“Are you wearing Mia’s pendant?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t go anywhere without it. Or this.” She dug in her pocket. She should have known where it was all heading when she felt compelled to bring it with her. The ring was a complex twist of silver, a trio of melded circles, scored with symbols. “It was my grandmother’s.”

He was humbled, and incredibly moved. Had to clear his throat. “So I get a ring after all.”

“Looks like. It’s going to be too small for your hand. Wear it on the chain with the pendant.”

He took it from her, squinting as he tried to make out the symbols without his glasses. “It looks Celtic.”

“It is. The middle circle says ‘justice,’ the ones on either side say ‘compassion’ and ‘love.’ I guess that covers it.”

“It’s a beautiful piece.” He took off the chain, opened it, and slid the ring on. “Thank you.”

Before he could slip the chain back over his head, she gripped his wrist. “Hypnotize me again.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“Don’t give me that crap. This is all too dangerous. I want you to take me under, give me some posthypnotic suggestion or whatever it is. Something that will stop me if I start to lose control.”

“In the first place, you’re too open to other energies when you’re in a trance state. You were like a sponge, Ripley, soaking up what others poured into you. And in the second place, I have no idea if any suggestion would hold. When you’re conscious and aware, you’re too strong-minded, too strong-willed, to be influenced in that way.”

“It’s another line of defense. We don’t know it won’t work unless we try. This is something you can do, and I’m trusting you. I’m asking you for help.”

“That’s a hell of a button, too. Okay, we’ll try it. Not now,” he added quickly. “I want some time to do a little more research and prepare. And I want Nell and Mia here.”

“Why can’t this be just between us?”

“Because it’s not. I’ll try it, but only when you have your circle. Now wait here a minute.” He said it in such a no-nonsense, don’t-bother-to-argue tone that Ripley wasn’t sure if she was irritated, amused, or impressed. But she sat, drumming her fingers on the table, as he left the room. While she listened to him rummaging around in the bedroom, muttering to himself, she drank the coffee she’d let go cold.

When he came back, he drew her to her feet. “I bought this in Ireland a dozen years ago.” Turning her hand over, he placed a silver disk in her palm. Through its center ran a swirling rise of silver, and on either side sat a small, perfectly round stone.

“Rose quartz and moonstone,” Ripley said.

“For love, and for compassion. I bought it as a kind of talisman, a good luck piece. I always carry it with me. Can’t find it half the time, but it always turns up. So I think it’s been pretty lucky. It has a loop in the back, so I imagine it was once worn as a pendant. Or you can just carry it in your pocket. I didn’t know it at the time, but I bought it for you.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “This is going to make me mushy.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I have to get back to work, and I can’t be all googly-eyed. I really love you,” she told him as she turned her mouth up to his. “I really do.”

He nudged her along, careful not to behave as if he was nudging her along. He had a great deal to do.

Mac wasn’t foolish enough to believe he couldn’t be hurt. Even killed. No, he believed Ripley’s dream was a foretelling of what could be. The cycle that had begun three hundred years before was still in play. But he was also smart enough to know various means to protect himself, and to believe that knowledge is power. He would gather more knowledge and strengthen the shield over both of them. He wouldn’t risk putting her in a vulnerable trance state unless he was certain she would be safe.

He got out the copies of his ancestor’s journal entry, and found the page he wanted. February17

It is early, before dawn. Cold and deep dark. I have left my husband sleeping warm in bed, and come to my tower room to write this. A restlessness is on me, a worry that nags like a bad tooth. A mist hangs over the house like a shroud. It presses against the glass. I can hear it scratching—sly little fingers made of bone. How it craves to come in. I have charmed the doors and windows and all the tiny cracks, as my mother taught me before despair swallowed her spirit. How long ago that was, and yet on a night such as this it was only yesterday. And I pine for her—thecomfort, the strength, the beauty of her. With this chill seeping into my bones, I wish for her counsel. But it is barred to me, even through crystal and glass. It is not for myself I fear, but for my children’s children’s children. I have seen the world in my dreams, a hundred years times three. Such wonders. Such magic. Such grief. A cycle spins. I cannot see it clearly. But I know my blood, before and after me, spins with it. Strength, purity, wisdom, and, above all, love will war with what now creeps outside my house. It is ageless, it is ever. And it is dark.

Blood of mine freed it, and blood of mine will face it. From this place and time I can do little more than protect what is now and pray for what will come. I will leave what magic I can behind me for these beloved and distant children.

Evil cannot and will not be vanquished by evil. Dark will only swallow dark and deepen. The good and the light are the keenest weapons. Let those who come after hold them ready, and end this in time.

Beneath was a charm written in Gaelic that Mac had already translated. He studied it again now, hoping that the message from the past would help with the now.

Harding felt better than he had in days. The vague fatigue that had dogged him was put down to recovery from whatever bug had invaded his system. But his mind was clear, and he was certain he’d passed the crisis.

In fact, he felt well enough to be annoyed that a touch of the flu had thrown him off stride and off schedule. He fully intended to rectify that by approaching Nell Todd that very day for his first interview. In preparation for it, he decided to have a light breakfast and a large pot of coffee in his room so that he could go over his notes, refresh his memory of the details, and plan the best strategy for persuading her to talk to him for his book.

The idea of the book, and the money and glamour he intended to reap from it, filled him with anticipation. For days, it seemed, he hadn’t been able to think of it clearly, to imagine it, to remember just what it was that he planned to do.