I was walking through a field. There was no moment of transition. No moment of internal shock, either. It felt as if I’d been walking through a field all along. Walking and humming. Except my voice was high, like a child’s. Long grass swished as I cut through it, and the tops tickled my dangling hand. I looked down to see a small and slender girlish hand.

When a butterfly flitted past, I watched it go. A white butterfly. Good luck. I smiled and kept walking. I could smell water ahead, the slightly swampy, pungent smell. That’s what guided me. With each step, I heard a clink and a rattle, and I reached into my pocket, felt stones there, and pulled out three. Two black, one white. More black than white. I smiled and took out two more. Two black now, three white. More white than black. I smiled again, equally pleased.

Black, white. Dark, light. Good and bad, bad and good. It depended on how you looked at it, and the interpretation was ever changing. I was a creature of the dark and the light. The night and the day. The owl and the raven. I could choose light or I could choose dark, and it was not a choice of good or evil, but only a choice of one or the other, left or right, in or out, up or down.

I could hear the water now, rushing over rapids. Soon I spotted a small river. On the other side, gnarled trees choked out the sunlight. I smelled the forest, damp and dark and decaying. I looked from the sun-dappled meadow to the dark forest, and I felt no glimmer of preference. Two sides to life, both equally alive, equally rich, equally intriguing.

I was done in the meadow for today. I’d cut through vines and climb the twisted trees and see what new wonders lay within the forest. All I had to do was cross the stream.

I pushed through the waist-high grass until I saw the water ahead, rushing and crashing over the rocks. Then I stopped.

There was a woman on the riverbank. The ugliest woman I’d ever seen. She looked like a corpse—dressed in tatters, washing her hands in the stream, tangled dark hair writhing over bone-thin arms, skin like jerky, twisted and tough and shrunken. Her face was horrible, with a long nose, blackened, jagged teeth, and sunken eyes—one black and one gray.

“Y mae mor salw â Gwrach y Rhibyn,” I whispered.

She lifted her head, recognizing her name. Gwrach y Rhibyn. Those sunken eyes looked straight at me. Then she began to wail, so loud my hands flew to my ears.

“Fy mhlentyn, fy mhlentyn bach,” she shrieked. “Fy mhlentyn, fy mhlentyn bach.”

My child. My little child.

Death is near. I have seen Gwrach y Rhibyn, and she warns me.

I staggered backward . . . into the bedroom, where I stood in the triskelion circle.

“Well, that wasn’t just a little bit weird,” I muttered.

TC chirped.

“Yeah, I know. These days, weird is my life. I should get that on a T-shirt.”

I struggled to focus. It was surprisingly easy. I had just emerged from a dream state after stepping into a magically lit symbol ingrained in the floor of an old, abandoned house. I should be running for the door. Or huddled on the floor, rocking. But somehow it was like seeing red-eyed hounds and strange men who gave me boar’s tusks. I could mentally lift the vision wholesale and stick it into the already overflowing “crazy shit I’ll deal with later” box in my brain. At least I wasn’t still trying to find rational explanations. That was progress. Or the sign of a complete mental breakdown.

I turned to TC. “Now can we go?”

He scampered out.

In the hall, I spotted him at the end, nudging that one closed door. “You have the worst sense of direction, don’t you? That’s locked—”

TC pushed it half open with his paw.

“No!” I said, lunging after him. “Not in—”

He dashed through. I didn’t spend a second wondering how the heck a locked door got opened, because for once the rational explanation was the one that made sense. It was also the one that had me taking out my gun.

That door had been locked. Absolutely, undeniably locked. If it wasn’t now, that meant I wasn’t the only person here.

I suppose the intruder expected me to tear through after TC, having lured him in with some ripe-smelling tidbit. But while I was fond of my cat, it was a “break into an abandoned house for him” kind of affection, not “run into a death trap for him.”

Gun raised, I kicked open the door and peered in. Steep steps rose into darkness. The attic.

“TC?” I called.

A bump sounded above, as if he’d jumped onto something. Then a loud thump, and I had to stop myself from running up after him.

“TC?” I called. “Are you okay?”

Another thump, lighter. Then an odd bump-bump-bump over the floorboards. I pointed my gun with one hand while lifting my flashlight-phone with the other. TC appeared, dragging something behind him. At the top of the stairs, he stopped and meowed.

“Come down here,” I said.

He answered with a “No, you come here” yowl. When I didn’t move, he nudged his trophy to the edge of the steps. I could make out a rough covering, like fur. He grabbed the fur and pulled the thing closer to the edge.

“Is that a rat?” I said.

It was too big for a mouse. Hell, it looked big enough to be a raccoon—a young one, at least. I stepped forward then stopped, as I remembered why I was staying at the base of the stairs.

“Come down,” I said. “Now. I’m not chasing—”

He disappeared. I fought a groan. I should leave. I really should. But if someone was up there, TC might get hurt. I was about to call him again when the bundle at the top of the stairs moved. He was pushing it toward the edge. Determined to bring his prize with him.

“I don’t want—”

Too late. He gave the thing a shove and down it came, bump-bumping over the steps as it rolled, while he trotted behind it. When his trophy was halfway down, I started to realize what it was, but I just stood there, light shining on the thing, watching it roll, telling myself I was wrong, had to be wrong, until it came to rest at my feet, and I was looking down at the head of Ciara Conway.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I scooped up TC and got the hell out of that house, not stopping until I was on the front sidewalk. Then I called Gabriel. It went to voice mail.

“Goddamn you,” I muttered, then said, “Gabriel? I need you to call me now. This isn’t a joke. Call me.”

I hung up and dialed 911. No more screwing around. I didn’t care if Ciara’s head vanished before the police got here. My conscience could no longer rest knowing that she was dead and I was carrying on as if nothing had happened. If Gabriel would have advised otherwise, well, then he should answer his damned phone.