Frida came in then, carrying a tray to the coffee table. Her black hair, salted with gray, was twisted up and pinned at the back of her head. She had brown skin, Native American features. Cormac had never learned exactly what her ancestry was. If she wanted him to know, she’d tell him.

  She took one look at the men and shook her head with annoyance.

  “Let’s all sit down, why don’t we?” Judi said.

  Frida managed to clear a spot before Cormac could get there to help, and soon the women occupied the armchairs, and Cormac and Grant were perched on the sofa, as far apart from one another as they could get. Esther lay on the back of Frida’s armchair and supervised.

  Framed photographs, most of them snapshots, occupied the ledge above the fireplace. One in particular caught Cormac’s eye: a picture of two young women in the sunshine, trees as a backdrop. Hippies wearing flowing skirts and lace shirts, a rainbow of scarves and dozens of beaded necklaces, standing with their arms flung over one another’s shoulders, holding tight, laughing. One had shining black hair, one had blazing auburn. Frida and Judi.

  Cormac started right in. “You called because you knew what was happening—”

  Judi held up her hand. “Tea first.”

  They waited for the pot to finish steeping. A grandfather clock was ticking in the next room.

  Tell them they have a lovely home, Amelia prompted. She was better at small talk. She was better at almost everything.

  “Amelia likes your house,” he said.

  “We should have had you over for tea earlier. Get a chance to talk when things aren’t so exciting, hm?”

  Tell them we can return the favor—

  He was capable of carrying on a conversation. Really. “We just got a new place up by Fort Lupton. You’re welcome to visit. You know, whenever.”

  Grant leaned back and sighed in frustration. Wearing a wickedly amused grin, Frida finally poured the tea.

  Cormac might have expected delicate tea cups, an antique tea service, something with age and meaning. But the tray held mugs, the kind you bought at tchotchke shops in tourist towns. Frida handed Cormac one that read, Promise me anything but give me chocolate.

  The one she handed Grant had a stylized drawing of a mountain and Colorado labeled in cursive. He stared at the liquid within.

  “It’s just Earl Grey,” Judi said, an edge to her sweetness. “I could probably find some Lipton bags if you’d rather have that.”

  Just to be contrary, Cormac took a big swig while it was still just a bit too hot, letting his mouth burn.

  I can’t believe you two are behaving like this.

  He brought chaos down on us, I’m going to hassle him as long as he lets me.

  Judi’s mug had pictures of cats on it. Frida’s said, Don’t &%!* with me before I’ve had coffee.

  Cormac hoped Grant was paying attention.

  Judi took a sip and said, “All right. Now you can explain.”

  Grant’s face seemed gaunt, craggy in the firelight. Drawn, like he hadn’t slept or eaten in awhile. But his eyes glittered, hard. “It’s…difficult to explain.”

  “It’s usually best to start at the beginning.”

  Grant chuckled harshly. “I’m not sure where that is.”

  “No wonder you’re having problems,” Frida murmured, stroking Esther’s chin. The cat leaned into the touch.

  Grant ducked his gaze and finally drank some tea, as if to hide his expression.

  “He’s being hunted,” Cormac said bluntly. “He had a portal keeping something imprisoned and it got out.”

  “All right. What do we know about what got out, then?” Judi was as matter-of-fact as if they were discussing gophers in the garden.

  Grant’s voice ground out, “It’s otherworldly. Unbound by space or time. I think it’s looking for revenge—”

  “Because it was imprisoned?” Judi prompted.

  Frida said, “A thing escaping imprisonment by a white man? I’m inclined to let it do its thing.”

  “It shattered all our wards,” Grant said urgently. “It could grow even more destructive—”

  “Destructive by whose definition?” Frida countered.

  “I had it under control,” Grant said. And maybe he had, right up until he didn’t.

  Judi said wryly, “You ever hear of Faust?”

  Grant scowled. “Yes, I’ve heard of Faust.”

  The tale of hubris, a man who sold his soul for power and lost. Judi shrugged as if to say, You see?

  “You thought you could control it,” Cormac said. “But you don’t even know what it is.”

