"That there are forces in the world. Forces of good and evil."

"Andy," she said very gently, "think about it, please. People cause the evil in the world."

He shook his head stubbornly and stared at her. That stare that could make her so uneasy. So aware that there was no one else near them.

She very well might be alone in the secluded woods with a man who had truly gone a little bit mad.

"The time is coming," he said stubbornly. "And you must be aware." He gripped her wrists suddenly, a grip that was as tight as any vise she had ever known before.

"Andy, you're hurting me."

He released her instantly. But even so, she was aware of the leaves, rustling, as if they watched the two of them, creating shadow, chattering softly, whispering.

"What time is coming? Halloween? Andy, it's a holiday, it comes every year."

"All Hallow's Eve. When spirits and demons can walk the earth."

"Andy—"

"Bac-Dal is coming. And I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"You must be afraid, too."

"Why, Andy. Why must I be afraid?"

"Bac-Dal wants you."

Finn was sitting on the balcony when she returned.

The day wasn't that bright, but he was wearing his sunglasses. He'd made more coffee—the maid must have brought him more of the regular packs, Finn never bothered with decaf. And he was smoking.

Usually, he just smoked on occasion. She could see that he'd gone through half a pack of cigarettes.

She hadn't a clue of what he was thinking, not with the sunglasses covering his eyes. He looked tense, though, drawn and tired. Not a good sign, when they'd only just gone through their first night of work here. And he didn't appear to be in a good mood.

Now that she'd left Andy and the eerie graveyard, she was beginning to feel silly for having let him get to her so. The whole thing was so entirely ridiculous. When she'd asked Andy why he was so convinced that the demon was after her, he hadn't known. When she'd wanted to know what he meant—and exactly whom he was talking about who might want to resurrect a long dead man or a demon, he didn't know. Her impatience, along with her fear, had soared.

Somehow, she had forced herself to remember that he was a very old man, with only his tales left to him.

She had told him she would be very careful, and that she would consider his words. She had also told him he mustn't say any of it to Finn, that she would not do so herself. He hadn't seemed happy, but rather resigned.

"I have, at the least, warned you," he told her gravely.

He hadn't brought a car. He had come through one of the footpaths through the trees and foliage, and though she'd offered to drop him somewhere, he had refused, remaining in the eerie little place when she had left.

And oddly, the glowering sky, the lightning, the threat of rain, had passed. It was an almost absurdly beautiful day for late October.

"Where have you been?" Finn asked as she joined him on the balcony. She couldn't even tell if his voice was ringed with any kind of anger. The sunglasses seemed to hide all. Despite his almost haggard look, there was something very appealing, almost rawly sexy, about the way he slouched in the patio chair, long legs stretched out on the wrought iron rail, hair falling over his eyes, the length of his body in a languid stretch, almost like that of a cat.

"Out and about," she said. "Just taking in a few sights. When did you wake up? I've never seen you sleep like that."

He shrugged. "Had a bad time waking up."

"Well, you must have been up early and gone back to bed. No wonder you feel dragged out."

He frowned. She could see that much, despite the glasses.

"I wasn't up before."

"Yes, you were. You made coffee in the middle of the night, or first thing in the morning, or sometime."

He stared at her as if she were crazy.

"No."

"Finn! When I woke up, there was cold coffee in the pot."

"There was cold decaf when I woke up," he said with a sniff.

"Honestly, you had to have been awake. Unless some little gremlin came in while we were sleeping, made coffee, smoked a cigarette, and left," she said, amazed that she had to force a smile.

He was still frowning. "There's a bruise on your arm."

"Yeah, there is. You need to cool it a little."

"What?"

"Finn! You gave me that bruise."

"I did not!" he said indignantly.

She leaned against the railing, staring at him. "Finn, I swear, you woke up in the middle of the night."

"And made coffee, so you say. What did I do? Come over and slug you before plugging in the pot?"

"Finn, you gave me the bruise before you made the coffee. I don't believe this! You don't remember waking in the night, like a man who'd been in prison for decades or something like that, and made love like an SST?"

