Access by a steep narrow stair that went nowhere near an exit. A firetrap, especially since the sprinkler system froze and burst a few winters back and the owner shut it off. But Gary had three other ways in or out — across connected buildings to the penthouse windows, through a forgotten fire door into another disused loft, or down a tight airshaft and over a spiked gate into the alley behind. And he had a power line snaked out to an active circuit, and wireless broadband for his laptop, and they never had shut off the water to the employees' shower and toilet. All modern conveniences.
He sneezed. All the dust he'd ever want, as well, free of charge. You get what you pay for.
His sneeze echoed. Was repeated, faint and muffled in a higher key. Gary snapped his thoughts back to the darkness around him. He turned toward the sound, reaching behind him for one of Ben's untraceable Berettas on the windowsill next to the dragon, one of many things he'd rather not keep in the dorm. That was one reason why he'd hunted up a place like this, over the summer. That pistol and the bullet-proof undercover vest and other big-boy toys the dorm RA might not understand.
Scraping hints of movement filtered through the connecting door. Rats? Restless pigeons? The other loft had several broken windows.
The dragon's jewel shone brighter in the darkness. Warning of danger? He didn't know all its powers. Dad didn't know, the archives didn't know. Nobody had ever poked at the limits, tested the things — engineering axiom, "If it works, don't fuck with it."
The sounds stopped. He waited, pistol not quite pointed at the door, safety off and a round in the chamber. The way Morgans always kept their guns. He'd rather not have to shoot blind, like Jane with that .45 hole in her door. The blast of a 9mm auto would attract too much attention at this time of night.
Or maybe not — solid brick walls, real plaster, closest occupied apartment was five buildings over and people probably asleep. He rarely heard traffic noise up here or the rumble of trains, only the distant stuff like Jake-brake trucks growling down the hills outside of town, noise that came in over the roof parapets. Like the air ambulance helicopters thumping back and forth to the hospital.
Thumping. Something thumped on the connecting door, light, tentative, a gloved hand knocking? Who the hell would bother knocking on an abandoned door? It came again, a little louder. He eased across the floor, feet sliding rather than stepping, thanking the solid concrete slab for its silence.
Whispered words through the door, he moved closer, just to the edge of hearing. Another knock, no try to open the door, damned polite burglar out there.
Whisper again, "Gary, it's Caroline."
Maybe, maybe not. Last he'd heard, she was still in Arizona. He pulled the bar back, defense he'd added when he took out his informal lease, and slid himself into a darker shadow among other shadows in the faint light from reflected streetlamps bouncing off the fog. Waited. The door opened, silent on the hinges he'd oiled when he installed the bar and brackets.
Black opening, no movement. Whoever opened the door wanted to keep some solid bullet-stopping brick between them. Sensible burglar. The voice came again, louder, clear, sounded like his sister. "Did Ben ever warn you about cheap .25 autos?"
Well, that came close to being a Morgan password. He waited, still silent.
"She was trying to set the safety."
Oh, shit.
Light flared, polite, not aimed into his hideaway but off across the connecting loft, a flashlight, red-filtered for night vision. Something moved, separated from a brick pillar, gained a face.
Jane.
Warm, trembling, hair smelling of herbal shampoo, wrapped around him like a second skin. "I'm sorry," she whispered in his ear.
"My fault. I should have set up a blind drop, let you read the files before trying to meet you. But I missed you so much . . ."
He held her. She held him. All the Morgans could go to hell. The rest of the world could go to hell.
Something pried at the Beretta in his hand. He let it go. He seemed to remember setting the safety on that, somewhere in the blur. Not important, not on the cosmic scale of things. Time passed, warm and comfortable and suddenly complete.
A finger tapped on his shoulder. "Hate to break up the party, but you guys can make out in the back seat while I'm driving. It's a long, long way to Tipperary. Or Stonefort. This girl needs to meet Aunt Alice. The rental car's about two blocks from here."
They separated, at least to arm's length. He looked down into the shadow of her face. Aunt Alice. Why the hell hadn't he thought of her? Aunt Alice and the House, they existed to help women like Jane. If she could feel safe anywhere, she'd feel safe there.
*~*~*
He held her hand as they walked across wet grass, through cold fog, reassurance for both of them. "You seem awfully ready to believe in real witches and real magic. Or are you just smiling politely and waiting for the men in white coats to show up with their straightjackets?"
"I've seen you vanish, sitting still. I've seen Caroline vanish. And I sure as hell felt something from that bag she's carrying. Something I don't want to meet." Jane paused and shuddered, and then her eyes turned away from his to scan the Morgan graves around them and the pink granite mausoleum crusted with moss and lichen, the autumn-brown grass and trees, the gray light of morning, the tower and old house vague through the mist. Scanning for dangers, or stalling?
Her gaze came back to the twin memorial slabs, Benjamin Morgan and Daniel Morgan, faint traces of a chalk outline still visible on the autumn grass. "That's where they found the body?"
He nodded. "Not killed here, no
