I turned and bolted. Candle dropped, I ran in pitch blackness, bumping and crashing against the stone walls. I held back the vomit that rose in my throat, tried to push the horrific sight out of my mind, and ran. Behind me, I heard the thudding of the demons’ hooves on earth, the occasional scrape of dagger-tipped horn against stone, their grunts and groans as they tried to squeeze through the narrow passageway after me. I felt the heaviness of their bodies behind me, swore I could feel their hot, damp breath on my neck, the brush of their fingers reaching for me. . . . I could swear I heard their voices calling me, Lanny, Lanny, we’re going to catch you, and when we do . . . the threat hanging in the air. One of the voices sounded vaguely familiar . . . not that I was going to wait around and find out why.

A door suddenly popped up in front of me. It wasn’t the door, but it was either my salvation or a trap. I had only an instant to decide. Instinct took over. I reached for the latch, threw the door back, and leapt inside.

FOURTEEN

On the island, winter weeks ceded slowly to spring. Each day, short as it was, seemed to last forever, unwinding by degrees as the sun moved across the pale blue sky. Looking through the window at his island, Adair watched the goats’ coats thicken against the cold, and then bolt with the beginning of spring, leaving tufts of hair scattered on the rocks like dandelion seed. And fresh chartreuse needles appeared on pine boughs as the patch of moss grew in as thick as a blanket.

Adair stood at the foot of Lanny’s bed, close to bursting with impatience. She’d been asleep for months, the vial cradled securely in her hand. He’d never guessed, when he agreed to help her, that she’d be away this long. It seemed a cruel trick and he wondered for the thousandth time if she had done it on purpose. He itched to call her back, and yet honor kept him from doing so—honor! He’d certainly never been called an honorable man before and was not oblivious to the irony. For centuries, he’d happily lived by his own code, his allegiance sworn to knowledge and discovery. Now it was Lanore’s idea of honor that bound him. He thought of the things he’d done in his life that would horrify her, beyond lying and stealing and cheating. She had a notion of these deeds from his past, of course, but if she knew them all, really knew what he was capable of, he feared she could never love him, never trust him. He might be too corrupt to deserve love, his sins too horrible to be forgiven—this recognition of his unworthiness alone was a measure of how much he’d changed, but would it be enough ultimately to win over Lanore?

He was tired of living in suspense. Come back to me, he thought, rapping his knuckles impatiently against the rail at the foot of her bed. She might come back if she knew how much I wanted her, he thought as he closed his eyes, stoking the warm glow deep in his heart. Surely you can feel how desperately I want you here with me.

She might come back if everything was beautiful and at the ready for her, he decided. This idea of beauty floated over the island like pollen on the wind, and tiny seedlings began to sprout instantly where there had been only hard black rock, and from the seedlings, stems shot skyward, leaves unfurled and spread. Buds appeared—pale pink, lavender, indigo, white—then blossomed in the full light of sun. A carpet of flowers spread across the island from shore to shore, covering rock, moss, and black pebble beach. The goats attacked with hearty appetites but the flowers grew back instantaneously, undeterred. The island was covered in a riot of pastel color; vines crept up the fortress walls and soon petunias and morning glories twined around the iron bars over the windows. It was awash in scent, too, the subtle perfume of hundreds of thousands of blooms.

Wake up, he thought, climbing into bed beside her. Can a heart that feels love this deeply and can create such beauty be entirely bad? he wanted to ask her. Will you believe now that I have repented for you? That you can trust me with your heart?

Adair drifted into a light sleep and woke to the sound of music playing sweetly on the floor below. The sun had slipped over the horizon and the sky outside had turned periwinkle. It was dusk.

The sound drifting up the stairs was not the angry hip-hop and thrash metal the girls had taken to listening to before, the kind of music designed to roust him out into the open. No, this was sweet and pleasant, old Gypsy guitars, Django Reinhardt. Perhaps the forced spring had lifted their spirits—though that seemed unlikely. He’d left the girls on their own for weeks now, barely able to remember the last time he’d spoken to them. He wouldn’t blame them if they had packed their bags to leave him; in fact, he rather wished they would.

