She was staring up at the stars, wearing a wistful smile.

  “Hey,” he said, and his voice sounded loud, disruptive.

  “I want to remember this,” she said. “We will never see stars like this again.”

  When he held his breath, stood very still, he was sure he could see the sky move, the stars inching across the heavens. The movement made him dizzy, and he almost stumbled. Had to shake his head to pull himself back to earth. Amelia remained gazing upward, rapt.

  “I have a question,” he asked.

  She glanced at him, her lip curling. “Only one?”

  “We understood the Land Otter People because they were otherworldly, because we were outside of time there. Why isn’t it like this here? This feels the same. So…mythical.” This place felt…weird. Fraught. Like time itself was broken, frozen, and they would never move forward again.

  “This is our own history. She isn’t supernatural.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “I don’t know, love. But I hope to learn all I can.”

  That was just like her. Flung across space and time, unbelievably lost, and she just wanted to learn. He went up to her, touched her. First her shoulder, then her hair, smoothing it back. Waited for her reaction—this might very well annoy her, she was so caught up in the moment. Her face just about glowed in the starlight, and she was right—they would never have a moment like this again. He kissed her. Her arms closed desperately around him.

  They held each other, and she murmured, “I could never have survived this on my own.”

  “We haven’t survived, yet. It’s not over.”

  “Oh, hush.” She kissed him again.

  A hand on his shoulder woke him up. Instantly he sat up, blinking, fists clenched for a fight.

  The woman in the fur, the shaman, priestess, whatever she was, knelt beside him, a brow lifted wryly. She spoke, her tone suggesting a question. He shook his head, and she pursed her lips.

  The sky was deep blue, fading in color toward the east. Near dawn.

  The woman gathered her things, pulling a bag over her shoulder, tucking the knife into a belt sheath, putting the carved stones and amulets into a pouch. The fire had burned down to embers; the cup was still nestled in the ashes. Protecting her hand with a piece of cloth, she drew the cup from the fire and scooped a couple of glowing embers into a bowl. This, she held out to Cormac, speaking a word that was definitely a command. She gestured with it insistently. Gingerly, he took it. For a culture without matches or lighters the best way to start a fire was often to carry the existing fire with you. Whatever was happening, the woman needed fire for it.

  She started up the hill toward the tomb, pausing to call over her shoulder to Cormac. Again, somehow, her intention was clear: come on, follow. He did so.

  They reached the tomb. The sky was growing lighter, blue washing out to gray. The entrance seemed no less dark and ominous; Cormac could see carvings in the first stones that lined the tunnel. Spirals connected with wavy lines, boxes with ovals that looked like eyes.

  The woman pointed at the embers he carried, then to a bundle of sticks and kindling next to the offerings at the tomb. She spoke, making a gesture a few paces out, to a slab of stone in the middle of the grass outside the tunnel. He stared a moment, uncomprehending, though he was getting a better sense of her language’s shape. Sharp syllables, short phrases. Amelia explained that this language wouldn’t be closely related to anything modern—this was long before any of the Indo-European-derived languages spread across Europe.

  I wish you had your phone to record this.

  He had other things on his mind at the moment. The woman repeated the instructions urgently. She held her hand up and wiggled her fingers.

  “You want me to start a fire?” he asked, stupidly. She wasn’t going to understand him any better than he could understand her.

  I think you’re both communicating admirably, considering.

  Well, thanks for the encouragement.

  He collected the fuel, arranged it in the spot she indicated, and her expression relaxed. She incorporated him into her preparations so easily. Had she expected him? Did strangers suddenly appear outside tombs all the time? He didn’t want to think much about that.

  At any rate, building a fire was something he knew how to do. He blew gently on the embers, the kindling, and nursed a thin flame to life. Carefully fed it fuel, and soon a decent little fire was burning on the flat stone.

  Meanwhile, she’d taken a piece of charcoal and drew marks on the tunnel entrance, additions to the carvings already there. More lines, more spirals, drawing the eye even more strongly to the passage.

