The turn was up here, just past the Loveless Cafe and the Shell station. She turned and the friendly lights disappeared, the road plunged into gloom.

There, on the right.

She slowed the car, pulling into the grass on the shoulder. The land was flat here, but joined the woods one hundred yards in. The cow path ran through there, deep into the forest, and exited into a small glade, the headstones of the dead poking up from the forest floor like mushrooms.

She draped her cloak around her shoulders and pulled it tight, warding off the chill. The crescent moon gave a bare light, She could see a few steps in front of her, enough to keep her from tripping. It was quiet tonight, the birds and squirrels were silent as the grave. Someone was near.

Heart beating in her throat, she moved faster, then stumbled into an unseen hole a few feet from the car, twisting her ankle painfully. She bit her lip to stifle her cry. Cursing quietly under her breath, she headed back to the Subaru for a flashlight.

The solid, artificial yellow beam at least allowed her to miss the mole holes. She started off again, slower this time, training the light downward so the boy, if he was here, couldn’t see her coming. The trees loomed ahead, black trunks reaching for the sky, limbs raised in supplication.

She was no stranger to the emptiness of the night, the darkened earth breathing around her, summoning, questioning. Alive. All the tiny sighs of brush and grass were heightened in the gloom, and a small bank of fog had gathered in the brush. She could smell rain on the horizon, saw the shadow of a cloud cross under the tip of the moon.

The night was her world, and she its concubine.

Step by step, she inched closer. Forty yards, twenty, ten. She smelled a fire burning, oak and poplar and leaves and twigs being licked by the flames, and slowed to a creep, edging her way closer still. She drew energy from the earth and shielded herself, protecting her fragility with an invisible psychic barrier.

She could see him clearly, lying on his side, a lump under a blanket. His back was to her, she didn’t think he could see her. The flickering fire crackled, covering her small sounds. She eased the flashlight off, just in case. The fog curled around him like a lover, keeping him hidden in its dense embrace.

He was asleep. She couldn’t read him. Deep breaths mingled with the shurring rush of the wind.

She debated for a few moments, dithering, then moved away from the glade, back toward the car. She shouldn’t be afraid of this boy, but she was. Her hands were shaking. She would call the lieutenant, let her come and take him.

She stepped on a twig, the crack of the dry wood a loud retort in the quiet air. She froze.

By the fire, Raven opened his eyes.

Fifty-Four

Nashville

10:05 p.m.

Taylor tossed her cell phone down into her lap in disgust. “Where is that bloody woman?” she asked for the fifth time.

“I don’t know,” McKenzie answered, soothing her with his voice. She was damn tired, and wired, and frustrated. How a boy of seventeen could elude them at each step was beyond her. They knew who he was, where he lived, what he drove, yet he was as transparent as a ghost.

“Why don’t we go by her house, see if she’s just got her phone off?” McKenzie suggested.

Taylor tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, the drumming helping her think. Rush off half-cocked after a woman who claimed to be a witch, or join the search for the teenage killer? Though if she were honest with herself, she had to admit that Ariadne had helped, had cut their investigation time down by days with her prescient perceptions and drawings. That didn’t make her a witch, just observant.

“Okay. You have the address?”

“Yes. She’s off Music Row.”

“Close, at least.” Taylor put the car in gear and drove.

It only took five minutes to slip into the quiet streets of Music Row. Taylor pulled the Lumina to the curb in front of a three-story Victorian-eerily reminiscent of the home of the vampire king, Keith Barent Johnson. This house was fully restored, gaily painted a soft sage-green with sparkling white trim. The walk was cement, two steps up in the middle, then five to the wraparound porch. The porch lights were on, but it was easy to see that the lights inside were off; the front door was stained glass with strong steel bars embedded in the pattern. The soft, glowing red eye of a motion detector alarm system peeked out from behind a coat rack. Smart-an alarm system. This was a safe area, but any intelligent woman living alone would have herself reinforced. Though if Ariadne was a witch, Taylor bet she’d cast all sorts of protective spells around her home.

Not that she believed anything like that could possibly work to prevent a crime.

A white wicker swing with green, yellow and white pinstripe cushions hung from the ceiling of the porch. Taylor could imagine Ariadne sitting in it on warm nights, feet tucked under her like a cat, that glossy black hair streaming in contrast over the white wood.

“She’s not here,” Taylor said, but rang the bell anyway. A deep chime rang out, no one answered the door.

Taylor turned to McKenzie. “Now what?”

He was staring at the front door, distracted, and didn’t answer.

Taylor paced along the porch, glanced around the side of the house. More padded white wicker, a conversational grouping around a large, ceramic chiminea. Exactly squat that would help find Ariadne.

“We have to try something else. We can-“

She stopped, her cell was ringing. The caller ID read unknown name, unknown number. She felt her heart leap into her throat. The last time she’d seen that particular combination on her cell, it was the Pretender, calling to warn her he was coming for her. She signaled to McKenzie, then slowly brought the phone to her ear.

“Jackson.” The scared voice of the witch rang out into the quiet night. “Oh, thank the Goddess you answered, Lieutenant. This is Ariadne. I found him. I found the warlock.”

Taylor was already striding to the car, her keys in her left hand. “We’ve been calling you all night. Where are you?” she asked.

Ariadne was whispering, the harshness of her voice amplified by the phone’s speaker.

“I’m out in western Davidson County. Do you know McCrory Lane?”

“Yes.” Understatement, she and Baldwin lived not far from there.

‘There’s an old deserted graveyard out here-dates back over two hundred years. It’s a holy place. I saw him, in a dream.”

Taylor stopped short, leaned against the hood of her car. Son of a bitch.

“So you mean you saw him in a dream, is that it, Ariadne? For God’s sake-“

“No, no, listen. Don’t hang up. I dreamed about it, yes, but I came out here to see, and he’s there. He was asleep by the fire. But I think he heard me. I need to get out of here,”

Taylor butted the phone against her forehead. Cod save me from people who think they can investigate crimes.

“Yes, you do. Leave immediately. Drive to the Shell station at the intersection of Highway 100 and McCrory Lane, go inside, tell them to lock the doors. I’ll get a patrol there as soon as possible. The boy is armed, and he’s dangerous. We’ll meet you there. It’s going to take a little bit- we’re at your place now.”