“I heard there are no male sidhe-seers.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Around.”

“And which one of those are you in doubt about, Ms. Lane?”

“Which one of what?”

“Whether I see the Fae, or whether I’m a man. I believe I’ve laid your mind to rest on the former; shall I relieve it on the latter?” He reached for his belt.

“Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes. “You’re a leftie, Barrons.”

“Touché, Ms. Lane,” he murmured.

Tonight I didn’t know the name of our unwitting victim, and I didn’t want to. If I didn’t know his name, I couldn’t scribe it on my list of sins, and perhaps one day the old Welshman I’d robbed of his last hope for life would disappear from my memory and cease to trouble my conscience.

We rented a car at the airport, drove through gently rolling hills, and parked down a forested lane. I parted reluctantly with my raincoat and we hiked from there. When we crested a ridge and I got my first glimpse of the place we were planning to rob, I gaped. I’d known he was rich, but knowing was one thing, seeing another.

The old man’s house was palatial, surrounded by elegant outbuildings and illuminated gardens. It soared, a gilded ivory city, above the dark Welsh countryside, lit from all directions. Its focal point was a tall, domed entry; the rest of the house unfolded from there, wing to turret, terrace to terrace. It was topped by a brilliantly mosaicked rooftop pool surrounded by sculptures displayed on pedestals of marble. Four-story windows framed glittering chandeliers in elaborate panes. Amid the lush foliage of manicured gardens, fountains splashed from one exquisitely inlaid basin to the next and pools shimmered the color of tropical surf, steaming the cool night air. For a moment I indulged in the fantasy of being the pampered princess that got to sunbathe in this fairy-tale world. I quickly exchanged that fantasy for another: being the princess that got to shop with the old man’s credit card.

“Sale price of one hundred and thirty-two million dollars, Ms. Lane,” Barrons said. “The estate was originally built for an Arab oil prince who died before it was completed. At forty-eight thousand square feet, it’s larger than the private residence at Buckingham Palace. It has thirteen en-suite bedrooms, an athletic center, four guesthouses, five pools, a floor of inlaid gold, an underground garage, and a helipad.”

“How many people live here?”

“One.”

How sad. All this and no one to share it with. What was the point?

“It has state-of-the-art security, two dozen guards, and a panic room in case of terrorist attacks.” He sounded perversely pleased by those facts, as if he relished the challenge.

“And just how do you plan on getting us in there?” I asked dryly.

“I called in a favor. The guards won’t be a problem. But make no mistake, Ms. Lane. It still won’t be easy. The security system must be disarmed, and thereare half a dozen wards to be broken between us and him. I suspect the old man will be wearing the amulet. We may be here for some time.”

We made our way down the hill, and were nearly to the house when I spotted the first body, partially concealed by a bank of thick shrubbery. For a moment, I couldn’t make out what it was. Then I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Gagging, I turned away.

It was one of the guards, not simply dead, but badly mutilated.

“Fuck,” Barrons cursed. Then his arm was behind my knees, and I was over his shoulder, and he was running with me, away from the house. He didn’t stop until we’d reached one of the outlying guesthouses.

He dropped me to my feet and pushed me back into the shadows beneath the eaves. “Don’t move until I return for you, Ms. Lane.”

“Tell me that was not the favor you called in, Barrons,” I said in a low, careful voice. If it was, he and I were through. I knew Barrons wasn’t entirely on the up-and-up, but I had to believe such butchery was beyond him.

“They were supposed to be unconscious, that’s all.” His face was grim in the moonlight. When I would have spoken again, he pressed a finger to my lips then moved off into the night.

I huddled in the shadows of the guesthouse for a small eternity until he returned, though by my watch a mere ten minutes had passed.

His voice preceded him. “Whoever did it is gone, Ms. Lane.” He stepped into view and I smothered a sigh of relief. The only thing I hate worse than the dark is being alone in it. I didn’t used to be that way, but I am now and it seems to be getting worse. “The guards have been dead for hours,” he told me. “The security system is disarmed and the house is wide open. Come.”

We moved directly for the front entrance, not bothering with stealth. We passed four more bodies on the way. The front doors were open, and beyond them I could see an opulent round grand foyer with a dual staircase that unfurled gracefully up each side and met in a landing suspended beneath a domed skylight hung with a glittering chandelier. I stared straight ahead. The marble floor had once been polished pearl. It was now splashed with crimson, strewn with bodies, some of them women. The housekeeping staff had not been spared.

“Do you sense the amulet, Ms. Lane? Are you picking up anything?”

I closed my eyes to shut out the carnage, and stretched my sidhe-seer senses, but carefully, very carefully. I no longer thought of my ability to sense OOPs as a benign talent. Last night, after finishing yet another book on the paranormal—ESP: Fact or Fiction?—I’d been unable to sleep so I’d lain there thinking about what I was, what it meant, wondering where the ability came from, why some people had it and others didn’t. Wondering what was different about me, what had been different about Alina. The authors contended that those with extrasensory abilities utilized parts of their brains that were dormant in other people.