Magnus gazed at her, feeling all her rage and pain and confusion, wishing he had the right words to help her. Wishing he wasn’t so broken, so he could simply take her in his arms and comfort her, one lost soul to another, no questions asked. But he knew from hard experience that wishful thinking was nothing but a waste of time. He was broken, and had little to offer except the truth. So he simply spoke it.

“There is nothing in this world more powerful than your Blood. Not a single thing.”

She just stared at him, lips pinched to a don’t-cry grimace, eyes fierce with unshed tears. Even like this, in dirty clothes with uncombed hair, with an unwashed face and her features twisted in anguish, he thought she was the most painfully exquisite thing he’d ever seen. Honor had the same face, the same body, but it was Hope’s spirit that elevated her from merely pretty to perfect. That—literal—fire she possessed lit her up from the inside so she glowed.

“Tell me.”

Her voice was ragged, the emotion behind it raw. Magnus inhaled a slow breath, debating. He quickly decided that not only did she deserve to know, but in her shoes, he’d demand it, too.

“You are Hope Catherine Moore McLoughlin. Your grandfather, Charles, known to humans as the Earl of Normanton, was, in his time, the most powerful our kind had ever seen. He was called the Skinwalker, able to Shift into any form, any element, any thing or even idea. I understand he particularly enjoyed being a crow, a butterfly, and a cold wind.” His voice turned wry. “Maybe that’s where Honor gets it.”

Hope’s eyes widened. Her lips parted. She stared at him, rapt.

“Your mother inherited her father’s abilities. Though her own mother was human, Jenna—”

“My mother’s name was Jenna?” Hope said, her voice small. “And she was . . . half-human?”

He nodded. “She was even more powerful than her father. And you and Honor are even more powerful than her.”

She processed that a moment. “Is her grave here, in Wales? Is she buried nearby?”

She leaned forward. The scent of her hair and skin filled his nose, and his mouth went dry. His heart contracted with a horrible, acute ache, and he had to resist the urge to jump up and run or smash his mouth against hers and kiss her.

For God’s sake, keep it together, Magnus!

He dropped his hands from her arms, tucked them under his armpits, and rocked back onto his heels. He said gruffly, “No. She’s not buried nearby.”

Her face fell. She sagged back. “Oh.”

“No, I mean, she’s not buried at all.”

She blinked at him, confused, and he realized he was making a mess of the whole explanation. He carefully chose his next words.

“She’s not buried because she’s not dead, Hope. Your mother is very much alive.”

TEN

Morgan made her way through the dim tunnels quickly, not needing light to navigate the corridors she knew so well. Like all her kind she could see in the dark, but even if she hadn’t been able to, she’d lived in this chilled palace of ancient stone and flowing water for over two decades. She could navigate the twists and turns with her eyes closed.

In spite of the damp that made her bones ache and the lack of natural light, she loved it. The caves of Ogof Ffynnon Ddu, over three hundred meters deep and sixty kilometers long, featured roaring rivers, thundering waterfalls, and vast columns of glistening limestone, formed as stalactites and stalagmites grew together after millennia of longing from above and below. Cave shrimp, pale as bone, scurried in the rocky beds of pools, fish swam aplenty in the underground lakes, and an entire ecosystem of subterranean plant and animal life abounded on which to feed.

And there was music. Hauntingly beautiful, the song of water—running and dripping and flowing all around—underscored all her days and nights with the loveliest melodies. For Morgan, a woman once blessed with considerable wealth and cursed with a fetish for beautiful things, this music was the only thing of true beauty left in her life.

Well, that and her husband, Xander. She smiled, wondering how long it would take to turn his growls of anger when he heard she’d been smart to the Alpha—again—into purrs of contentment when she snuggled against him and said she was ever-so-sorry.

Ten seconds. Tops.

One of the many things she adored about her husband was his inability to stay mad at her. You’d think a man who’d once been the tribe’s most fearsome assassin, the famed “Wrath of God” himself, would have a little more fortitude in the face of a few feminine wiles. But Xander’s fury melted like snow in sunlight with nothing more than a kiss from his wife.

And because of her inability to stay out of trouble, Morgan spent a lot of time kissing him.

That wasn’t the only reason, of course. Xander was an excellent kisser.

“Knew I’d find you here, kiddo,” she called as she stepped through an egg-shaped opening in the stone, cradling Hope’s frosted collar in her cupped hands.

In stark contrast to the rest of the caves, this room was illuminated by a soft, ambient light that almost perfectly mimicked the warm glow of a summer sunrise. It seemed to emanate from the walls themselves, but its source was the young man seated behind a sturdy wooden bench strewn with every kind of electronic device in various states of assembly. He was staring through a lighted magnifying glass, and didn’t look up when she came in.

“Auntie M,” he said with exaggerated patience, “I am no longer a ‘kiddo.’ I am a grown man. Allow me to demonstrate.” Still without looking up, he flexed both arms, causing a pair of spectacular biceps to bulge from his short-sleeved shirt.

“Beckett, really,” she sighed. “Muscles might impress your little groupies, but I happen to know from personal experience there’s much more to being a man than a pair of big guns.”

Beckett looked up from his work and grinned. The light in the room grew brighter. “Vast personal experience, no doubt.”

Morgan attempted an outraged expression, but found herself grinning back at him instead. “Cheeky bastard! Don’t let your uncle hear you talking to me like that, or he might just tear off one of those big arms of yours and beat you over the head with it.”

“What?”

He pretended innocence, and Morgan could see exactly why all the young girls—and most of the older ones, too—swooned in his presence. He had long, curling lashes, eyes the exact color of new grass, adorable dimples, perfect teeth, and golden, always-tousled hair. Along with a quarterback’s body and a pirate’s swagger, he was utterly charming. And bright. And one of her favorite people in the world.

Beckett said, “I’m sure the poor man knew he was marrying a man-eater—”

“Goddess, I think you meant to say.” She rounded the desk and presented her cheek for a kiss. He obliged, and she gave him an arch look. “And I’ll have you know I was quite the virgin when I married your uncle. Completely untouched!”

He grimaced. “Way too much info. And, if I know you at all, a complete fabrication.”

“Well, if you’re going to insult me I won’t give you your present,” she said lightly, perching on the edge of his desk.

The room was cramped with makeshift tables covered in a haphazard sprawl of wires, the innards of computers, broken monitors, boxes of mobile phones, data pads both working and not, and a jumble of other unidentifiable electronic flotsam. One wall was covered in old maps, the opposite wall displayed posters of World War II bombers, muscle cars, Amelia Earhart, and the odd pinup girl. Then there was the clock collection. Stacked in old milk crates in a teetering column that nearly reached the ceiling, hundreds of old clocks ticked out the minutes and hours, all of them set to pre-IF, global standard time for New York City, which Beckett insisted was the center of the civilized world before the Flash.