Just then he heard movement in the back of the house, and a banging noise, like someone trying to force open a window.

Ah, Dystrophe thought. He followed the sound.

At the back of the house was a solarium, probably a lovely room in daylight. The wall overlooking the lake was entirely of glass. Waves pounded against the rocks below. And there in the dark, silhouetted against the rising moon, was the boy.

He turned when Dystrophe entered the room and stood facing him. Dystrophe gathered light into his hands and tossed it down on the floor between them. It flared up, illuminating the boy's angular features, shadowed eyes, and tangle of dark hair. He was dressed in a T-shirt and blue jeans, and still wore the big-boned, coltish look of adolescence.

It was him, Dystrophe was sure of it. “Joseph McCauley?” he inquired.

“Who are you?”

“Relax, Joseph,” Dystrophe said soothingly. “I'm not here to hurt you.” I'm here to kill you. It was an important distinction, but most people didn't seem to find it reassuring. Sometimes, at this point, they tried to run, but McCauley didn't, which Dystrophe appreciated. Chasing down prey was not his style.

“Who sent you? The Roses?” McCauley's voice rose a little. He was a boy, after all.

“Is it important?”

“To me it is.”

“Then, yes. The White Rose. Dr. Longbranch.”

The boy nodded, filing the information away as if he had a future. It was unusual for one so young to have so many enemies. But these were turbulent times.

Palming one of the knives, Dystrophe glided forward, considering possible targets: the pale column of the boy's throat, the arms that poked out of his short-sleeved T-shirt. “I assure you, you won't feel a thing. I'm very good at what I do.”

“Don't do this,” McCauley said, his hands still at his sides. “I'm warning you.” Not begging. Warning. Ah, the arrogance of the young.

“Please. I'm not impressed by threats and theatrics. It's just business, you know. Nothing personal.”

The boy adjusted his stance, preparing. The green eyes darkened to the color of deep water in shade. Flame coalesced about his spare figure and splattered onto the tile floor.

Dystrophe forced back a trickle of doubt, then came on. When only a few feet divided them, the assassin struck like a snake, seizing the boy's left wrist, meaning to drag the poisoned blade across McCauley's exposed forearm.

Dystrophe gasped and nearly let go when the heat from the boy's skin seared his fingers.

The boy grabbed his other wrist, his blade hand. Dystrophe was stronger, but McCauley made no attempt to shake free the knife or turn it toward his attacker. Instead, he poured in Persuasion, a hot river of magic that filled the tributaries of Dystrophe's mind, driving memory and will before it.

“How peculiar,” Dystrophe thought, and then there was nothing else but the boy's voice, and he didn't think anything more.

Jack and Ellen found Seph in the garden, on a bench that overlooked the water. He sat rod-straight, his hands on his knees, gazing out toward the lake. He looked whipped and dangerous, like a frayed electrical wire, sending off sparks. Lately, they often found him in the garden, despite the cold, as if he used this setting to clear his mind for magical activity. Besides, he was probably hot enough to heat the whole lakeshore.

He turned his head and watched as they descended the path toward him. His face seemed unnaturally pale, and he looked like he'd slept in his clothes.

“Hey, cuz,” Jack said, lifting his hand in a kind of salute. He had the sense that Seph was not at all surprised to see them. It was a little unsettling.

Something crunched under Jack's foot. “Hey,” he said, scanning the ground. “There's broken glass everywhere.”

“Yeah,” Seph said. “Guess I need to clean that up.”

Jack looked around. “Where'd it all—jeez, what happened?” He pointed to the solarium window at the top of the cliff. The glass had been smashed out as if by a massive fist, leaving the room open to the elements.

Seph glanced up at the ragged hole, then back at Jack. “Somebody jumped,” he said, shivering a little, his eyes wide and haunted-looking.

“Who jumped? What are you talking about?” Ellen sat next to Seph and put her hand on his shoulder, then yanked it back, sucking on her fingers. “Ouch! You're really juiced, you know?”

“The Roses sent another assassin last night,” Seph said. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “He had knives. I told him to leave and he … went through the window. He's in the lake.”

Jack dropped onto a stone bench, unsure what to say. “How many is that, now?”

Seph shrugged. “Three. No. Four.”

“This has got to stop,” Ellen muttered. “One of these days they're going to get lucky.”

“Maybe you need a bodyguard,” Jack said.

