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sea—Isabelle didn’t care where he ended up.
    No, she’d find a way to get a hold of Caradoc and tell him about his daughter later. Meanwhile, she’d stay as far away as possible from his pretty words and pathetic excuses. No woman who had any pride at all would give him the time of day.
    Her phone rang, startling her. September!
    She dove for the small desk near the entry where she’d stashed her purse and snatched her cell out from the clutter of receipts and personal effects. Unable to breathe through her fierce hope, she flipped open the cell.
    Dismay sank her heart into the depths of her churning stomach. Not Paul, not September. Just a client who had asked her to inquire about the Monet. She tossed the phone onto the desk, not bothering to answer. The woman might have millions, but she’d never afford that painting. Not with Stiebel in town. Damien, their premiere buyer, probably had a silent client already lined up with a hefty deposit paid on commission charges. The Monet would return to a private collection, where it would remain forever lost to the public.
    Isabelle’s gaze strayed to the crisply made bed, despair weighing heavily. The combination of events and jet lag left her more exhausted than she’d been in years. She’d give anything for a nap. But sleeping meant the dreams would come. They came with a vengeance now. Had ever since she’d found brief peace with Caradoc.
    September shared the gift as well, the ability to see the coming , and occasionally the past, through sleep. Though Isabelle had become accustomed to the unsettling glimpses of the future, she couldn’t worry about the nameless, faceless child in her current nightmare.
    Nor could she take another terrified scream and a child’s plaintive wail for help. The dark scene rang chords that sounded too similar to September’s present situation. Before her daughter had been dragged into this, the reoccurring dream had been difficult enough to stomach. Now, it was another impossibility among many.
    No, she’d wait until she was so exhausted that the charm her gemstone supplier, Gabriel, had given her could ward the horror off. Reflexively, she rubbed the band of bronze around her arm before huddling deeper into her suit jacket. It helped. But minimally.
    The ache in her calves, however, refused to allow her to remain on her feet. She toed off her high heels and dropped into the desk chair. She thumbed through the rumpled stack of papers she’d reclaimed from Caradoc, looking for the notes she’d taken on the diamonds. Focus on the jewels. If Paul has them, September will be fine. Paul might have killed Rosa, but most hardened criminals drew lines when it came to children. She’d be all right. So long as Isabelle came home with the necklace, September would be just fine.
    She had to be.
    * * *
    As a nytym’s haunting death moan bounced off the tall mountainside and faded into the dark of night, Caradoc pushed away from his private balcony’s iron railing with a displeased mutter. He stalked through his room and opened his door, knowing his brothers would soon return. If he could not fight, he expected a full report.
    The lavish hall was empty. He stepped out, leaned against his door, and prepared for Gareth and Tane to arrive.
    Heavy boots on the stairs announced them within moments. As they entered the far end of the corridor, Caradoc straightened. He waited until they had observed his presence before he motioned them to follow him inside his room.
    When they had both assumed a chair in the antechamber of his suite, he perched on the arm of the small sofa. “What did you encounter?”
    Gareth stretched his legs before him and folded his hands behind his head. His sword poked neatly through the open space beneath the chair’s velvet-covered arm. “Two nytyms, two demons.”
    Caradoc’s gaze jerked to Tane, searching for some outward sign the darkness might have pushed him further into Azazel’s taint. Had he killed a single