for its ears, which slid back to listen. “Hey, mutt, that boot’s

only a month old.”

The pup reared up so fast, it somersaulted over

backward with a yip of surprise, then bolted into the woods

up the mountain, its tail tucked protectively between its

legs. Duncan sighed and stood up to walk over and pick up

his boot, brushing his hand over the teeth marks in the

leather. The damn dog appeared to have been trying to eat

it. He looked in the direction it had run off, wondering if it

real y might be stranded and nearly starved. He went back

to his mossy spot above the sunken beach and dropped

down to dress his feet, and then just sat staring at his boat.

Dammit to hel ; he had a change of clothes in his pack, and

he real y wanted his sword—although not enough to spend

the night playing keep-away with a whale.

Duncan lay back on the moss again and closed his eyes

and slowed his breathing, trying to bring the mountain’s

heartbeat into rhythm with his—just like Ian had told him

TarStone had done the night he’d claimed his own cal ing.

Except his nephew had been given a tal , gnarly staff to

control TarStone’s power, where he had … nothing. What in

the name of God had Mac hidden over here? Hel , did his

mountain even have a name? He wasn’t sure it had even

existed before the earthquake, despite being covered with

some pretty impressive old-growth timber. But then, Mac

could have merely folded the existing earth when he’d split

the land to form the fiord.

“Focus, MacKeage,” he muttered, closing his eyes

again. “Feel where the energy is coming from.”

Wait. Ian had also had a mentor; a thieving,

cantankerous old hermit by the name of Roger AuClair de

Keage—who also happened to be the original MacKeage.

Then why was he stuck with zilch? No gnarly staff and no

mentor—because Mac needed a little vacation to recover

from turning an entire state on its ear—no instruction

manual or treasure map or sage animal familiar to guide

him, no … nothing. Just a goddamned sleeping mountain

with no sense of humor. Didn’t Providence realize he could

blow himself and half of Spel bound Fal s to kingdom come

messing with something he didn’t know anything about?

Duncan bolted upright. The pup. If it had been living here

since the earthquake almost a month ago, it must know the

mountain pretty wel by now. Al he had to do was fol ow it

around until it led him … someplace. And it was obviously

hungry, so befriending it shouldn’t be any harder than

feeding it. But feed it what? The snack he’d brought was in

his backpack, which was in the boat in the middle of the

fiord being guarded by the mother of al whales.

Duncan stood up with a smile and pul ed his knife out of

its sheath again. He had a mountain, didn’t he, which would

be home to al manner of furred and finned and feathered

food? And roasting partridge or trout could be smel ed for

miles if the nose doing the smel ing happened to be canine.

He unscrewed the cap on the hilt of his knife and turned it

upside down to shake the contents into his hand: a smal

coil of fishing line with a hook, a magnesium flint, a real y

smal medical kit, a sandwich bag, and a length of fine wire.

He’d taken out the salt tablets and replaced them with

aspirin the day he’d bought the knife, since sweating vital

minerals wasn’t a worry in Maine because, hel , he just had

to lick a pothole. He’d also tossed the compass cap and

replaced it with something solid enough to pound with, and

wrapped the hilt with rough black tape for a better grip. So

he was basical y good to go for his hike around the

goddamned fiord—or indefinitely, actual y—assuming he

didn’t mind being cold and miserable until he built a fire and

dried out.

Duncan stuffed the fishing line in his jacket pocket,

careful y worked everything else back into the knife, and

screwed on the cap. He blew out a sigh and headed up the

mountain at a diagonal in the direction the pup had run,

figuring he’d eventual y come across a stream. Damn, he’d

like to have the huge trout Jacob had caught and insisted

they throw back when its watery eye had stared up at the

kid, its mouth gaping open as it gasped for breath. That

particular twin, he decided, was going to make some lucky

woman a real y good husband—whereas Pete was

probably going to see the inside of an emergency room

and juvenile detention hal a couple of times before he

pul ed his act together.

Duncan heard the gushing stream long before the

moonlight revealed its glistening water cascading down

over a long series of weatherworn boulders, ending in a

pool spanning a hundred yards across. It wasn’t a vertical

waterfal like the one in Spel bound, but it was stil a rather

impressive sight.

He shed his jacket and rol ed up his sleeves as he knelt

beside the pool and dipped his hands to splash some

water on his face, only to jerk back in surprise. He stuck his

hand in the water again and swirled it around, and yup, it

was the temperature of bathwater. He sat back on his heels

and gazed up at the stream rol ing down over the boulders,

wondering why it was warm. He cupped his hand in the

water and lifted it to his nose and sniffed, then dipped his

tongue into it. It smel ed and tasted fine; it was just warm.

He pul ed his fishing line out of his pocket and tied the

end of it to a smal rock, then got up and walked over to a

bed of moss and knelt down again. Using his knife, he cut a

patch out of the moss and folded it back, then dug through

the dirt until he found a fat grub. He returned and baited the

hook and threw it out into the pool, setting the rock on the

edge of the bank despite having little hope he’d find trout in

water that warm.

He had just started to get up when the rock suddenly slid

a good six inches, and he grabbed it just in time to feel the

line tighten again with a rather impressive tug. He tugged

back, then stood up and pul ed in the line, stepping away

when an equal y impressive trout flopped out of the water to

land beside his feet.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, pouncing on the flopping

fish that had to weigh at least three pounds. “Okay then. I

take back every dark thought I had about ye,” he said out

loud to the sleeping mountain.

He returned to the moss and tossed down the fish and

found another grub, baited the hook again and tossed it in

the water, but held on to the line this time. The hook couldn’t

even have reached bottom before he felt the line go taught,

and he yanked out another fish half again bigger than the

first one. He caught two more before he took his catch

down to where the pool spil ed into the forest below and

quickly cleaned them, then set about gathering fal en

branches and had a fire going in less than ten minutes.

While it built up a bed of coals, he cut several forked

branches and whittled off the bark before careful y

skewering the fish. He propped the sticks across two rocks

so the fish hung over the coals he’d raked between them,

and final y unlaced his boots with a sigh. He may not be

making any headway finding the instrument of his power,

but he was going to have a ful bel y when he walked home

empty-handed.

And if the pup had half a brain, it would get its bel y fil ed

tonight, too.

Duncan slipped off his pants, laid them out on a tree