazines. I liked ringing up sales and the sound the cash register made. I enjoyed the timeless ritual of taking money in exchange for goods. I liked the way the wood of the floors and shelves gleamed in the afternoon sun. I liked lying on my back on the counter when no one was around, trying to make out the mural on the ceiling, four floors above me. I enjoyed recommending great reads and discovering new ones from the customers. It all came together in a warm, nesty sort of way.

At four o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, I was surprised to find myself bustling around the store, humming beneath my breath, and feeling almost…it took me a few moments to identify the feeling…good.

Then Inspector Jayne walked in.

And if that wasn’t bad enough—with him was my dad.

SIX

I s this your daughter, Mr. Lane?” said the inspector.

My dad stopped inside the door, and peered at me, hard.

I touched a hand to my butchered hair, abruptly, excruciatingly aware of the bruises on my face, and the spear tucked into my boot.

“Mac, baby, is that you?” Jack Lane looked shocked, appalled, and so relieved that I nearly burst into tears.

I cleared my throat. “Hey, Dad.”

“‘Hey, Dad?’” he echoed. “Did you just say ‘Hey, Dad’? After all I’ve been through to find you, you ‘Hey, Dad’ me?”

Uh-oh, I was in for it. When he gets that tone, heads roll. Six feet two inches of corporate tax attorney that manages the IRS on behalf of his clients and frequently bests it, Jack Lane is smart, charming, well spoken, and tough as a tiger when provoked. And from the way he was raking back his silver-tipped dark hair and his brown eyes were flashing, he was currently veryprovoked.

He was lucky I was still calling him “Dad” at all, I thought bitterly. We both knew he wasn’t.

He stalked toward me, eyes narrowed. “MacKayla Evelina Lane, what on earth did you do to your hair? And your face! Are those bruises? When was the last time you showered? Did you lose your luggage? You don’t wear—Christ, Mac, you look awful! What happened—” He broke off, shaking his head, then aimed a finger at me. “I’ll have you know, young lady, I left your mother with her parents four days ago! I dropped every case I was working on to fly over here and bring you home. Do you have any idea the heart attack it gave me to find out you hadn’t been staying at the Clarin House for over a week? And nobody knew where you’d gone! Could you check your e-mail, Mac? Could you pick up a phone? I have been walking up and down these dreary, rainy, reeking-with-stumbling-drunks streets, staring into every face, searching trash-filled alleys for you, hoping and praying to God that I wasn’t going to find you lying facedown in one of them like your sister and have to kill myself rather than take the news back home to your mother and kill her with it!”

The tears I’d been holding back came out in a waterfall. I might not have this man’s DNA inside my body, but he couldn’t be any more my father.

He swallowed up the room with long-legged strides and crushed me into that great, big, barrel-chested hug that always smelled like peppermint and aftershave, and it felt just like it always did—like the safest place on earth.

Unfortunately, I knew better. There was no safe place. Not for me. Not now. And certainly not for him. Not here.

He’d been walking around Dublin looking for me! I blessed the Fates that had spared him, steering him away from the Dark Zone, protecting him in those alleys from Unseelie. If anything had happened to him it would have been doubly on my head. What had I been thinking—avoiding my e-mail, refusing to call home? Of course he would come looking for me! Dad never took no for an answer.

I had to get him out of Dublin, fast, before something awful happened to him, and I lost another piece of my heart to that satin-lined box in the earth.

I had to make him fly home ASAP, and without what he’d come for—me.

“What happened to your face, Mac?” was the first question Dad asked me after Inspector Jayne left. Though there were still two hours to closing, I flipped the sign and stuck a Post-it next to it that said, Sorry, closed early, please come back tomorrow.

I led him to the rear conversation area where passersby couldn’t see behind the shelves that someone was still inside, fingering my hair nervously. It was one thing to lie to the police, another to lie to the man who’d raised me, who knew I hated spiders and loved hot fudge sundaes topped with peanut butter and whipped cream.