Out of Mind

stay.”

Pascal grumbled to himself. He’d never made any secret of how he resented getting stuck with a responsibility he had never expected to have. “I won’t be around forever,” he said darkly.

“How do you think the dog figured out where the key was?” Sykes said, mostly to change the subject.

“Who says he did? Dogs dig. They always did, Sykes. This time a dog happened to find a little key that probably doesn’t mean a thing.”

Sykes grinned at him. “Very good. Lots of passion there. That dog—” he pointed at Mario “—wouldn’t leave this spot until he had Ben digging in the dirt with him and defacing that damn griffon. Explain that away as dogs dig.”

Pascal chuckled. “You said you wanted to concentrate on looking for this angel of Willow’s.”

“Yeah, I did.” And he still hoped he’d have the luck to be alone if he found her and, in addition, have a chance to try communicating with the fickle inmates of the courtyard. Ben’s accounts of interacting with all these carvings was driving Sykes to extremes. He had started hallucinating about carrying on meaningful dialogue with some loose-lipped, superinformed stone buddies of Ben’s, who were just dying—well, maybe it was too late for that—to lead him to the great truths that would clear up any Millet mystery questions for good.

And while they were at it, they could explain the real reason the Embran had singled out the Millets for their deadly attention.

But he wasn’t comfortable chatting up the stones with Pascal watching him. Ben was the only one who had ever suggested he could communicate with the angels—something Pascal wouldn’t know about.

“You don’t want me watching you?” Pascal said, startling Sykes. “I wonder why.” There had never been any doubt about Pascal’s abilities, but Sykes had just been careless with his shield and that wasn’t like him.

“No, you weren’t careless,” Pascal said, smiling broadly. “You forgot one of those pesky little exceptions to the rules.”

Sykes rarely thought about the rules at all. “I’m a natural, remember? Completely. I don’t have to think about exceptions. I just know my stuff.”

“Unless the Mentor decides to intervene,” Pascal said, only slightly smug. “I think we can take it that we’re in serious trouble, nephew, because you just got opened up to me.”

Sykes squinted in the dappled light. “You’re telling me the Mentor is pulling strings around here?”

“That’s what I said. I couldn’t get into that armored mind of yours if you didn’t want me to—not without help. The Mentor thinks we should be working together. What else can it mean?”

“Damned if I know.”

Pascal scowled. “You heard the proof. For once, do as you’re told.”

Sykes pretended to be in pain. “Can’t,” he moaned. “Compliance messes with my mind.”

He quit the act as suddenly as he’d started. Bamboo canes clicked lightly together, their leaves rustling. The sound grew a little louder. Mario cocked his head to one side. Winnie got up and turned in rapid, tight circles.

“You’re right,” Sykes told Pascal. “Something has intervened. I can feel it. What else could it be but the Mentor? Let me hang around out here a bit. I need to think. I’ll be in shortly.”

Suspicious was a weak word for the expression on Pascal’s face. He opened his mouth, and Sykes prepared for argument, but his uncle swept silently past him, snatching up Winnie as he went. Everyone knew Pascal had a very soft spot for the Boston terrier.

Sykes paused, concentrating on first one, then another angel. “Are you having a nice day?” he said, and checked quickly over his shoulder to make certain he was alone.

He caught sight of two small figures and stooped to see them. Fairies. “Do you have anything to say?”

Damn, he was being watched. Hair stood up on the back of his neck and he turned around again.

Mario stared at him—into his eyes—unblinking and without a hint of subservience.

“You’re a dog,” Sykes said. “What’s with you?”

Watched by a dog!

Mario dropped to his stomach and rested his head on his paws. His ears and whiskers wiggled back and forth.

The small compartment in the base of the griffon was shut again. Sykes crouched and pushed it open. It surprised him that it moved easily when it was so old and unused. The sophistication of the action impressed him. As a sculptor he knew the intricacies of working with stone and had never even considered concealing anything inside one of his pieces.

He put a forefinger into the space and felt around. The griffon was made of a red stone, North African, he thought, and the inside had been smoothed. His fingernail caught on a ridge and he scraped at it.

His heart beat harder and faster, and he gradually slid out another key. About an inch long. Minutely inscribed with Bella on one side and Angelus on the other.

Identical?

From his pocket, he took the one Ben had found and put it, side by side, with the second one, then he lay one on top of the other.

Not quite identical. This one had a different configuration in the serrations.

Ben would be pissed he had missed the second one.

If he had.

Sykes poked around inside the griffon again, using his fingernails to dig for other treasures. There were none. He put Ben’s find in his right pocket, and his own in the left.

He had better not forget what Pascal had said about the Mentor and working together. He stood up. Ben would have to know about the new find, too. But Sykes would rather work on this his own way, in his own time— and without help.

“Sykes, are you out here?”

It was a woman’s husky voice, familiar, although he couldn’t place it. He’d rather know who she was before he committed himself.

“Oh, there you are.” Poppy Fortune batted her way through the bamboo to join him in his supposedly hidden bower. She pulled up when she saw him. “I’m interrupting something. Sorry. I didn’t really want to see you anyway.”

“Hey, hey.” He dodged to cut off her exit. “It’s fine. I was…finding the dog.”

She glanced at Mario. “You were hiding,” she said. “The dog just happened to be here.”

He barely stopped himself from gaping. “Why would I be hiding in my own backyard?”

“Because you’re up to something secretive, and you don’t want anyone else around. It’s fine, really. I know how you feel. Happens to me all the time.”

Sometimes hanging out with paranormal people could be a drag—especially when you got so accustomed to them that you forgot they might not be what Willow liked to call “normal.” It had never struck him to wonder what Poppy’s particular talents might be, but now he knew she probably followed body heat to its source—which would be how she found him—and she was very intuitive. Knowing the Fortunes, that was only scratching the surface of her powers.

Tall and really nicely shaped, Poppy had grown from an angular little girl with eyes too big for her face, into a gorgeous, exotic-looking woman. If he didn’t know otherwise, he’d wonder if she was Italian, or Eurasian, maybe. He liked the purple leather vest she wore—laced down the front—over a tight black T-shirt and with equally tight black leggings. The higher on the vest, the more widely the laces parted, to allow for the full breasts she’d developed while he wasn’t looking.

Hmm.

She frowned. “What’s wrong?” she said.

“Not a thing that I can see,” Sykes told her. “I was just thinking we’ve known each other a long time—sort of. We don’t really know each other at all, though, do we?”

Her gaze slid away. “Sometimes you seem very familiar to me. Other times you’re a stranger. I figure that’s how you like it. Man of mystery.”

He started to laugh.

Poppy cut him off. “I came to make a confession, and you won’t be laughing by the time I’m finished.”

That sobered him. “I don’t hear confessions. Not my purview.” He thought for a moment. “Did you do