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over doorways and walls that were framed out, some with insulation, others wavering heavily with their swift passage.
    What could have possibly interested Eleanor’s shadow here? No light, no noise, no people to entice.
    They came to a heavy metal door with a keypad, which Cam’s passcode opened, to his surprise. He’d figured that sooner or later he’d reach the limit of his security clearance, but the shadow was obviously not lurking in a high security zone.
    Beyond was a wide hallway, white and scuffed, with another set of sealed double doors at its end. An exit, probably off the west side of the building. A ladder lay on its side near the wall, splattered with paint.
    And farther down, kneeling on the floor in profile, arms reaching toward a long, narrow panel— drywall? —was Eleanor’s shadow.
    “See?—” Cam began to Eleanor.
    But Eleanor was already rushing down the hallway. Cam and the soldiers ran behind, though no danger was apparent. The passage had been quiet; no sinister Segue procedure was being enacted on the dark form, for which he was very relieved. They all came to a halt when the front of the panel was visible; it was not drywall, but a painting.
    Eleanor’s shadow was on her knees. Cam almost dropped to his own.
    He looked upon the Shadowlands.
    He’d hoped one day to see this place with his own eyes. He’d worked hard to earn the right, and even got the coveted job that would offer the possibility. For this, he would’ve given and would give everything. Maybe, oh God , even allow innocent Eleanor Russo to be taken away by an aide of The Order.
    Magic.
    The panel was a window to another world, one alive with lush wonders. Ancient trees filled the view, with leaves of deep, raging color—indigo, magenta, midnight purple. And they moved as if alive, as if the trees were aware he gazed on them with all the longing in his heart. Shadow, his Shadow, that new and oh-so-old element he sought to study, fell thick in every hollow and copse. He sensed that if he reached, he might scoop a handful and drink it like river water. And within the darkest patches, movement. The fae.
    It was the between world—the place where the mortal world met the Hereafter. On every level of his being, he desired this place.
    He gave a soft, breathless groan of want, but no . . . the sound his heart made came from a female throat. At his side, composed and controlled Eleanor was weeping again. She wept for Shadow. Fierce longing pulled at her features, as she too, looked on forever. She seemed in the midst of both devastation and epiphany. He knew exactly how she felt.
    And below him, kneeling, her shadow’s arms tried to embrace magic. The slight break and stress of her wrists emphasized how empty her hands were. She reached toward the forest, the stretch of her body anguished with need.
    Eleanor had been weeping for at least a half hour before they’d found her shadow. She must have been feeling this—he knew she had. But how?
    We are the same, Eleanor had said. I am her and she is me.
    Something clicked in his mind.
    He was an idiot. Worse, she knew he was an idiot. Her shadow was not a reflection or ghost twin or doppelganger.
    Her shadow was herself. Therefore, only one woman was in the hallway with him. One woman, split into two, elemental and reasoning, in respective bodies, but one.
    Further, the sweet Ms. Eleanor Russo was not so controlled, not so compliant, certainly not cooperative. Part of her was intensely curious, wanted sex and wanted it bad, sought attention at every turn, acted on pure instinct. The other part was deliberate, enduring, brave, and desperate in her cause.
    Separate, she had a big problem, one she’d hoped he would solve. Altogether, she made one hell of an intriguing woman.
    Huh. Been a while since he’d had a crush on anyone. It was as good a reason as any to do the right thing.
    He sighed, blowing out his decision slowly. He would not be turning Eleanor over to any aide tomorrow,