  “I can think of one way to find out more about it,” Frida said. “We can talk to it.”

  “You can’t just talk to this!” Grant said.

  “You ever try?” she shot back, and Grant leaned back, frowning.

  Amelia was fascinated, and her presence hummed, turning over Frida’s proposal. “Amelia likes that idea,” Cormac said.

  Grant set down the mug. “How do you propose we talk to it, then? Send an email?”

  Maybe. “Set out bait,” Cormac said and looked at Grant.

  To give the guy credit, he didn’t argue.

  Behind the house on a bare stretch of ground, a circle some dozen meters in diameter was marked out with hand-sized stones, all different kinds, some rough, some smooth, granite, sandstone, whatever could be scavenged from the area. The stones at the cardinal points were larger—head sized, maybe. A lumpy chunk of granite about the size of a footstool sat in the center. It might have been meant for an altar, or the rock might have been sitting there naturally for centuries, until Judi and Frida came along and built the circle around it.

  This has years of use seeped into it, Amelia observed. Powerful. She was impressed.

  Lightning flashed, white and quick, and a crack of thunder followed close by. An electric chill in the air made Cormac’s hair stand up.

  “It was storming like this when your wards broke?” Judi asked.

  “It was when he showed up. The wards breaking was more like an earthquake.”

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  “This is primitive,” Grant said.

  Judi tsked. “You’re one of those ceremonial types, aren’t you? All Greek letters and Latin phrases and alchemy? That system of magic privileges the kind of education that was historically only available to upper-class men. You’ve been trained to look down on traditions practiced by women and marginalized communities.”

  “That isn’t what I said—”

  “Oh, it’s not your fault, dear. It’s systemic.”

  “Fuck the patriarchy,” Frida said cheerfully.

  Wisely, Grant didn’t try to respond.

  “Well, let’s get started, shall we?” Judi said, producing a stack of candles and bundles of herbs from a bag. At the altar, Frida lit charcoal in a brazier—a simple bronze bowl. Dried herbs went on that, and the smell of burning sage rose up. It was calming.

  “Amelia, can you put these around?” Judi held up a set of candles.

  This was Amelia’s show, so Cormac stepped back to let her handle it.

  “Do you have a particular incantation you prefer?” she asked, with Cormac’s voice.

  “Just whatever sort you like,” Judi answered.

  It wasn’t the specific words, the specific rituals that mattered. Intention made all the difference.

  Their intention here: to learn, and to restore equilibrium.

  That seems vague, Cormac thought. Amelia’s worry: that the four of them would be working at cross purposes. Grant would want to contain or destroy the power that he had inadvertently unleashed. Judi and Frida would seek some kind of justice, some kind of balance. Cormac and Amelia were caught in the middle.

  At each of the four cardinal points, she lit a candle and added sigils and incantations for protection. She suspected they’d need it.

  Frida brought out a small hand drum, similar to a bodhran, with a small stick to beat it. Creaking, she lowered herself to the ground at the eastern marker.

  Grant seemed to be at loose ends, standing near the altar, studying the sky.

  “This isn’t how I would approach this,” he said, when Cormac returned to the altar and added another handful of herbs to the brazier. More sage. Lots more sage. “We need binding spells, we need to work to contain this—”

  “That’s not how these two do things,” Cormac said, speaking with his own voice for the moment. “Seems like you had your chance. Let them work.”

  “You trust them?”

  “You keep asking that.”

  Brushing off her hands, Judi called, “All right, Odysseus. You stand at the south, I think, for your fiery spirit.”

  East, south, west, north. Air, fire, water, earth. Elemental magic. Not primitive, Amelia thought—primal.

  “What do I do?” Grant asked, finally admitting he wasn’t in charge here.

  “Don’t flinch,” Judi answered with a grin. “I’ll take west. That leaves you and Amelia at the north, Cormac, is that all right?”

  It felt right.

  Frida started tapping a low, double beat on the drum, like a heartbeat. Thunder rumbled; the rain held off, and even the wind seemed to pause, so that the world seemed frozen. The drumbeats echoed.