  The first light of the sun seared over the horizon, blazing right on the mound’s entrance.

  An alignment, Amelia exclaimed.

  Every other day of the year, sunlight wouldn’t penetrate. But now, this one day, the light would illuminate the whole tunnel. And then what?

  A howl sounded across the valley—deep, hollow, familiar. It had pursued him this whole adventure. Now, though, it sounded plaintive. Lost, calling out for pack mates who weren’t there. At least, that was what it seemed like to Cormac.

  Straightening, the priestess cocked her head to listen. She met Cormac’s gaze, and he saw something familiar there. Determination, resolve. She wasn’t afraid—not of the howling, not of him. She exuded confidence, and god help him, if he had to trust her, he would. For no good reason other than she wasn’t afraid.

  The fire was burning in earnest now. The howl came again. The sky continued to brighten. The entrance of the mound glowed golden, and the light was creeping deeper into the tunnel. The patterns and shapes painted and carved into the walls shone clear. They seemed to shift in the light as the sun rose, a kind of slow, deceptive animation.

  The priestess retrieved the cup with the potion that had been simmering in the fire for most of the night. She pulled Cormac to his feet by his shoulder, so they stood face to face. She gave the potion in the cup a quick stir with her knife. A grassy, musty odor rose up, smelling like forest soil and decay.

  She took a long drink, then offered the cup to him, with a command. Drink, no doubt. Or Your turn.

  “What is this? What’s it going to do?”

  She repeated the command, closing his hands around the cup, pushing it toward him, insistent. She said more, an explanation that was lost on him.

  He asked Amelia, What’s this going to do to us? What weird microbes were in the water, diseases he had no resistance too, stomach-turning herbs—

  We’ll find out, she answered. Not helpful.

  The priestess had drunk it. Whatever this stuff was, she was in on it, too. He drank mouthfuls of it, going all in.

  She took the cup from him and dumped the dregs on the fire, which sparked and spat. Speaking low-voiced, droning words—a chant, a prayer—she walked a circle around the fire, gesturing out to the sun, back to the tunnel. She traced the movement of the sun and moon, from east to west, her voice rising. Just like Amelia had done at their last stop. Another universal gesture.

  The hairs on his neck stood up, even as the chill burned out of the air. Something was happening, some kind of pressure closing in on him that made breathing suddenly difficult. Nerves, it was just uncertainty, rootlessness, fear.

  She is drawing power and closing the boundary around it. Amelia was riveted. Impressed, even. Making mental notes.

  A bank of mist lingered on the plain below them, that the sun couldn’t seem to touch. From the gray, a set of glowing amber eyes peered. There came the sense of a lumbering body, mangy fur. Too many legs. The edge of a howl.

  “Do you see that?” Cormac gasped.

  The fog moved closer; the air grew thick, heavy. Like his ears wanted to pop but couldn’t. The whole world had gone wavering, heat mirages passing before him, dissipating.

  The woman took up her knife and a drum. Raising the knife, she shouted, the culmination of her chant, a command given to the whole world. She beat the drum with the leather-wrapped butt of the knife. The noise rattled Cormac’s bones.

  The creature’s next howl came out as a roar. Suddenly, the fog split apart—no, Cormac could somehow see through it, he could see more clearly than he ever had in his life. It wasn’t a fog, had never been a fog, it had been confusion, obfuscation, and now that was gone and all was clear, everything clear.

  The creature emerged, and Cormac got his first good look at it.

  A wolf.

  It wasn’t like any wolf he’d ever seen. This thing was huge, monstrous. Large as a bear, with powerful shoulders and hindquarters, rangy legs, and a long snout with lips curled back from terrible teeth.

  Direwolf, Amelia murmured. Prehistoric. Larger. Wickeder.

  A direwolf from some other existence, intruding on a world where it didn’t belong.

  Cormac blinked, squinting, trying to bring his wavering vision into focus. There’d definitely been something hoopy in that drink. The world seemed to have taken on an extra palette of colors; shapes had extra lines around them, pulsing. Except the wolf, which was perfectly visible. Hyper clear.

