“Frankly, I think it’s none of your business,” Emma said. Kicking off her useless shoes, she stood. “I’m going back up to the house.” She tried to slide around him, but he shifted so that he was still blocking her path.

“I have another theory . . . want to hear it?”

“No,” Emma said. “Get out of my way.”

But, of course, he told her anyway. “Here’s what I think . . . that the conspiracy didn’t end with Thorn Hill at all. That the survivors who possessed the knowledge we were looking for were right under our noses, still conspiring against us. That my sister walked into a trap and you were in on it. Things went wrong, somehow, and your father was killed and you were injured. Then we came along and assumed that you were the victim.” Emma eased back one step, then another. “Here’s what I think . . . you should stay away from those wizard drugs.” She turned, planted her hands on the window frame, and boosted herself into the opening, but Rowan wrapped his arms around her waist and dragged her back. Slamming her up against the wall, he gripped her wrists with his hot hands and pinned them above her head.

He leaned in close to Emma and said, in a low, fierce voice, “Don’t you think I deserve to know who murdered my sister? I swear, I have nothing against you. All I want is information.”

And the thing was, Emma did think he deserved to know. “Now,” he said, “we’re going to go where nobody will ever find us, and this time I’m not going to take no for an answer.” He spoke a charm and Emma felt the sizzle and burn of power pouring into her.

Emma took a step toward Rowan and slammed her elbow up, freeing her wrist with a practiced twist. She smashed her skull into his nose, with a satisfying crunch of cartilage and bone. Rowan howled in pain, pressing both hands against his nose as the blood poured down.

Emma took two steps back, her head swimming with a sense of déjà vu. Why was this feeling so familiar?

“What . . . the . . . hell?” Rowan said, practically gargling blood. “But—but you’re immobilized,” he said. “Or you should be.”

“You are wrong about so many things,” Emma said. As she bolted past him, fumbling at the door, he whipped around, and extended one bloody hand toward her. She lurched to the side, slamming headfirst into the wall, knock ing herself half silly, then went down on her side, twisting her ankle. That was when she realized that nothing had happened.

Rowan examined his hand, as if to see why it wasn’t working. He took a step toward her, took aim again, his face twisted in fury. He’s going to kill me, she thought. He’s that angry.

“Leave her alone!” The voice was familiar, a razor-wire web that ensnared her . . . seductive and deadly.

Rowan half turned, and then Jonah Kinlock slammed into him and the wizard went flying, smashing into a piece of furniture.

The scene reverberated in Emma’s head, a strobing flashback. Memory flooded in, to fill the empty places.

A boy slammed into her, and she flew across the room, smashing her head into a table.

Jonah dropped to his knees beside her. “Emma,” he said, gently straightening her arm with his gloved hands. “Are you all right? Is anything broken?”

She opened her eyes to see a boy leaning over her, his gloved hands searching for injuries. Eyes like oceans so deep that light can only penetrate a few layers. And a scent that was life and death, joy and pain, inextricably mingled together.

Images rippled through her mind, like bodies surfacing in a murky pool: a tall, dark figure who brought death through the door. Impossibly strong. Incredibly quick. Insidiously lethal. Inhumanly beautiful.

Eyes that shaded from sapphire to tanzanite to emerald like fine black opals.

A flame kindled in her heart, a flame of truth hot enough to burn up everything that had existed between them. She shrank back against the wall, raising both hands to ward him off.

“Please say you’re all right,” Jonah said.

No. She was not all right. That was something she would never be.

Jonah read her heart in that way he had. He sat back on his heels, pain flickering over his face. He glanced over at Rowan, who lay unmoving against the wall.

“Go up to the house,” Jonah said. “Wait there for me.” He tugged off his gloves and tucked them under the waistband of his jeans.

Emma stared at his hands. It was the first time she’d seen them bare of leather. They were beautiful hands, supple and strong, the nails clipped short.

“What’s wrong with your hands?” she asked. “You said they were disfigured. They look fine to me.” She reached for his hands, and he yanked them back.

“Go inside, Emma,” Jonah said, his eyes glittering in the security light over the door, his cheeks hollowed by shadow.

A shiver went through her as a line from an old song came back to her.

Death came calling, and I couldn’t say no. . . .

