The most relevant what the fuck at the moment was how her technology curse seemed to have grown exponentially overnight. Up to this point, it had been limited to small electronics. Alarm clocks, the stupid Keurig. Her computers constantly went on the fritz, and she burned through an average of three iPads a year. Phones came and went with depressing frequency—although usually, she managed to get five or six months out of them if she left them to recharge in places other than her bedroom. She glared at her current phone.

She ought to be grateful the curse hadn’t caused her 747 to fall randomly out of the sky. That thought sent a chill running over her skin, and she slapped the car again.

A spark of awareness began to insinuate itself into her exhausted brain.

Snap out of it, Sophie, she scolded herself. You’re pounding on an inanimate object like it knows or cares. Get your act together. You’re acting like a whack job.

As quickly as her meltdown had come, it faded. Mostly, if she were to be honest, because she was too jet-lagged to sustain it, not because of any self-control on her part. Her partially healed injuries throbbed, and the major muscles in her thigh ached. The journey had taxed her body’s resources to the limit.

Sucking in a deep breath, she took a step back and considered her choices.

She could sit in the car and feel sorry for herself, and she was tempted. Even more tempting—she could climb back into the car, flip the locks, and take a nap.

But she really couldn’t see anybody. No person, piece of farm equipment, power line, or any kind of building was in sight—not even a pile of ancient ruins, which were sprinkled throughout this area of the world like so many Starbucks in Manhattan.

Last time she had checked, it had been close to 6:00 P.M. Summertime in England meant she had a good three and a half hours of sunlight left.

She could watch and wait, but it was entirely possible that nobody would be traveling on this road until tomorrow.

And she was so hungry. It hit with an urgency that felt like a spike piercing through her middle. Her confused body didn’t know if it was supposed to be day or night. The lunch she had eaten before she met with the solicitor in Shrewsbury had been hefty, but that had been several hours ago.

She had a couple of packages of sweet nuts and crisps from the plane flight, but at the thought of eating more of them, she got a queasy feeling. Her body needed real nourishment, not empty calories.

So, walking it was. The village of Westmarch had to be just a few miles away, maybe as many as five. Normally that kind of hike wasn’t an issue. Now she had to brace her tired spine at the thought.

All she had to do was reach the village. Paul, the solicitor in charge of overseeing the old entailed estate, had said Westmarch had a pub with rooms for rent, where she could get a hot meal and spend the night before she bought supplies and headed to the gatekeeper’s cottage in the morning.

That idea had appealed, so he had called ahead to reserve a room for her. Once she reached the village, someone could come back for the car and the rest of her things in the morning.

She still wore the skirt and blouse that she had worn to the solicitor’s office. Moving quickly, she opened the boot, rummaged through one of her suitcases, and pulled out jeans, a black T-shirt, a jean jacket, and black Doc Martens boots, which would be comfortable and sturdy for walking. Or running, if need be.

Last, she fingercombed her dark, curling hair back and snapped a band around it. Instinctively she reached to check for her Glock before she remembered she didn’t have it with her.

She’d had no problem leaving her apartment or notifying the precinct she would be taking an extended break. The most difficulty she’d had in leaving was when she had said good-bye to Rodrigo. When she had told him the news, she had reached out to hug him in the same moment he had reached for her.

Somehow the good-bye hug had turned into a tight clench, and they clung to each other for a long moment before letting go. They’d always worked well together and over the last couple of years had become good friends. Now they were the only two survivors of a confrontation nobody had expected to turn fatal.

After that, she had left LA without a backward glance, but she missed her gun with a passionate intensity that some felt over losing a best friend or a lover. Despite the array of offensive and defensive spells in her repertoire, she felt naked without her gun.

The Glock was streamlined and understated, and unlike her taste in the guys she’d dated or her curse with electronics, the gun was utterly reliable. It had saved her ass more times than she could count.

She would fucking marry that gun if she could.

Instead, she’d had to pack it away with the rest of her possessions in order to make this trip. Her California concealed-carry permit meant nothing in the UK, where handguns, semiautomatics, and pump-action rifles were prohibited for most citizens. Sophie had a better chance of contracting malaria here than obtaining a firearm certificate.

As she changed, she kept a wary eye on the secluded Shropshire countryside, but nobody showed up to offer her a ride.

Naturally.

Because if they had, it would have made this too fucking easy. Fuck.

Finally she settled her bag across her body, messenger-style, grabbed a water bottle from the front passenger seat, and forced herself to put two of the small packages of nuts and crisps into the pocket of her jacket.

After she took a long pull of water from the bottle, she wiped her mouth with the back of one hand, then locked the car. Then she swung into a walk that would eat through the miles at an easy pace that her body could handle, heading down the road.

The tight ache in her right thigh eased as tired muscles loosened. Soon her stride turned loose and flowing, and the surrounding quiet began to sink in. The heat of the day had fled, leaving behind the growing chill of a cool summer evening. She felt almost as if she were swimming in pure, ageless golden sunlight.

She began to understand why Kathryn had said the Welsh Marches, or the area that bordered Wales and England, was some of the most mystical land in the world. Land magic wrapped around her, archaic and untamed. Crossover passages to Other lands existed somewhere nearby. Maybe several of them. Maybe even a lot of them.

Soaking it in, walking steadily, Sophie fell into a trance until what looked like the head of a dark mop trundled onto the road several yards ahead.

It just so happened, her trajectory along the edge of the road brought her closer to the wandering object. At first she thought it might be a badger, but when she drew closer, she discovered that wasn’t the case.

Huh. It really did look like the head of a dark mop, sort of all poufy and puffy, and roughly the same size.

It meandered down the middle of the road at a slow enough pace that she caught up with it without really wanting to or trying.

She wanted to ignore it and pass on by. She didn’t want to pay attention. That ambulatory mophead was a what the fuck she didn’t need to jot onto her list.

Angling out her jaw, she paused to look, first down the road in one direction, then behind her. Still no vehicle in sight—but that didn’t mean it would stay that way. This was deep country, and there weren’t any streetlamps. The road would get very dark after sunset.

The mophead was dark too. It wouldn’t show up well in a vehicle’s headlights. Her imagination did the rest.

“Shoo,” she told it. “Get off the road.”

One end of the mop appeared to lift up and turn in her direction. It approached unhurriedly.

Crossing her arms, she waited. When it got close enough, the starch in her knees gave out. In spite of herself, she squatted.

A small, bizarre face like a miniature Ewok’s blinked up at her from a mane of dirty, tangled hair. It had huge, bulbous eyes, one decidedly off-kilter, and a small, black button nose.