  He could see the ineffable.

  Somehow, he wasn’t afraid. His heartbeat remained steady. He was calm.

  The woman beat the drum in time to the slow steps the creature took toward them. Its tail drooped. Its fur was matted, tangled, streaked and stained with mud. Cormac had seen plenty of wolves, plenty of werewolves. He knew their body language—couldn’t not, being around Kitty and Ben. This wolf was tired. Scared.

  It seemed to be having about as good a time as he was.

  It’s lost. This whole time, it’s been lost.

  The priestess sang tunelessly, but her voice held yearning, persuasion, and a promise of peace. As much as Cormac wanted it to, the hallucinogenic potion she’d fed him didn’t make him suddenly understand her. But if Cormac had to name the song, he would have called it a lullaby. The wolf’s ears perked forward. Its hackles flattened, its mouth closed. Lowering its snout, it whuffed around the fire then let out a sigh.

  The sun came fully over the horizon and shone directly into the tomb’s entrance, perfectly aligned this one morning to illuminate the whole passage. It was like a doorway opening.

  A doorway opening.

  The wolf, whatever it was, wherever it had come from, might have been lost for ages, trapped in whatever realm Odysseus Grant was supposed to be protecting. And then it got out, and then—it was trying to get home.

  The priestess was trying to send it home.

  From across the clearing she caught Cormac’s gaze and nodded, continuing to beat the drum, singing in a rhythm a bit slower than a heartbeat, evoking the feel of rushing blood. She couldn’t stop, which meant Cormac was the one who’d have to convince the wolf to go in.

  He knew how to talk to wolves, right?

  Kneeling, keeping low to the ground, he turned his gaze so he wasn’t looking right at the wolf. He sorted through the offerings, through the baskets that held food. Found dried meat, pungent berries, honey. Enough to attract the attention of any canine.

  Drawn to his motion, the creature pressed forward, ears up. Even its tail started to lift, showing interest.

  Cormac tossed a chunk of dried meat to land under its snout, hoping it didn’t prefer ripping into living flesh. The wolf remained cautious, nosing the meat, turning it over a couple of times—then carefully taking it into its mouth. It looked up for more, and Cormac held out another piece, this one smeared with honey. The wolf stepped, stretching forward.

  “Come on, buddy,” Cormac murmured. “It’s all good.” He didn’t drop it this time. He waited, waited… The direwolf leaned forward, snout reaching, and plucked the meat from his hand. Hot, earthy breath washed over him.

  Soon, the sun’s rays would move past the mound entrance. Cormac dared a look down the passage—and saw blazing light, that familiar glow that marked all their transitions. The portal, opening. Now, it had to be now.

  The wolf nosed up close to him, whuffing, searching for more. Like a big dog. It even smelled like a dog, with wet fur and bad breath. Cormac cupped berries in his hand. The wolf licked them out with a big, sloppy pink tongue. Vicious monster. This was what Grant had been afraid of?

  Grant had never stopped to listen.

  “Buddy, I need you to go in there, okay?” He tossed a piece of meat into the passage. Nose to the ground, the wolf went after it. Cormac brushed his hand along its back as it passed by. Rough fur, full of warmth, the flex and stretch of muscle underneath.

  And then it was gone into the light. Vanished to mist, just like that.

  The sun rose; the gold light shifted.

  The drumming trailed off, and the woman’s voice faded.

  Cormac turned to her, pleading. “Me. Will it work for me?” He tapped his chest, pointed into the passage. Begged with every bit of his expression, hoping she understood. Please, help me get home. He pulled Dimitrova’s stone, his anchor, from his pocket. It wouldn’t mean anything to her. “I need to get home.”

  We could learn so much from her, Amelia said. What if this is the beginning of magic? Think of all we could do here—

  And hope the doorway was available again, in what? A whole other year before the sun rose in that exact spot, lighting the passage in just this way again? He wasn’t sure he wanted to wait that long. Especially not in a place without antibiotics and hot running water. Or beer.

