Then, shifting it all yet again, to move the opening miles west of where he stood now.

He’d considered going to Marg to have her help him with the ritual, as the shared blood between her and Breen would simplify the matter.

But in the end, he was responsible. And if his hard words on her leaving had added to her staying away, he would have to find softer ones—somewhere—to persuade her back again.

So he cast the circle, spread the light through the dark. He called on the gods to bless his efforts in the name of that light. He drank the wine, poured the rest in the goblet on the ground, and as the earth drank, he brought the fire. And with his words ringing in the night, he lifted it high, spread it wide. Slowly, painstakingly, he drew the air in, winding it while the strain of holding all contained and focused ran sweat down his back.

The fire burned hot and red, then blue, and at last white and brilliant as it compressed. As it formed the door between the worlds.

“And with the words I have spoken, I ask locks to break and door to open. Grant me passage this night with my oath to carry the light from world to world to keep them free. As I will, so mote it be.”

With faith, he stepped forward into the whirling light, the licks of flame. And hurled himself from one world to another.

A flash of light, a slap of heat, and the portal snapped shut again at his back.

He found himself in a room in dim light with noise humming against the window. But none inside, he thought, no sounds inside the room.

He flicked his fingers for light, studied it. Colorful, he thought, and tidy. And empty. The floor creaked under his boots as he moved toward a small table and saw to his right a kitchen.

He’d seen others like it on his journeys and in books, though this one was very small and smelled, not unpleasantly, of something pretending to be lemons.

He heard a door slam, and voices—but outside the one here.

So, an apartment then, but he couldn’t be sure, as yet, the right apartment.

He walked down a narrow hallway, glanced in the room on the left. He saw a bed, neatly made, more color, a guitar on a stand, pictures of people playing musical instruments on the wall.

It neither looked nor smelled like Breen, so he turned into the room on his right.

And there she was—or the scent of her, the feel of her.

The machine she used to write her stories stood on a desk along with the picture of her father, his, and the others, like the one she’d given Marg and his family.

A case on the floor held a few things as if she’d laid them inside or had yet to take them out.

But where was she?

“Bugger it.”

Because he recognized the scrying mirror, he picked it up. Under normal circumstances he’d never have used another’s magick tool without permission, but he couldn’t wait on the niceties.

“Show me.”

The glass darkened, then cleared.

He saw her, sitting at a bar. She held a glass of wine, and her lips moved as she spoke to someone he couldn’t see. He thought she looked a bit weepy, and that caused him some discomfort.

Then she embraced someone, another woman, one with white-blond hair falling over bare shoulders.

No, not another woman, he realized, looking closer as they drew away to speak again. A man dressed as one—and well.

Sally’s, he realized. She’d spoken of the place and the man often.

He set the mirror down to take a divining stone from his pocket. “Show me the way.”

He started out, then remembered his sword. This world, he knew, would frown on a man wearing a sword, so he unstrapped it, set it down.

He kept the stone in his hand as he left the apartment, went down flights of stairs. Doors opened and closed and let out the sound of voices, the smell of food. Someone played a horn of some kind, and not well at all.

Outside the air cooled and clogged with the smell of the cars and the fuel they burned. Again, the colorful struck him. Not just in the clothing or the many hues of skin but in the city itself.

It was like rainbows, he noted, and couldn’t fault it.

Again, someone played a horn, but this time very well indeed. Lamps pooled light on the streets and sidewalks, and many strolled as if in no particular hurry. Two men approached each other with smiles in their eyes, then kissed as he walked by them.

He made a turn as the stone directed and found himself outside a building. More rainbows here and the lights in that same color spelled SALLY’S.

He stepped in—heat and music and color beyond even what he’d seen. But what he didn’t see was Breen at the bar where she’d been in the glass.

The idea of hunting her through the city irritated, and still the place itself lifted something in him.

Three women—no, men again—stood on a stage in costumes that glittered like stars. They sang in exceptional harmony.

The air smelled as bright as the voices.

So he paused to take in what had pulled her back to this place, and consider what he would have to do to find the way to pull her away again.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Behind the bar, busy mixing the perfect martini, Marco noticed Keegan the minute he walked in.

