She walked around the desk, leaned down. “You’re on break, too, by the way, so this office is closed for the next thirty seconds.” She laid her lips on his, brushing her fingertips over his face, back into his hair.

And there, she thought, as strange as it was, she found her balance again.

Straightening, she took his hand between both of hers for the last few seconds, then letting it go, stepped back. “Mrs. Mullendore would like to speak with you. Her number’s on your desk.”

“Layla,” he said when she reached the doorway. “I’m going to have to give you longer breaks.”

She smiled over her shoulder as she continued out. Alone, Fox sat quietly at his desk another moment, and thought of what a good man, even the best of men might do if all he loved was threatened.

WHEN THE SIX OF THEM WERE TOGETHER THAT evening in the sparsely furnished living room of the rental house, Fox read the passages from Ann’s journal that had flicked the switch for him. He laid out his theory, as he had for Layla.

“Jesus, Fox. Guardian.” Cal’s resistance to the idea was palpable. “It means he protected. He’d dedicated his life to that purpose, and all the lives he remembered before the last. I’ve felt some of what he felt, I’ve seen some of what he saw.”

“But not all.” Gage paced in front of the window as he often did during discussions. “Bits and pieces, Cal, and that’s it. If it went down this way, I’d say that these particular bits and pieces would be ones Dent would do his best to keep hidden, for as long as he could.”

“Then why let Hester go?” Cal demanded. “Wasn’t she both the most innocent there, and the most dangerous to him?”

“Because we had to be.” Cybil looked at Quinn, at Layla. “We three had to become, and Hester’s child had to survive for that to happen. It’s a matter of power. The guardian, lifetime after lifetime, played by the rules-as far as we know-and could never win. He could never completely stop his foe.”

“And becoming more human,” Layla added. “I was thinking that through today. Every generation, wouldn’t he have become more human, with all the frailties? But Twisse remained as ever. How much longer could Dent have fought? How many more lifetimes did he have?”

“So he made a choice.” Fox nodded. “And used the kind of weaponry Twisse had always used.”

“And killed innocent people so he could buy time? So he could wait for us?”

“It’s horrible.” Quinn reached for Cal’s hand. “It’s horrible to think about it, to consider it. But I guess we have to.”

“So if we go with this, you’re descendents of a demon, and we’re descendents of a mass murderer.” Cal shook his head. “That’s a hell of a mix.”

“We are what we make ourselves.” There was a whiff of heat in Cybil’s words. “We use what we have and we decide what we are. Was what he did right, was it justified? I don’t know. I’m not going to judge him.”

Gage turned from the window. “And what do we have?”

“We have words on a page, a stone broken in three equal parts, a place of power in the woods. We have brains and guts,” Cybil continued. “And a hell of a lot of work to do, I’d say, before we put everything together and kill the bastard.”

Thirteen

THERE WERE TIMES, TO FOX’S WAY OF THINKING, when a man just needed to be around guys. Things had been quiet since Block had pounded him into the sidewalk, and that gave him thinking time. Of course, one of his thoughts had been Giles Dent killing a dozen people in a fiery blaze, and that one wasn’t sitting well with anyone.

They were in the process of reading the second journal now. Though there’d been no stunning revelations so far, he kept his own notes. He knew it wasn’t always what a person said, or wrote, but what they were thinking when they said or wrote it.

It was telling to him that while she wrote about the kindness of her cousin, the movements in her womb, even the weather, the daily chores, Ann Hawkins wrote nothing of Giles or the night at the Pagan Stone for weeks after the events.

So he spent some time turning over in his mind what she hadn’t written.

He sat with his feet on Cal’s coffee table, a Coke in his hand, and chips within easy reach. The basketball game was on TV, but he couldn’t concentrate on it. He had a big day tomorrow, he mused, and a lot on his mind. The trip to the doctor’s office would be pretty quick, all in all. There wasn’t that much for him to do, really. And it wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before. A man of thirty knew how to-ha-handle the job.

He was prepared for court. The docket gave them two days, but he thought they’d wrap it up in one. After that, they’d all meet. They’d read, they’d discuss. And they’d wait.

What he should do was go home, get out Cybil’s notes, his own, Quinn’s transcriptions. He should take a harder, closer look at Layla’s charts and graphs. Somewhere in there was another piece of the whole. It needed to be shaken out and studied.

Instead he sat where he was, took another swallow of Coke. And said what was on his mind.

“I’m going into the doctor’s tomorrow with Sage and Paula to donate sperm so they can have a kid.”

There was a very long stretch of silence into which Cal finally said, “Huh.”

“Sage asked me, and I thought about it, and I figured sure, why not? They’re good together, Sage and Paula. It’s just strange to know that I’m going to try to get somebody pregnant tomorrow, by remote.”

“You’re giving your sister a shot at a family,” Cal pointed out. “Not so strange.”

Just that one remark made Fox feel considerably better. “I’m going to bunk here tonight. If I go home, I’m going to be tempted to go by and see Layla. If I see Layla, I’m going to want to get her naked.”

“And you want to go in tomorrow fully loaded,” Gage concluded.

“Yeah. Stupid and superstitious probably, but yeah.”

“You’ve got the couch,” Cal told him. “Especially since I know you won’t be jacking off on it.”

Yes, Fox thought, there were times a man just needed to be around other guys.

THE LATE MARCH SNOWSTORM WAS ANNOYING. IT would’ve been less so if he’d bothered to listen to the weather before leaving the house that morning. Then he’d have had his winter coat, since winter decided to make the return trip. A thin, chilly white coated the early yellow haze of forsythia. Wouldn’t hurt them, Fox thought as he drove back toward the Hollow. Those heralding spring bloomers were hardy, and used to the caprices, even the downright nastiness, of nature.

He was sick of winter. Even though spring was the gateway to summer, and this summer the portal to the Seven, he wished the door would hit winter in the ass on its way out. The problem was there’d been a couple of nice days before this season-straddling storm blew in. Nature held those warm, sunny days like a bright carrot on a frozen stick, teasing.

The snow would melt, he reminded himself. It was better to remember he’d had a pretty good day. He’d done his duty by his sister, and by his client. Now he was going home, getting out of the suit, having a nice cold beer. He was going to see Layla. And after tonight’s session, he would do his best to talk himself into her bed, or talk her into his.

As he turned onto Main, Fox spotted Jim Hawkins outside the gift shop. He stood, hands on his hips, studying the building. Fox pulled over to the curb, hit the button to lower the window. “Hey!”

Jim turned. He was a tall man with thoughtful eyes, a steady hand. He walked to the truck, leaned on the open window. “How you doing, Fox?”

“Doing good. It’s cold out there. Do you want a ride?”

“No, just taking a walk around.” He looked back toward the shop. “I’m sorry Lorrie and John are closing down, leaving town.” When he looked back at Fox, his eyes were somber, and another layer of worry weighed in his voice. “I’m sorry the town has to lose anyone.”