Seph's head came up. “And who's going to do that? We're spread thin enough as it is.” The lake wind stirred the trees overhead and the light played across his face. There was something about his eyes…

“Have you heard from your mom?” Jack asked. “She and Hastings need to know about this.”

“No,” Seph said. “Haven't heard anything from her or Hastings. Don't know how to reach them.” He paused. “Nick knows what happened. He came over last night, after.” His voice trailed off.

This is crazy, Jack thought. Some sanctuary. If you want to kill someone badly enough, you'll manage eventually.

“How'd it go with Leesha?” Seph asked abruptly, obviously wanting to change the subject.

“It was great,” Ellen said, pulling off her gloves. “We were bad cop and bad cop.”

“We put on a lot of pressure, and she caved. We think,” Jack added. You could never tell with Leesha.

“Does she know where Jason is?”

“She says she doesn't. But it turns out everybody who's anybody knows Jason was at Raven's Ghyll. D'Orsay. Warren Barber. God knows who else. She says if Jason's missing, Warren Barbers behind it. Barber said he was going to get the stuff back from Jason.”

“Warren Barber?” Seph squinted at Jack. “What's Barber got to do with any of this? I haven't seen him since Second Sister. And how does he know Jason was at Raven's Ghyll?”

“Jason was spotted. And Barber and D'Orsay are partners now,” Jack said.

“Partners?” Seph shed his distracted look. “What are you talking about?”

“But wait,” Ellen murmured. “There's more.”

“Barber has the Covenant,” Jack said. “Leesha thinks he took it from Second Sister.”

Seph looked from Jack to Ellen. “If he's working with D'Orsay, and he has the Covenant, why haven't they consecrated it?”

Ellen shrugged. “Leesha doesn't know. But everybody's trying to get back what Jason took out of the ghyll.”

They looked at each other wordlessly. “Why do you suppose that is?” Jack said finally.

“Well, Jason said the Dragonheart was supposedly a weapon that could control the guilds or destroy them,” Ellen pointed out. “That'd be a good reason.”

“How do they know that?” Jack persisted. “Jason said he dropped the book in the ghyll, but…”

“So,” Seph broke in. “Leesha is working for Barber?”

Ellen shrugged. “She was. But now she says Barber will kill her if she leaves the sanctuary.”

“Leesha's been hanging around the church,” Seph said. “Do you think she suspects where the stuff is?”

“If she does, you know she's been in and out of there already,” Ellen said. “I hope your wards did the job.”

Seph stared at her a moment, then stood and crossed the terrace, snatching up a metal goblet from a tray on the garden wall. Raising it to his lips, he drained it, then set it down. He closed his eyes and concentrated, body rigid, lips moving silently.

After a long pause, Seph opened his eyes. “There are fifteen wizards within the boundary, including Leesha. Barber's not here. The crypt at St. Catherine's is secure.” His eyes glittered green and gold, his pupils pinpricks of light. “Except for a few things Jason took a week ago, before he left for Coalton County. That makes me think he was planning something.”

Jack blinked at him. “You're on duty? You can tell all that from here?” Always before, Seph had been semifunctional when monitoring the magical barrier.

“I'm not just maintaining the boundary. I'm watching the whole sanctuary. Hastings taught me how to do it.” And then, as if Jack had asked the unspoken question, Seph added, “I found a way to deal with it.”

Ellen picked up the goblet and raised it to her nose, sniffing. Then glared across at Seph. “This,” she said, waggling the cup, “is a bad idea.”

“What is it?” Jack took the cup from Ellen and passed it beneath his nose. A prickly heat ran up his neck and exploded through the top of his head. It was like sticking a finger into an electrical outlet. Or chugging brandy.

“What is it?” he repeated, a little breathlessly.

Seph remained silent, so Ellen answered for him. “Aelf-aeling. Roughly translated from the Anglo-Saxon, it means, burning mind. The common name is wizard flame. Where did you get it?”

“Mercedes had some,” Seph said, shoving back his sleeves as if overheated.

“She gave this to you?” Ellen asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Not exactly. I used to help her out with her extractions, you know. I know where she keeps her stuff.”

“You're not going to keep using it.”

Seph twitched irritably, his hands opening and closing at his sides. “I don't use it all the time. Only when I'm on duty. It lets me watch a hundred things at once. I can see a leaf fall in the park and keep tabs on Leesha Middleton and track an assassin when he's stalking me. I'd be dead by now, otherwise. Plus I'll know if anyone messes with the stuff in the church.”