“What are you going to do?” She didn’t really have to ask. She knew. She knew what was going to happen. There was death in Jonah Kinlock, and he meant to unleash it.

“Something I should have done in the first place.”

“You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?” Emma said. “You’re going to murder him, just like you murdered my father. Just like you murdered his sister. Just like you tried to murder me.”

Slowly, he shook his head, as if to turn away her words.

“No,” he whispered. She saw the column of his throat jump as he swallowed. “No. I—I never . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you, Emma.”

Did that mean that he was admitting to everything but that?

“Prove it,” Emma said, tilting her head toward Rowan. “Don’t kill him.”

“I have to.”

“No.”

“But . . . he tortured you. He threatened you. He’ll do it again if I give him the chance. He’ll never let this go.”

“He lost his sister,” Emma said. “He wants answers. Can you blame him?” She paused. “Anyway, you’re not doing it for me. It’s all about you.”

Their eyes met, and held.

“Go ahead and kill him, then,” Emma said, tilting her head toward Rowan. “But I’m not going anywhere. Show me how it’s done.” She stood, arms folded, immovable as stone.

Rowan was stirring, groaning, trying to prop himself up. He succeeded on the second try, rubbing his head, and looked around. When his eyes focused on Jonah, they widened in fear. His feet scuffled against the floor as he pushed himself to his feet.

“You want me to let him go?” Jonah said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

“Since when does it matter what I want?” Emma said.

Jonah settled back onto his heels, the deadly energy seeming to drain out of him. “Go,” he said to Rowan in a hollow, flat voice.

Rowan seemed to be trying to decide whether it was some kind of trick. He edged toward the door, never taking his eyes off Jonah. Reaching the doorway, he stopped and turned to Emma.

“I’m not leaving you here with him,” he said. “There’s no telling what he’ll do. Come on.” He took a step back toward her, reaching for her arm.

“Just go!” Emma shouted, her voice clouded with tears.

“Would you all quit dragging me here and there and telling me what to do?” She took a shuddering breath, almost a sob.

“Go on, get out of here before I change my mind.”

Rowan hesitated for a long moment, then turned, bolted through the door, and disappeared.

Emma blotted at her eyes with the backs of her hands and swung around to confront Jonah. “So. Any other murders I should know about?” she said. “Were you the one who went to Memphis and killed the person I loved most in the world?

Maybe you remember him: old man with woolly hair, kind of bent over, bright-complected. Man could build a mean guitar.”

“No,” Jonah said. “I didn’t kill anyone in Memphis.”

“Think hard,” Emma said. “I bet it’s not easy to keep track. Probably all runs together after a while. What are you, sort of a one-night-stand assassin?”

“Emma, please,” Jonah whispered, and Emma heard a prayer for forgiveness. But she’d gone deaf to Jonah Kinlock’s seductive voice.

“Why am I alive? Why?”

Jonah shook his head. “I—I didn’t go to your father’s house to kill anyone,” he said. “That was the last thing I wanted to happen.”

“Accidents happen, I guess,” Emma said bitterly. “Did you think it was funny . . . you having all the secrets when I had none? Me mooning after you while you’re thinking I’m a fool.”

“No,” Jonah said.

“What, exactly, do they teach at the Anchorage? Is murder part of the curriculum or did you do this on your own? And why am I alive?” She stepped closer, too angry to worry about the danger. “Did you mess up? Or are you losing your touch? Is that it?”

Jonah stared down at his hands. “Would that I could,” he murmured.

“Right. Now I should feel sorry for you?” Emma shook her head. “I’m going now. Don’t follow me unless you’re prepared to murder me, too.”

She turned on her heel and limped away, resisting the temptation to look back.

Jonah didn’t follow.

Chapter Forty-seven

Night Moves

Jonah couldn’t say how long he stayed in the gazebo. He remembered slumping onto the bench, pulling his gloves back on, and sitting, head down, listening to the sound of the waves on the beach and the wind in the trees.

He wished he could simply walk into the lake and keep heading north until the gunmetal-gray waves closed over his head and the fireworks exploded in his brain and the voices stopped.

But the instinct for survival had been hardwired into him, along with his deadly touch.

What would Emma do? Would she go to the police? The bodies were long gone, the evidence destroyed, the witnesses dead. She had no love for the authorities, and she had a record . . . of minor offenses, anyway.