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door stood at the end of the hall. Definitely not the sort for a home and garden magazine cover. The bottom edge was chipped and splintered, as if something on the other side had tried to claw its way out from underneath.
    Maybe it was still in there.
    Chiara dug a key out of her purse and unlocked the door, her knuckles white from the exertion. The lock clacked open like a shot from a gun.
    He flinched and shifted his weight to one foot to hide it.
    "Well, it's not much." She pushed open the door and walked in. "But it's home."
    His eyes went wide. The inside of the room was a spacious suite, floor to twenty-foot ceiling windows with heavy brocade draperies and richly furnished. Elegant tiles covered the floor beneath thick oriental rugs, orchids in antique vases.
    And lamps. Looked like a lamp warehouse. Hanging lamps, Tiffanys, floor stands, table lamps, every kind imaginable. Only a few were lit, enough to illuminate the room in a homey glow. He squinted involuntarily as he imagined what it would be like if they had all been switched on. Could land a space shuttle by it, probably.
    A massive black marble fireplace burned a cozy blaze. Everything, straight out of a royal estate.
    Except for the couch.
    It wasn't enough to say it didn't fit the rest of the décor—it positively rebelled against it. Orange upholstery that had probably seen the best Starsky and Hutch had to offer, with thin cushions that had started to develop an accidental along the edges. It probably couldn't even be called orange.
    Puce. That sounded like a better fit for the mess.  He wasn't even sure what puce was but he had to guess, he'd say he was looking right at it.
    "You can stay the night. Time enough for the trail to go cold. I'm sure there's a room you'd find comfortable. Feel free to look around." Chiara dropped her purse onto the wretched sofa and sat down. "You are coming in, right?"
    "Oh. Right." He didn't realize he was still standing in the doorway. "Is there a—"
    "No barriers. No wards. Anyway. Upstairs is through there." She pointed at large arched pass-through on the far side of the room. "I've never gone through it all."
    He slid his fingers into his shirt, touching the medal he wore on a chain. Pulling up layer upon layer of protection, he cracked his knuckles, rolled his shoulders, and cautiously stepped forward.
    No explosion. No demon attack. No being flayed alive by booby traps.
    Yet.
    He side-stepped his way over to her and leaned over, peering through the doorway. A grand staircase swept up and out of sight. He'd seen some pretty intense illusions before but this was off the fricken chart.
    "This glamour must be consuming a ton of power. But—" He hovered his hands near her. "Not yours. I'd feel a drain on you."
    Chiara leaned back against the cushion. "That's because it's not a glamour. It's real. This place travels wherever I do. My father insists."
    "Your father—"
    Chiara smiled, more saccharin than sugar, and tugged off her boots. "Still don't want to talk about him."
    "But this would take infinite strength to sustain."
    "You really don't grasp the concept of infinity, do you?"
    He chuckled. "What's not to grasp? Big. Really damn big."
    "Okay, give me one good example of something infinite."
    "Easy." He clamped a cigarette between his lips and lit a tinder stick from the fireplace. "The universe."
    "Seriously?"
    "Yeah, seriously."
    "The universe is anything but infinite. Matter can neither be created nor destroyed, remember? Even humans know that."
    "But it's expanding."
    "Expansion doesn't make it infinite. There is still a limit. The front of the storm, the leading edge. That limit keeps it from being infinite."
    He sat on a satin lowboy near the mantelpiece and flicked his ashes into the fireplace. "So, Dr. Hawking, what is infinite, then?"
    Chiara shrugged. "Humans."
    Simon chuffed out a lungful of smoke and barked a laugh. "Humans, my dear, are the very definition of the word limit. The antithesis of