“She wouldn’t leave without her purse,” Julian said. “And she wouldn’t leave without telling me, not after I’d told her that something didn’t feel right.”

Hearing the screen door open, Grimshaw stepped into the aisle that ran from the back of the store to the front. But it wasn’t Vicki DeVine returning; it was Osgood.

“The Sproingers are fair upset about something,” Osgood said. “They keep scratching at me.”

“Vicki DeVine is missing,” Julian said.

“Maybe there was an emergency? Did you ask Captain Hargreaves?”

Grimshaw frowned. “Why would I?”

“Just before the Sproingers started to mob the station, I saw a Bristol police car leave this parking area and head west out of town.”

A car going to Bristol from that direction would turn onto the road heading south—the same direction someone would take to go to The Jumble.

“Osgood, go back to the station. Call Captain Hargreaves and make sure he didn’t send a car for Vicki. I’m heading to The Jumble.”

Osgood slipped out the door, tripping over Sproingers until he managed to get clear of them.

“I’m going with you,” Julian said.

“I’m not asking you—”

“I knew something didn’t feel right, but I left her alone here, thinking it would be a safe place. I left her alone because I was going to be gone a short while. Window of opportunity. Someone saw it and took it. So I’m going with you.”

“Then let’s go.”

CHAPTER 72

Ilya

Watersday, Sumor 8

“Ilya? It’s Vicki. Julian says something doesn’t feel right on Main Street. I thought you should know.”

He looked at the rest of the Sanguinati who had come in to report a different kind of feeling. Something dangerous. Something lethal.

“Problem?” Natasha asked.

“Yes. Boris, please bring the car. We need to get to Sproing.” Easier to travel in his smoke form, but the car would be necessary if he needed to quickly extract Victoria from the village.

The phone rang before he took a step away from the desk. “Yes?”

“It’s Julian Farrow. Someone driving a Bristol police car abducted Vicki. The car was last seen heading west, so it could be heading toward one of the four-lane roads that provide access to bigger cities.”

“But you think it’s heading for The Jumble.” Ilya wasn’t asking a question.

“Yeah. We’re on our way there.”

Ilya hung up and hurried out to the lodge’s multilevel deck, going down to the lowest level.

“Do you still need the car?” Boris asked.

On the other side of the lake, he saw the Crowgard flying up in alarm. “No. It’s too late for that.”

Where would they take Victoria? Farrow and Grimshaw—because he understood that was what Farrow had meant by “we”—would aim for the main house. But killing could be done anywhere.

Just before he changed to smoke to race across the lake and help with the hunt, Natasha grabbed his arm and said, “Look.”

Shapes in the water.

<Stay where you are, bloodhunter. We will tell you if you are needed.>

He wanted to argue. After all, turning The Jumble back into a viable terra indigene settlement was the Sanguinati’s responsibility—his responsibility—and that included keeping watch over the vulnerable human who was caretaker and Reader. But he knew better than to disobey a command when it came from one of them.

“Ilya?” Boris asked.

“We wait.” The words tasted bitter.

“But our enemies are over there,” Natasha protested.

He nodded. “So are the Elders.”

CHAPTER 73

Vicki

Watersday, Sumor 8

I pictured opening the car door and flinging myself out of the vehicle while Detective Swinn had to concentrate on something in the road. I pictured him punching me in the face if I reached for the door handle. I was in the front seat with him—couldn’t have me looking like a prisoner—but I didn’t know if a passenger could unlock the door. So opening and flinging weren’t good options.

I pictured myself grabbing the wheel like a plucky young woman in a TV show and sending the car out of control and off the road, rolling a couple of times. Of course, the villain would be trapped and Ms. Plucky would crawl out of the wreck with a couple of dramatic cuts but would still be able to show everyone why she had been a high school track star as she ran to warn the good guys that they were walking into a trap.

Since I wasn’t plucky and, at thirty, I wasn’t considered young, and my experience with track-and-field events did not make me any kind of star, I was more likely to end up looking like bug goo on the windshield while Swinn walked away from the wreck.

Cross off grabbing the steering wheel from my save-the-day list.

Then Swinn turned onto the farm track that ran between the Milfords’ orchards and The Jumble.

“Where are we going?” I asked, feeling numb.

“Back to the beginning. You should have just rolled over like you were supposed to, fireplug. All this trouble happened because of you.”

Actually, all of it happened because Yorick tried to renege on the divorce settlement, but I was pretty sure Swinn didn’t want to hear that.

“What the . . . ?” Swinn said.

A chubby brown pony with a storm-gray mane and tail stood in the middle of the farm track, blocking our way. When he stomped one foot, dirt swirled around his legs.

“Oh no,” I breathed, recognizing Twister.

Instead of stopping because, hey, there was a pony in the way, Swinn floored the gas pedal. Instead of running away from a speeding car, the pony charged—and disappeared in the center of a mini tornado.

Have you ever been on one of those stomach-churning spinny rides at a country fair? Well, spinning in a car is so much worse.

I screamed. Swinn screamed. And no matter what he might say later, it was not a manly yell.

The car stopped spinning—and flames erupted from under the hood.

Aiden?

I clawed at the door and tumbled out of the car, feeling Swinn’s fingers slide over my butt as he tried to grab me. Since he had a gun and I didn’t have so much as a nail file, I ran, figuring that having things like trees in the way would make it harder for him to shoot me.

“Come back here!” Swinn shouted.

Like that was going to happen.

Was this the trail I’d taken when I’d led Grimshaw to the first body? Didn’t know and couldn’t afford to care. I’d either end up at one set of cabins, or at the main house, or at the road. Hopefully I wouldn’t end up back on the farm track and run into Swinn.

I didn’t run into Swinn. But as I caught a glimpse through the trees of what I thought was the main house, I did run straight into a man wearing a business suit—and thin black gloves. I’d come around a blind curve in the trail and bounced off him, stumbling back a couple of steps. I didn’t recognize him, but I saw the tie clip—one of those weird moments when time slows down and you fixate on one detail. So even though I didn’t know him, I knew he wasn’t a friend. Not to me.

I dodged him when he lunged at me. Don’t ask me how. Adrenaline is an amazing thing. I was already puffing, so he wouldn’t have to work hard to catch me. And I was sure that him catching me would be bad for my health.

Not having any sensible ideas of how to evade the man, I waved a hand over my head as if I was holding a ticket and wheezed, “I have the ‘Elder Helps You’ card!” Which shows you that, while adrenaline is an amazing thing, it can produce wonky thoughts in the brain, showing me a flashback of the Murder game we had all played that one evening.

Except . . .

I saw nothing, but I swear I felt fur brush the bare skin on my arm as something big rushed past me. As it passed, it gave me a negligible swat/shove/toss/take your pick that had me airborne. Reminded me of when I used to do the running long jump when we had the track-and-field segment in gym class. Not that my long jump was long. But this? I was flying. I had plenty of time to remember there was a safe way to fall and roll when I landed. I didn’t remember how, just that there was a safe way and then there was the tumble the rest of us took.