  “Here we are,” Judi murmured. “You wanted to find him? Well, here he is.”

  The next crack of thunder shook the ground enough that Cormac held out his arms to keep his balance. Don’t flinch, Judi had said. Right. Frida’s drumming didn’t waver.

  The protections held—the established ones around the property, the new ones here in the circle. The bronze bowl of smoldering coals didn’t even tip over.

  A growl echoed. It could have been mistaken for another round of thunder if they hadn’t been paying such close attention. The storm clouds seemed to press closer, traveling without wind to push them, and the growl—a sound definitely made by breath and throat—came again.

  “That’s it,” Grant said calmly. “That’s what’s been following me.”

  It was only sound. It didn’t seem to have form. But it was getting closer.

  Frida added singing to the drumbeats, soft words in a language Cormac didn’t recognize.

  “Come to our circle and rest,” Judi said. “Come rest and tell us what you need.”

  This was an otherworldly version of the invitation to their parlor. Just sit and have a metaphorical cup of tea. For no rational reason, Cormac started to relax, tension leaving his shoulders. He wasn’t so braced for a fight as he had been.

  The next growl ended in a soft whine. It was working, they had built safety and comfort into their circle and the being was drawn in—

  And then Grant stepped forward and intoned a phrase in Latin, too fast for Amelia to hear, but definitely a spell that rattled their bones. Grant threw something into the brazier—the resulting smell was oily, a mix of tar and brimstone—and clutched an artifact in his other hand, something with quartz or a mirror that reflected and refracted light. It caught the flash of a bolt of lightning, sparking sharp as a knife.

  Grant had his own plan all along—he just hadn’t told any of the others about it.

  The moment both dragged to stillness and crashed upon them in the burst of an explosion. Like the moment before a toddler touched a hot burner, or before someone slipped off the edge of the cliff.

  The drumbeats stopped. Judi and Frida stared in shock. The creature stalking them howled.

  Amelia was thinking fast, in the same kind of sludgy, searing panic he was feeling physically. He felt her thinking, too visceral for words. They could stop Grant, or they could stop the creature—rather, they could try, but they still didn’t understand it. Information was emerging, but it wasn’t enough.

  A presence had settled on them, masked by clouds and thunder. Amber-golden eyes gleaming out of the storm, narrowed and predatory. More than a spirit, but not physical enough to see the shape of it.

  Grant was shouting, throwing out magic that only seemed to make it angrier.

  The problem needed thought, consideration. Cormac and Amelia had less than a heartbeat to act.

  Cormac charged. His muscles clenched and launched him forward before he even understood exactly what needed to be done.

  Protection, Amelia thought; she grabbed a handful of sage from Cormac’s pocket and flung it in the air while chanting in yet another language that Cormac didn’t understand, and felt stiff on his tongue. Aramaic? Sanskrit? Something older than Latin.

  The eyes within the storm turned to him.

  Go back go back go back— Send the creature back to where it came from, keep Grant contained, build walls of power between them all, nobody gets to hurt anybody, keep them all safe—

  The storm fell quiet. The wind, thunder, drumming, the subtle rumble of a growling voice—all quiet, the silence of a winter snowscape, when the air itself seemed about to crack. Grant stood frozen, arm flung out and mouth open, in the middle of speaking. Who knew what he meant to say. Frida held the stick poised above the drum. Judi’s eyes were closed, her head tipped back, arms outstretched.

  Cormac’s skin itched. The chaos roiling in the center of the circle felt separate, isolated—a million miles away, though if he reached he could almost touch the edge of it, a membrane between worlds.

  Whatever he’d done had worked. Grant and the creature couldn’t touch each other. But the world, all the worlds, were suspended in time.

  The amber-gold eyes blinked open, glaring in surprise. Light burst out, searing and atomic. Cormac put up his arm against it but the light encompassed him, filled the world, and—

  Cormac woke to calm and felt relief. The world was quiet, and he was resting on soft earth.