Some people, in Marco’s experience, had that power—the power to pull attention to them in a finger snap. It took more than looks—though, man, this guy had them—it took POW.

You couldn’t fake the POW. You had it, or you didn’t.

He poured the martini into the chilled glass, added three olives while he watched POW take in the club.

Liked the music, clearly, but then the Supremes never failed. And just as clearly POW looked for someone.

Lucky someone.

Tall and built, he thought as POW began to move toward the bar. Casually dressed—dark blue sweater, dark brown pants, sexily scarred boots. A sharp, angular face with a scruff that came off casual instead of deliberate.

The kind of thick, black hair anybody’d want to get their hands into. And with the kick of a single skinny braid running down the left side.

Something started to click, then POW stood at the bar, looking him straight in the eye. Marco had no shame admitting his brain fuzzed with lust for a minute.

“Welcome to Sally’s, Tall, Dark, and Gorgeous. What can I get you?”

“I’d be looking for Breen Kelly. Would you know her?”

The Irish accent slayed. And completed the click.

“The Irish god.”

Keegan’s eyebrows shot up. “Not altogether, no. A redhead, she is,” he began.

“I meant you. I’m Marco. Marco Olsen.” He shot out a hand to shake.

“Marco, is it? She spoke fondly of you, so I’m pleased to meet you. And would Breen be about?”

“She went backstage for a minute. She’ll be back.” Meanwhile, Marco thought, I can pump you for information. “What can I get you to drink while you wait? On the house,” he added, “from one friend of Breen’s to another.”

“That’s kind of you.” And easier by far, as he hadn’t thought to bring any local currency. He glanced at the taps, nodded. “I’d have a pint of Guinness, and thanks.”

“You got it. So . . .” Marco set the pint glass under the tap and began the process of building the Guinness. “You live near Breen’s grandmother.”

“I do.”

“Breen’s really happy she found her grandmother. It means a lot to her, especially after she found out her dad had died. Did you know him?”

“I did, and a finer man I’ve never known save my own father.”

While the layers of the Guinness settled, Marco took an order for a Moscow Mule, a Cosmo, and a couple of house reds.

“Breen didn’t mention you were coming.”

“She wouldn’t, as I didn’t mention it to her.”

“Surprise! How long are you in town?”

“Not long, I’m thinking. You know what you’re about there,” he commented as Marco filled the order. “A skilled barman’s a fine thing.”

“On-the-job training.” With the order filled, Marco finished the Guinness, set it in front of Keegan. “Breen’s more than a friend to me, more than a sister. She’s more.”

“And you to her, as I know from how she spoke of you.”

“I figure you could take me down and out without breaking a sweat, but I’d still come for you if you hurt her.”

Keegan kept his eyes on Marco’s as he sampled the Guinness. “A true friend, one who’ll stand for you no matter, is a treasure. I’m not after bringing harm to her.”

“She bruises easy. In here.” Marco tapped his heart.

“I met a woman of strength and will, and a fierce determination. And still I’m not after bruising her heart, or having her treasure of a friend come for me.”

“And who do we have here?” Sally, in snug, spangly black with over-the-knee boots and a platinum wig, sidled up beside Keegan.

“Breen’s . . . friend from Ireland,” Marco told him. “Sorry, she never said your name.”

“Keegan Byrne.”

“Oooh, accents do it every time.” Though Sally trailed a flirtatious finger down Keegan’s arm, his eyes stayed steady and assessing. “Aren’t you the surprise package? I’m Sally.”

“Sally? The mother of Breen’s heart.”

The assessing eyes softened. “That’s a sweet way to put it.”

“How she spoke of you made it clear enough. I like your place here very much. It’s good craic, and the performers have fine voices.”

“Wait until you see Sally’s Gaga,” Marco commented as he filled another order.

“You perform as well?”

“Honey, I was born for the stage, but I’ve got a little time before I blow the roof off. Marco, still water. Keegan, let’s you and I get ourselves a table, have a little talk.

“Hettie’ll bring the drinks,” Sally added as he hooked his arm with Keegan’s to steer him to a table in the back of the room.

“Would you be planning to come for me as well?” As, man or not, Sally was dressed as a female, Keegan held out his chair.