Vivienne put the spoon down with shaky fingers.

“What’s the address here? I didn’t think this was next door to the attorneys’ offices.”

Ugh. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Not at all.

Sarah glanced up from the tickets. “Well, they are connected to us via a back hallway, but there are a few storefronts between us when you look at it from the street. Why do you ask? Are you one a client?”

Vivienne was beginning to think she’d stepped into a fox’s den and she was just a little bantam chicken.

Or maybe this was the Twilight Zone.

“You know the attorneys?” she asked.

“Yeah. One’s my uncle. See?” Sarah left the counter and strode toward a door that Vivienne hadn’t paid much attention to.

She opened it wide.

Inside, several people were congregated at a table.

Three, to be precise. Two men and a woman.

They looked up from the table where they were seated.

Recognition flashed across their faces, as though they knew Vivienne.

Vivienne didn’t need to be hit with an oversized mallet to know those three were not your average, regular humans.

Nope, far from it.

She rose, ready to bolt.

“No. Don’t go,” said one of them, the man with a full head of hair said.

The woman smiled. “We mean you no harm. You look just like your mother, you know.”

That brought a burn to the bridge of Vivienne’s nose, the burn of unshed tears. Kindness topped with a mention of her mother—that pretty much shoved her into the cry-zone.

Why was she feeling this sensation of trust from them?

Were her empath instincts to be trusted? Could they be trusted or were these beings ill-doers?

There was one way to find out.

Shake their hands.

What if she was in a locked room with them? Then what? These were clearly magic types.

But they aren’t Ricardo.

That counted for something.

And it’s not likely they’re the ones who killed my parents and want me dead.

True, or she’d already be dead. So, what did they want?

“Come, please. We’ve looked and looked for you. Sent signs for you. And sent others, as well, to find you.”

Giving her bowl a last, longing look, she stepped into the small conference room.

What a waste of food, and who knew the next time she’d get a meal.

She turned her attention to those waiting for her. Professionally dressed, but wizards. And a witch.

The witch, elegantly attired in a black pencil skirt and an ivory button down, waved her to a chair. “We’ve been hoping you’d make it.”

Vivienne raised her brow. “So I gathered.”

Sarah closed the door.

Vivienne plopped into a chair, dropping her cane and small backpack with all her possessions beside her. She remained half perched on the edge of the chair, just in case she needed to bolt.

The man who’d originally spoken cleared his throat. “Miss Devereaux, may we call you Vivienne?”

She relaxed a bit with the attorney’s gentle smile. “That’s fine.”

I can’t remember the last time I used my own name.

Life on the run. First from her own kind in New Orleans, then from Ricardo.

“This is Anne Withers,” he pointed to the woman, then indicated the other man, “Tom Witmore,” then placed his hand on his own chest, “and I’m Gerald Wizen. I’m sure you’re curious as to the reason you’ve been called here.”

No doubt. She gave him a nod.

“I wish it would’ve been under better circumstances, but that isn’t the case.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

“You see, Vivienne, your great-aunt Adriana has passed away.”

Who?

She didn’t have a great-aunt.

“Sorry, Mr. Wizen, but I don’t have any family. And haven’t for a while.”

Wizen sighed. “Yes, unfortunately, that is what you’ve been told.”

Suddenly, she was angry. The kind of fury that starts cold and burns hot.

At sixteen, she was left to her own devices, removed from Graylands, kicked to the curb, fending for herself, becoming prey to Ricardo, and all this wizard could say is unfortunately?

Yeah, my misfortune.

She was so pissed, she was surprised steam wasn’t rising from her ears.

“So, who is this aunt? Great-aunt,” she corrected herself.

Miss Withers smiled. “Your family has a special gift, or power, that many would like to have control over. It has been essential over the years for certain members of your family to disappear, as such.”

“The last one to disappear,” Wizen added, “was your great-aunt Adriana.”

“Wait a minute. If that’s so…”

She was going to ask if her mother had disappeared. If her father had disappeared. If they were still alive, living somewhere else. But that wasn’t possible. Her parents would never have let her live the life she had, if they’d been alive.

“What’s the name of this aunt?”

“Adriana.”

“Adriana,” she repeated, enunciating every syllable, stalling while she searched her memory for that name, for anything associated to it.

That name brought to mind an image of one of the many visits Vivienne had with her grandmother, sitting on a sofa, looking through a photo album. She remembered the name Adriana being one of the names Grams had mentioned. She also recalled Grams saying one of her sisters moved away and they wouldn’t see her again for a long time.

Was that Adriana?

Vivienne fought the urge to puke. Did disappear mean being killed or sacrificed? Is that what they planned for her? Some sort of sacrifice ritual?

She pushed away the visual of herself on a slab of stone with a dude holding a ceremonial knife to her throat.

She studied the faces before her. They didn’t look like the underhanded types.

Only one way to know.

She abruptly stood. “Sir.” She held her hand out, waiting for him to shake it.

Wizen looked at her, a dubious expression on his face. “I hope this isn’t goodbye.” He put his hand out.

She shook it. The goodness of his soul, the acts of kindness he’d been involved in, all this flashed through her.

He pulled his hand from hers. “Did you get what you need? Or do you need to test my fellow attorneys?”

Busted.

Of course, he knew she was an empath. That wouldn’t have been a secret, not when her mother was renown for her empath skills.

Confusion swirled in her mind. Whom could she trust? Whom should she avoid? “I need to go.”

She headed toward the door. The group of three called after her, but she didn’t slow when she reached the door.

She jerked it open.

Oh, hell, that wasn’t the door to the café; it opened to a long corridor.

Unwilling to go back through the room she’d been in with those three, she headed down the hallway at a run.

She was halfway down the thirty-yard length when she was brought up short by a force holding her back.

Except there was no one touching her.

At the end of the corridor, standing next to the attorneys—if they even were attorneys—was Sarah, arms raised, palms out, releasing a stream of energy that left a blue aura behind.

The force jerked Vivienne backward, almost knocking her down. She steadied herself and held the wall for support.

“Vivienne,” Wizen said, speed-walking her way, then stopping in front of her, “I’m sorry if we frightened you. There’s been a miscommunication, obviously. There is nothing to worry about. In fact, it’s just the opposite. You’re the new owner of Skull Point Cay.”