  Then, he panicked, because this wasn’t the state of things when he’d blacked out. When the storm had swallowed him. Gasping, he flinched and scrambled to sit.

  He was by a forest at the edge of a body of water. Not Judi and Frida’s yard. No stone circle, no nearby mountains. This forest didn’t smell like the woods of the Rocky Mountains. This smelled thick, wet. A chill clung to the water.

  And he was alone. Whatever had just happened to him, Judi, Frida and Grant weren’t part of it. Or something even worse had happened— No, he was the one who’d jumped into a situation without understanding it.

  At least the gleaming, predatory gaze in the storm hadn’t followed him.

  Behind him, the dense forest of pine trees formed a wall. Ahead—an expanse of mirrored gray water was shrouded in fog. Water rippled to the shore, which was scattered with stones, driftwood. A hint of salt in the air suggested ocean. The light was too diffuse to tell the time of day. He wished he could see farther than a dozen yards in front of him, to get a better idea of where they’d ended up.

  He took long, deep breaths to settle his racing heart. The wilderness helped. His most peaceful, contented moments had been in forests. This might have been like the forest of his mind, where he and Amelia—

  This might be death. Actual death. The afterlife might look something like this, like the mortal world but colder, grayer. A ferryman would arrive and carry him across—

  “Amelia?”

  If he were dead—if Amelia were dead—their souls should go their separate ways, right? No longer anchored to flesh and blood. They would be different, here. The idea was melancholy.

  “Amelia?”

  Here. I’m fine. At least I think I am.

  She was still in the back of his mind, like usual. Which meant, logically, that they weren’t dead. Or not quite dead.

  So where were they? What had happened?

  And how did they get back?

  “Can we just, like, hit the reverse button on that spell or something?” he murmured. His voice sounded too loud.

  That wasn’t just a spell, it was a full-blown ritual, and no we can’t just reverse. I don’t even know what happened, and I’d hate to do this by trial and error. Where are we?

  He didn’t know.

  The consequences of hubris, she murmured.

  All the iron in his pocket, the talisman around his neck, all Amelia’s spells and incantations—none of them had saved them. Every muscle ached. He slumped against a tree and rested. Even starting in on the question of what had happened seemed overwhelming. Grant had wanted to open a portal, to imprison the entity or send it away. He must have succeeded—he’d opened a portal, and it had swallowed Cormac when he interfered.

  I am livid, Amelia said. How dare he, hitching his own spell to Judi and Frida’s perfectly reasonable ritual.

  Water usually meant people. Fishermen, boats, something. If he walked far enough, he ought to find someone, eventually. Sooner, he hoped. Goose bumps covered his arms, and he rubbed them absently. He might have to figure out shelter and fire first. Test out some of those rusty survival skills.

  Getting to his feet, he brushed himself off and stepped to the edge of the shore, listening for the sounds of engines, of wake splashing behind boats; heard nothing but the calm ripple of water on stone. The fog seemed to be growing thicker. Mist clung to his shirt, his jeans.

  He glanced one way up the shore, then the other. “Well? Left or right?”

  Right, I think.

  Six to one, half dozen to the other. He started walking down the shore—to whatever he could find.

  Fog roiled, the mist edging right up to rain but never quite getting there. He was still getting soaked. Moving was keeping him warm, providing incentive to keep going. He walked a little faster.

  A whuffling noise up ahead made him stop. Heavy footsteps slipped on rocks. Cormac straightened, shading his eyes to see what approached. Maybe Grant’s demon, whatever it was, had found them. If there had been a portal and they’d both traveled through it— But there was no storm, no glowing eyes. Just fog, the gentle lapping of waves, and a massive lumbering shape emerging from the mist. It had golden-tinged, chocolatey fur, nubs of ears, a hump over its shoulders and great muscular slope of a back. A grizzly, nosing among the stones for anything edible that might have washed up.

  His heart started racing again. This could go badly. Well, on the plus side, this was an entirely earthly, mundane threat that he theoretically knew what to do about. He was almost amused—all the talismans and magic spells Amelia knew wouldn’t replace a good can of bear spray. If only he had one.