"Megan, I remember coming out to the porch after a shower, and having a lovely and passionate time—

but I never bruised you!"

"Not the first time."

"There was a second time?" he demanded incredulously.

"One of us is losing it," she murmured. She eyed him cautiously. "How much did you drink last night?"

"One beer that Joseph bought me," he said irritably.

She was silent. "Finn, I didn't bruise myself."

"I can't believe I would do that to you."

He suddenly seemed distant—and resentful. She had the bruise, bruises! And he seemed resentful.

But she needed to be near him. Even growing angry now, he still had that long, lean look of a lounging cat. The hair, his face… freshly shaven, shampooed, a little wild… built like brick, incredibly sensual.

And attractive. She didn't want to jump back into bed at the moment; she just wanted to be held.

Assured.

She came over and sat on his lap, stroking his chin. The subtle sandalwood scent of his aftershave was pleasant, elusive, evocative. Like his warmth, and the feel of his arms, instinctively coming around her.

"I didn't say you weren't incredibly exciting," she whispered, nuzzling his ear. "Just a bit too… forceful."

She didn't want to use the word "violent."

"Great. I was exciting and forceful, and I don't even remember it."

"And you had coffee."

"Man, I must be really tired."

" You're sure it was just one beer?"

"Megan, what's the matter with you? It sounds as if some darned scary Puritan roots are coming out here."

"Only my dad's family goes back to way back when. My mom was an immigrant, you know. Of course, she was a baby when her family came over. And I'm not a Puritan. You're not a drug addict, or a drunk, and I know it. And we both like to have a few drinks now and then. I'm just trying to get to the bottom of this."

His smoothed his hand over her hair, studying her eyes. "Megan, I'm horrified that I could have hurt you in any way—and especially horrified that I don't remember it. Are you sure you weren't dreaming again?"

"I dreamed up a bruise. Actually, a few of them," she added ruefully.

He frowned. "Maybe you were tossing and turning, banged into the nightstand, or something. Or maybe even got up and banged into the furniture."

"Without waking you?"

He shook his head, staring out at the lawn reflectively. "I was sure out of it last night. Exhausted. And sleeping like the dead."

"Ah, well, you were sure great in the dream. Just tone it down a little next time, huh?" She didn't believe that she'd been dreaming for a single second. But she didn't want this to turn into a knock-down-drag-'em-out argument.

And she didn't want him blaming it on her family, Huntington House, or the whole Wiccan thing going on with her relatives. Better to let it lie. Maybe he deserved a night of dead-out sleep, even if he moved in it as if he were far more than wide awake.

"So, hey! Where did you go this morning?" he asked her.

At this point, she was definitely not going to tell him anything whatsoever about Andy Markham and his bizarre theories about demons and Satanists.

"I took a ride, looked at old sights, that's all. Why didn't you call me on the cell phone?"

"I did."

"Really? I never heard it ring."

"Maybe you weren't paying attention. Too busy seeing the sights."

"Honestly, I just didn't hear it."

"I would have seen those sights with you, you know."

"I didn't want to wake you."

He nuzzled her neck. "You can wake me anytime," he murmured suggestively.

Apparently, she thought, she didn't need to wake him. She refrained from saying so.

"You needed the sleep."

"I don't need sleep now."

She smiled, thinking in a brief moment of pure bliss that she loved the sound of her husband's voice. Just his words, his whispers, could slip beneath her skin. She could hop up, right then, and happily drag him back into the bedroom.

But, of course, she couldn't. Not at this time.

"We're due at Aunt Martha's in…" she paused, looking at her watch, "thirty minutes."

His lips moved with playful eroticism over her throat, to her ear. "Won't Aunt Martha wait?"

"Aren't you hungry?"

"You bet, my love."

She laughed. "For Aunt Martha's incredible meat loaf and mashed potatoes?"

"Sure… later."

"She's furious when you're late for a meal."

He laughed. "Give me fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes?"

"Hey, you got the long ones, and the short ones. When I get old, you know, we may be down to five minutes."

She laughed. "We have to be there on time!" she said firmly.