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Room.
    At least she told herself that was why she chose that place. It wasn’t because there was an iron altar gate in the room, relic of some medieval cathedral. It wasn’t because she wanted to hide behind it. It wasn’t because of the voice in her head whispering insistently: Cold iron . Get behind the gate.
    That voice was talking nonsense. Cold iron was nonsense. Fairies were nonsense. Her bizarre visitor in Clonmel had been a perfectly ordinary nut job. The real danger now was Frank, and she was determined to outwit him this time. The sword was just a sword. Nothing more, nothing less. The hum was the air-conditioning. Or the heat. Climate control of some kind. Nothing supernatural at all.
    She hid the sword among the other weapons, pocketed the iron gate key, and hurried back through the museum’s darkened halls, the silk of her gown swishing noisily. The galleries were an unfamiliar landscape at night, a rabbit warren of interconnected buildings and projecting wings, confusing by day, nearly impossible to navigate in the dark. She paused to get her bearings in the museum’s rotunda, where moonlight flooded in through a glass dome.
    To her left were the pitch-black galleries of the old museum, where she had left the sword. To her right were the lighted corridors of the new American wing, all sleek white walls and soft gray carpet. The distant clink of glasses and the occasional bubble of laughter indicated that the Maya exhibit party was already in progress. She’d left the sword several galleries behind her, but the feeling, the tension vibrating through her body, was growing.
    She ignored it, smoothed her gown, swiped her ID badge past the electronic lock on the door, and stepped through.
    It was like entering another world. The old galleries had been cool and silent. The new wing was warm and loud. The dull roar of the party rushed down the corridor to meet her, and somehow, instead of offering comfort, the light and warmth only increased her unease. Beth wished she could go home, put on her pajamas, and spend the night in front of the television. The idea was a lot more appealing than what she was about to do.
    The gallery was crowded, but mostly at the ends of the room, where the bars were set up. She searched the crowd for Dave Monroe. She needed to talk to the museum’s director now, before Frank turned up and used his charm to twist the truth.
    Helene appeared beside her, a glamorous column of pale-blue silk holding a glass of red wine in each hand. “Here. You’re going to need this.”
    Beth groaned. “Why? What now?” But she took the drink, hoping it might blunt the keyed-up, edgy feeling she couldn’t shake.
    “Frank got to the director before you. I heard it from his admin. He called Dave Monroe this morning and told him you fled Clonmel one step ahead of a drug charge.”
    “What?” She couldn’t believe it. “I barely drink, Helene.”
    Helene pursed her lips. “ I know that, but you haven’t been yourself since you got off the plane from Clonmel. I’m not saying that there isn’t a good reason. If my ex-husband tried to gaslight me, I’d be out of sorts, too. But you have to think about how it looks to Dave. And you have to be strategic if you want to outmaneuver Frank.” Helene nodded to where Dave stood beside a Mayan relief. He was staring up at a taller man, and seemed to be listening enthralled. Then Beth looked at the man.
    Even before he turned, she knew it was him. Conn. Her Celt from Clonmel. He looked different without his costume, but the sharp cheekbones and dangerous, pale-blue eyes were the same.
    Tonight his white-blond braids were drawn off his face and gathered at the back of his neck. He wore jeans, indigo blue and artfully frayed at the hem. His white button-down was needle tailored and open at the collar. His forest-green velvet coat might have come from Carnaby Street—or Culloden. The effect was striking but not entirely outlandish in a university town that