Page 116 of His Wicked Charm

But he hadn’t suspected her. Even when he’d been unable to “see” Lilah’s path, it hadn’t occurred to him that Aunt Vesta had purposely led him astray. He had fallen like a dolt for her silly, fluttery act, dismissed her as a gullible, foolish old lady.

There was no time to sit around, castigating himself. He didn’t know what Vesta intended to do to Lilah, but it couldn’t be good. He had to get back to her. Whatever Vesta intended, it would be at Barrow House; otherwise, Vesta wouldn’t have needed to lure him away.

Con yanked off his boots and dumped out the water before putting them back on, then stripped off his sodden jacket and dropped it on the ground. Standing up, he turned full circle. All around him was featureless fog. There were no landmarks; he was in a place he’d never been before; and he could see no farther than his outstretched hand.

Con touched the ring Lilah had given him. For once in his life, he actually needed a compass. How bitterly ironic was it that this compass, the one he was never without now, didn’t work? He could rely on nothing but his ability.

Con set out, moving at a brisk walk. He ached to run, but he held himself back. Haste could prove disastrous. It would be easy to fall into one of the many waterways, not to mention the fact that there were still remnants of the former bog in spots. He wished he had taken the time to explore the area and set the layout of it in his mind. He wished he had the lantern he’d dropped when Vesta bashed him on the head.

But he couldn’t let regrets cloud his thoughts. With his actual vision negligible, he must focus on the map in his mind, the subtle tug in his chest. Even in the fog, he could tell north from south and east from west, and he was certain in which direction the house lay. However, a straight line to the house made no allowance for rhynes or bits of bog.

He had no idea of this rhyne’s length or how far he had floated down it before he climbed out. Nor did he know where he had fallen into it. Before landing in the water, he had twisted his way through the small canals like an obstacle course. How would he know where to turn? Con wished that he could “see” the trail of his own passage lingering in the air, but apparently that was not part of his talent.

He kept on, his senses alert. The ground was muddy beneath his feet, and he didn’t notice that the mud was becoming softer, more giving, until he stepped down and water rushed into his boot. He had stumbled upon one of the pieces of marshy land. Panic swarmed into his chest, and he had to fight back the primitive fear.

He pulled out his foot, though he left the boot behind, and took a step backward. He was able to feel for the top of the boot and pull it, too, out of the muck. Emptying it of water, he stared into the fog and thought. He would have to retrace his steps, though everything in him urged him forward, his instinct telling him that the way to the house lay straight before him.

But he couldn’t be rash; Lilah’s life depended on it. As he started to turn around and go back, he saw a shimmer of light on the ground less than a yard from where he had stepped into the bog. He froze. Faint but visible through the fog, stretched a light—no, not exactly a light, but a line the color of moonlight, leading across the ground.

“The Fae Path,” he breathed, hardly daring to believe it. The legendary safe passage through the bog. No wonder it had also been known as the Silver Way, for that pale, luminous color.

He mustn’t be rash. But he must have faith, as well. Con started out along the path. His foot sank into the mud, but only a little. It varied in depth, but beneath the muck was always solid footing. He had heard of ancient tracks, narrow paths made of split logs laid in V-shaped braces, but how had it survived this long in the watery land?

The path disappeared, but the ground was now firm beneath his feet. He could no longer hear the water, and he felt a faint rise in the land. His steps grew ever faster, eating up the ground, following the arrow spearing through him, drawing him on. The fog grew wispier.

And there it was. The tor loomed up above the fog, a blacker mass against the dark sky. Con broke into a run. His legs churned, and his breath rasped in and out as he pelted up the slope, but it seemed as if nothing moved, as if his goal would never be reached.

Then he was atop the tor. He saw Barrow House ahead. He ran, heedless of the dark, of stumbling, aware of nothing but the thought of Lilah, the certainty of danger that vibrated throughout his being.

It was easier along the garden paths and into the house. He didn’t bother going to Lilah’s room. He could see the hum in the air that told of her passage out the front door. He knew—had known from the beginning—where they had gone.

He tore across the courtyard. He and Alex had set four lanterns in the base of the tower, and he prayed that no one had moved them. Lilah had passed this way; the glimmer in the air was thick, jumbled with the presence of another.

The lanterns were still at the foot of the stairs, though now there were only three. He lit one with shaking fingers. The doorway to the hidden staircase stood ajar. He raced down the stairs. The lantern flickered with his movement, and he had to slow his pace to keep the flame alive, even though his heart was pounding and his stomach churning with the need to hurry.

He saw a glow ahead, and hope surged in him. He heard the clink of metal on metal, then clicks, and finally he saw Lilah and Vesta, illuminated by the lantern on the ground. Vesta was at the door, turning the keys in the lock, one by one. Beside her, Lilah’s bound hands were flat against the stone wall. She stood unnaturally still, staring straight ahead.

The door opened with a screech. Con raced forward, and Lilah whirled around. Vesta shoved Lilah into the black void beyond the door, whisking up the lantern, and jumped in after her. Con had a glimpse of Vesta’s wild-eyed face as she threw herself against the door.

Con dropped his own lantern and lunged the last few feet. The door snapped shut an instant before he slammed into it. “No!” He pounded uselessly at the thick wood. “No! Come back. Lilah!”

He was locked out. Vesta had taken the keys with her. Lilah was gone.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

LILAH SCREAMED AND jumped to her feet, throwing herself at Vesta. Vesta swung the lantern in a wide arc, forcing Lilah back. Vesta pointed the gun at her, motioning her forward. “Go. Go.”

Lilah stepped back. “Let me go. Please, Aunt Vesta. You have the keys. You’re in the Sanctuary. You have what you want. You’re welcome to it. Just let me go.”

“No. Walk on.”

“Why? Why won’t you let me go?”

“Because you’re part of it. Can’t you feel it? The Goddess calls you. She wants you. Turn around and walk. We’re not there yet.”

Lilah was viscerally aware that they had not yet reached the heart of the power. She turned. They were in a narrow cave that opened into another, and it was there that the energy thrummed. The truth was, Lilah wanted to go there.

“Con...” She wanted even more to return to Con.