“I’m thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Don’t be a jackass.”

“You have till the count of three, then I leave. Two.”

“Oh, fine, come in,” she snaps.

I do smile then but permit it only because she has closed the door to unhook the chain and can’t see me. She opens it and steps back. I have found there to be little distance between the unlatching of a chain and the spreading of a woman’s legs. As if they can never unbar only a single entrance. It’s a disease called hope.

She pushes the door flat to the wall. She thinks it makes her safe. I enter. Don’t bother to close it. That will come later. She toes a rug and a lacy bra beneath the bed. I will see much more than that before I leave.

“So, what is it? No, wait—how do you spell it?”

I pace a circle around her. She spins as I stalk her, unwilling to give me her back. I’m going to have it anyway. Every way. “S-i-n-s-a-r.”

“Sinsar?”

“Shi-sa. Shi-sa-du.” I continue pacing. I like the way her body moves. If she glances down, she’ll see my coat is open and my suit fails to conceal how hard I am. She never takes her gaze from my face. Few keep it there.

“Oh, that makes great sense. And the du?”

I stop circling, facing the door. She stops, her back to it. Three feet separate us. I can feel her. Smell her.

“D-u-b-h.”

“Dubh is ‘do’? Should I be calling pubs ‘poos’?”

“Dubh is Gaelic, Ms. Lane. Pub is not.”

“Don’t bust a gut laughing.”

“Nothing about the Sinsar Dubh is a laughing matter.”

“I stand corrected. So what is this gravest of graves?”

Flippant. She has no business being here. Fio was right.

It would be merciful, Jericho. Kill her quickly before one of the others tortures her for days then rips out her throat.

Does mercy look like my middle fucking name?

Do it for me, Jericho. I can’t bear the thought of what one of the others will do to her.

One of them? Or me, Fiona? Which thought can’t you bear?

I saw the look in your eyes. Jericho, how could you want that … that … that foolish, empty-headed child! What could she possibly offer you?

“Too long,” I say. Fiona has been with me too long.

“What?” she says blankly.

I’m suddenly furious that MacKayla Lane came to my city, thinks to play on the same field with me and mine, made herself my problem in any capacity. “Go home, Ms. Lane. Be young. Be pretty. Get married. Have pretty babies. Grow old with your pretty husband.”

“Oh, screw you, Jericho Barrons! Tell me what it is. You said you would.”

“If you insist. Don’t be a fool. Don’t insist.”

“I’m insisting. What is it?”

“Last chance.” For many things.

“Too bad. I don’t want a last chance. Tell me.”

I was lying anyway. Her last chance was her first one. She walked through my door. “The Sinsar Dubh is a book.”

“A book? That’s all? Just a book?”

“On the contrary, Ms. Lane, never make that mistake. Never think it just a book. It is an exceedingly rare and exceedingly ancient manuscript countless people would kill to possess.”

“Including you? Would you kill to possess it?”

“Absolutely. Anyone and anything that gets in my way. Always have. Always will. Reconsidering your stay, Ms. Lane?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’ll be going home in a box, then.”

“Is that another of your threats?”

“It is not me who will put you there.”

“Who will?”

“I answered your question, now it’s your turn to answer mine. What do you know of the Sinsar Dubh, Ms. Lane? Tell me. And don’t lie. I’ll know.” I could Voice her, force her to tell me everything. Little fun there.

“My sister was studying here. She was killed a month ago. She left me a voice-mail message right before she died, telling me I had to find the Sinsar Dubh.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t say. She just said everything depended on it.”

“Where is this message? I must hear it myself.”

“I accidentally deleted it.” Her gaze darts to the side.

“Liar. You would make no such mistake with a sister you care enough about to die for. Where is it? If you are not with me, Ms. Lane, you are against me. I have no mercy for my enemies.”