  They had beer in this time.

  Good beer?

  Well.

  We have to go, he told her, considering what he would say if she argued. If she wanted to stay. If it really meant so much to her—

  Of course we have to go home, she said. I’m merely being…wistful.

  Nodding, the priestess resumed her beat on the drum. Again, and again. This rhythm was faster, with an added syncopation—like launching into a run. This time when she sang, her voice was urgent. Not a lullaby. He wanted to hug her, but that would interrupt the drumming. He just bowed his head. Hoped she could see his gratitude.

  Squeezing Dimitrova’s stone, he filled his mind with thoughts of home and plunged into the passage as golden light flared around him.

  Amoment, a breath, a heartbeat—the light faded, and he stepped out under a different sky.

  He was almost afraid to look around to see where he’d landed this time. He heard crickets. Trees rustling in a breeze. A chill touched the air, which smelled—

  Of pine forest. Of mountains. This smelled like home.

  He stood in a yard next to a cute, whitewashed cottage. Scattered junipers and pine trees surrounded the property, and mountains sheltered it all. He was in a space marked out by a stone circle. A familiar stone circle, candles burning around it, along with coals that smelled of sage. Judi and Frida stood side by side, at north. Grant stood south. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

  Just as he’d left them. They’d hardly moved. They were staring back at him, apparently dumbstruck. What time had it been when he left? Middle of the night, right? Or had it been early? The sky was shading into deep blue, the phase of dawn before light turned it gray. Another sunrise.

  Didn’t matter. He was alive, and he was home. He heaved out a heartfelt sigh.

  All is well, Amelia breathed. Maybe not all, but they were close enough to it that Cormac didn’t argue.

  “Oh shit,” Frida finally exclaimed. “I thought we had a problem here.”

  Cormac turned on her. “What do you mean thought? That was a big fucking problem!”

  She drew back; the others flinched. This was probably as much emotion as any of them had seen him express, ever. God, he was exhausted. He rubbed a hand through his hair and scratched his beard, which somehow felt gritty. He had a goddamn beard, surely they noticed that he hadn’t had that when he started.

  “His beard,” Grant said—he noticed. “He’s got a beard.”

  Judi looked him over, soot, grime, and all. “Well, dear, it looks like you’ve had an adventure.”

  Chuckling, he shook his head. Where did he even start? Well, he had an idea where he wanted to start. He stalked over to Odysseus Grant, who was looking ruffled and unhappy and trying to hide it.

  Cormac glared. “I really want to punch you right now.”

  The guy only raised a brow. “Tell me you stopped the demon, and I’ll let you.”

  A dark SUV powered up the drive then, spitting gravel, rocking and jostling over the ruts, raising clouds of dust. Agent Ilena Dimitrova scrambled out of the passenger side before the car even stopped, almost tripping over herself, which wasn’t like her. Wildly, she looked around through her glasses, taking in the people, the circle, the ritual tools. She finally jabbed her finger at Cormac. “What the fuck have you been doing?”

  “Nice to see you too, Agent,” he said tiredly.

  “Bennett—”

  He raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Not my fault,” he said, which sounded lame, but he felt he needed to get that out of the way.

  She was in jeans and a black T-shirt, her dark hair braided down her back. Not her usual professional federal agent getup, with her suit and chilly demeanor. He must have woken her up.

  The windows of the SUV were tinted, but ducking and tilting his head, he could make out her partner, Agent Lynch, in the driver’s seat. Just sitting there, hands resting loosely on the steering wheel, smirking. He was apparently letting her handle the spooky shit.

  They were like a magical Mulder and Scully. He wondered how often people made that joke at them, and decided he wasn’t going to ask.

  “Cormac, you going to introduce us to your friend?” Frida said, more than a little hostile.

  “Oh, I know who you all are,” Dimitrova said. And that wasn’t the least bit creepy. “Goddammit, four of the most powerful magicians west of the Mississippi are all right here in the middle of a damn ritual and you’re going to tell me it isn’t your fault?”