Food smells accompanied the music, the rich aroma of roasted meat and caramelized onions and garlic. He guessed that the girls felt badly for behaving like petulant children and were trying to make it up to him. Weeks of grousing and slamming doors and throwing temper tantrums had failed to coax him away from Lanore’s side. If they’d been upset when they saw the flowering fields—they had to know what it meant, what had caused the riot of blooms—they didn’t show it. That they’d put aside their jealousy was rather touching.

Adair ran a hand through his hair roughly and decided to go downstairs and extend the olive branch to show them that he wasn’t really angry with them. At the same time, he would let them know, firmly, that it was time for them to leave. He’d enjoyed their company but it was time for him to be alone with the woman he loved.

He found them in the parlor. They’d dimmed the lights and built a roaring fire. The large, low table had been cleared of its usual assortment of clutter and had been set with platters of food, opened bottles of wine, candles. Cushions were arranged around the table for seating. Flower petals had been strewn across every surface, across the floor. Robin was stretched out on the chaise, dressed in a thin silk sarong that only served to accentuate her nakedness beneath it. Terry reclined on a low armchair, looking like the queen of a harem, fleshy and curvaceous, with her smoky kohl eyes and dark, undulating hair. They watched Adair as he descended the staircase, seeming to draw him to them with their openly desirous gazes.

Terry poured a thick liquid into a heavy crystal wineglass. “We’re so glad you decided to come down and join us tonight, Adair. We’ve missed you.”

“I can only stay for a little while,” he said as he accepted the glass and lowered himself onto a pouf of brown saddle leather.

“We know,” Robin said, rising from the chaise so she could take a place at his feet. She put her hand on his knee. “We understand.”

He woke some time later on the floor, crumpled in a heap beside the ottoman. His hands were tied behind his back. His first instinct was panic, and he began to fight against the restraints, but one look around reassured him that he wasn’t in any immediate danger. He took a few deep breaths and forced himself to calm down. He’d been trussed up while drugged unconscious twice in his lifetime, both times by women: once by Lanore, and once by the witch sisters, Penthy and Bronwyn. He’d let his guard down and written Robin and Terry off as harmless; he kicked himself now for having made that mistake a third time.

He blinked as he looked around: the candles had long since guttered and gone out. The food was cold and sat in puddles of congealed fat. The petals had turned to drops of blood in the darkness. A faint electronic buzz hummed in the background; he was fairly sure the buzz was from the stereo, left on even though the record had finished playing. He looked down for reassurance that he was still dressed. The girls were gone. The room was cold, the fire dead. Outside, dawn appeared to be breaking.

He managed to sit upright, pushing against the floor with his elbows. His head pounded sickly, as though his brain had swollen and become much too large for his skull. All he could remember was having a single glass of that heavy wine that had obviously been drugged.

From there, he clambered to his feet, headache be damned. The girls had done such a poor job of tying the ropes that he managed to get loose in only a few minutes. As the rope dropped to his feet, he stood listening for a sign of them, an indication of where they were, but he heard nothing. He dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and flew to Lanore’s room, his stomach knotted with dread that something had happened while he was unconscious—surely he’d been drugged for a reason.

He caught himself against the jamb, his heart sinking. The bed was empty. He bellowed for the women as he lunged for the spot where Lanore had lain. He ran his hands over the blanket, searching for a clue as to how long she’d been gone. The bed was cool to the touch. He called their names a second time, his tone unmistakable.

There was a noise behind him, the shuffling of soles on the floorboards, and he spun around. It was Terry. She tried to pretend as though she’d been asleep, clutching a silk bathrobe closed at her chest and pushing mussed curls out of her eyes, but he knew she was acting. “What is it, lover?” He flinched at her use of the word “lover.” “What’dya want?”

He jumped up to confront Terry, his face nearly white with rage. “What do you mean, ‘what do I want’? You know what I want—where is she? Where is Lanore?”

Terry shrugged, a little too broadly. “How should I know? She came to while you were passed out. She took one look at you facedown on the floor, tangled up with us, and that was it. She said she was feeling better and wanted to go. We radioed for a boat to fetch her.”