Dark Deceiver. Pamela Palmer

rising over the clank and splash of the tie lines, making Autumn’s stomach hurt. Every time she turned on the news, another bizarre death was being reported in D.C. Every time she heard a siren, she wondered how many more people had died because of the Esri. How many more murders she might have prevented if she hadn’t let that kid go.

      A chilly breeze blew a loose wisp of hair in her face as she made her way across the swaying deck of the houseboat to the makeshift desk she’d set up near the back rail. The setting sun over the water blinded her with its brilliance. She grabbed her chair, as much to secure her balance as to move it to the other side of the small table that held her laptop.

      Larsen had offered up her unoccupied boat when Autumn had needed a place to stay for a few weeks while her apartment was being repaired after a pipe burst in the unit above hers. In hindsight, she wished she’d taken her less-than-stellar coordination into consideration when she’d decided to live in a moving house. The boat was one of dozens moored at the Top Sail Marina on the Potomac River. Across the river rose the office towers of the very urban Virginia suburbs.

      Autumn plopped down in front of her laptop as a pair of gulls cried overhead. For two weeks she’d been trying to find a clue to the other Esri stones. She might not be much of a soldier, but she was a crack researcher, and finding the stones was her only chance to make up for letting that Esri kid go.

      Her current research path followed the acquisition records for the Stone of Ezrie: the stone whose scent Baleris had apparently followed to find the gate between the worlds, the stone the Esri called the draggon stone, according to Tarrys. Tarrys was the second of Baleris’s slaves, a pretty little thing, barely five feet tall, who had actually helped them defeat Baleris, then stayed after his death.

      Before Baleris’s arrival, the draggon stone had been doing time as a Smithsonian artifact. A thumb-size pale blue teardrop on a silver chain, the thing had appeared innocuous enough. What made it unique was the seven-pointed star etched on its surface and the legend that it was the key to the gates of Ezrie—a legend, it turned out, that was all too true. If the Esri got their hands on that stone and took it back through the gate, the seals on all twelve gates around the world would instantly dissolve. The Esri could still only get through during the midnight hour of a full moon, but the thought of Baleris’s reign of terror times twelve…every month…was enough to give ulcers to the bravest of souls.

      She shivered and reached for the zipper on her jacket. If the draggon stone was a key, what was the purpose of the other Esri stones the kid had mentioned? Were they all keys? Or did they serve a different, more ominous purpose? All she knew was they’d better find them before the Esri did.

      Her finger smoothed down the copy of the acquisition record she’d copied from the Smithsonian’s archives. The page sat beside her laptop, her coffee mug anchoring it against the breeze. She was hoping the previous owner of the draggon stone had been Sitheen with some ability to sense the power in the stones. If he’d owned the one, maybe he’d owned more. She knew she was grasping at straws, but at the moment it was all she had to go on.

      She glanced up at her computer, but a movement in the distance caught her attention. Her gaze snagged on a man striding purposefully down the path to the docks—a tall man with dark hair hanging in wind-tossed waves to his shoulders, framing a face that was all strong bones and hard angles. A face darkened by several days’ growth of beard. Dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, he looked like some kind of roughrider—sexy and wonderfully dangerous.

      As if hearing her thoughts, his head snapped up. He seemed to spear her with his gaze, though he was too far away for her to know if he even saw her. He was probably admiring the sunset. But it still made her pulse race, the fanciful notion that they were destined to meet flitting foolishly through her head.

      Which was silly, of course. Even if they were destined to meet, it wouldn’t be in a romantic way. At least not for him. Though she was definitely a woman who attracted attention, it was never the kind any woman wanted. “Damn, you’re tall,” was not a comment designed to quicken the pulse. She’d learned a long time ago that men who looked like this one could have their pick of the female population. And no man with choices chose Ronald McDonald’s Amazonian cousin.

      Toying with her coffee mug, she watched him reach the docks and turn her way. Her pulse leaped. Surely he wasn’t coming to see her? With suddenly unsteady hands, she lifted the coffee mug, forgetting its role as paperweight. A gust of wind tore the copied acquisition record out from under the lifted cup and sent it soaring over the rail and into the water like a dying moth.

      Autumn’s jaw dropped at the unfairness of her life, then clamped shut with a snap. “Hell’s bells.” She lunged to her feet, looking for something to help her fish the paper from the water before it disintegrated. She spied the long, metal boat hook hanging from the side of the cabin and grabbed it, but the brackets were stiff with rust and refused to let go. With a growl, she curled her fingers around the metal, took a deep breath and yanked as hard as she could.

      “Hello.”

      The boat lurched behind her at the exact moment the long hook came free. Turning toward the deep, masculine voice, Autumn stumbled, the boat hook swinging wildly in her hands. Before she could catch her balance, the metal struck her visitor in the head with a sickening thud. The very man she’d been drooling over!

      With a groan, she squeezed her eyes closed. If only she could be someone…anyone…other than Autumn McGinn.

      Chapter 2

      Kaderil snatched the cold metal weapon from the woman’s hand, his muscles tensing in preparation for counterattack even as his brain screamed for caution. Human. Fragile. She could do him no damage unless she was Sitheen and knew the death curse.

      Was she Sitheen? Is that how she’d so quickly seen through his facade?

      The boat rolled lightly beneath his feet, forcing him to adjust his stance for balance. But as he prepared for battle, watching for her next move, his opponent inexplicably closed her eyes. An oddly pained expression crossed her face, confounding him. Was this how she drew her power? Even Sitheen were known to sometimes possess the power of the Esri.

      The loud hum of a motorboat on the water sounded in the distance as he waited, muscles bunched, but his gaze never left her face. A detached part of his brain couldn’t help but admire the rare beauty of this human with hair the color of fire, and freckles that dotted the pale perfection of her skin like tiny golden jewels. All his life he’d been surrounded by the white-skinned, pale-haired Esri, the standard of true beauty in his land. But he was finding his eye preferred the more varied, more vibrant coloring of humans. And this woman’s was the most vibrant of them all.

      Her eyes opened. He tensed until he realized their clear gray depths shone not with the light of battle, but with regret.

      Kaderil stared at her with wary confusion, freezing when she reached for him not with fists or claws, but with the softest of fingers closing around his wrist.

      “I’m so sorry.”

      Sorry? He watched her, bemused, and allowed her to tug him from the rail.

      “Let me look at your head. I can’t believe I hit you.”

      She stood half a head shorter than him, yet she pushed him into the flimsy woven chair with ease, so stunned was he by her reaction to him. Women feared him. He demanded their fear! Yet this one dared treat him like an injured child.

      Anger, and some dark emotion he didn’t want to acknowledge, had his muscles bunching to right this wrong, but his lucid mind stopped him cold. He must pretend to be human. A nice human, worthy of trust.

      He forced himself to remain motionless. To submit. But when her fingers eased into his hair, his hands curled around the chair’s arms until he heard the crack of plastic and felt the sharp bits flake beneath his fingertips. He never let others get this close. Never.

      “I’m sorry if I’m hurting you, but I’ve got to find the cut.”

      She would find no bleeding gash, of course, but a human would