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The manager of the Lost Creek Inn had introduced herself as Edith Fenwick. She was a robust middle-aged woman with a haircut that was several years out of style. She wore a plaid flannel shirt and jeans designed for comfort, not fashion. Roxy charmed her immediately.

“Aren’t you just the cutest thing?” Edith chuckled. “I love that adorable little hat. I don’t generally allow animals in the rooms but I think I can make an exception for an emotional support dust bunny.”

“Thank you,” Leona said.

Roxy was perched on the front desk, admiring a bowl of wrapped candies. She blinked her bright blue eyes a couple of times. Edith got the message. She picked up a foil-wrapped chocolate and offered it. Roxy took it with perfect manners and set about unwrapping it as if it were an impossibly expensive gift of gold amber.

Edith smiled and turned back to Leona and Oliver. “You two got lucky,” she said. “You made it into town ahead of the big storm. It’s due to hit later tonight. Now, will that be one room or two?”

“Two, please,” Leona said before Oliver could reply.

He gave her a not-so-subtle I’m in charge here look and switched his attention to Edith. “We’re in town on business,” he said, adjusting his black-framed glasses. “I’m the director of the Rancourt Museum. Dr. Griffin is a consultant who specializes in authenticating objects with a paranormal provenance. We’re here to examine an Old World journal in the collection of a local resident. Norton Thacker. Perhaps you know him?”

Edith snorted. “Everybody knows Thacker. Lives in the big house up in the woods. He’s what folks like to call eccentric.”

“Eccentric?” Oliver repeated.

“That’s the polite term for it, I guess. If you ask me, the right word is hoarder .”

“I see,” Oliver said. “I’m looking forward to viewing a document he wants to sell. I hope we haven’t made this long trip for nothing.”

Leona resisted the urge to lift her eyes to the ceiling. Somewhere between parking the car in the small lot in front of the inn and walking into the rustic lobby, Oliver had gone through a transformation. He was no longer the quietly competent, possibly dangerous man she had sat beside during the long drive from Illusion Town. Instead, with the aid of the glasses, a dark jacket and trousers, a button-down shirt, and a worn leather messenger bag, he was back in his nothing-to-see-here antiquities-expert persona.

“So, you two work for a museum?” Edith asked.

“To be clear,” Oliver said, “I am the director of the museum. Dr. Griffin is currently employed by me.”

“I’m an independent consultant,” Leona said crisply.

“Yeah, well, whatever.” Edith shrugged. “Makes a change. We don’t get a lot of academic types here. Most of my guests are folks who take a wrong turn fifty miles back on the highway and get stuck here overnight. They don’t hang around long.”

“What about the other guests?” Leona asked. “The ones who come here on purpose?”

“You mean the Vance tourists.” Edith snorted again. “We get a few of those, all right. Mostly in the summer, though, not this time of year.”

“What’s the definition of a Vance tourist?” Oliver asked.

Edith handed him a pen to sign the register. “There’s an old story that claims Vincent Lee Vance used Lost Creek as his base of operations when he was firing up the rebellion.”

Oliver made an illegible scrawl on the page. “It’s not completely outside the realm of possibility. For decades historians have speculated that Vance recruited his early followers from somewhere in the Mirage Mountains.”

“I’ve heard that,” Edith said. “But as far as I know, the Vance tourists haven’t ever found any proof that Lost Creek was his headquarters.” She winked. “Except for the ghost, of course.”

Leona smiled. “You’ve got a resident ghost here in Lost Creek?”

“They say Vance stayed right here in this inn. The tourists like to think he still haunts the place.” Edith raised her brows in a sly manner. “I don’t mind admitting I’ve made some money off that story. No harm in it. But to tell you the truth, I’ve operated this inn for over thirty years and I’ve never seen a ghost.”

“Not surprising, since ghosts don’t exist,” Leona said.

“Do me a favor. Don’t tell the Vance tourists.” Edith leaned against the counter. “So, you’re planning to buy some old document from Thacker, hmm? Word of advice. Be really careful when you go inside that old house.”

“Why?” Leona asked.

“The place is crammed with junk. Folks around here figure he’ll either get crushed when some of the stuff collapses on him or else the house will catch fire. Talk about a tinderbox.”

“Serious collectors tend to become obsessed,” Leona said.

“There’s obsessed and then there’s batshit crazy. My advice is to take a real close look at whatever Thacker wants to sell to you.”

“Are you saying he might attempt to defraud us?” Oliver asked, gravely disapproving now.

“It’s a lot more likely that he’s the one who got taken,” Edith said. “He’d buy an old chipped mug if you told him Vance drank a cup of coffee out of it.”

“Does he come into town often?” Oliver asked.

“I don’t think anyone has seen him outside of that creepy old house of his in years,” Edith said. “If it weren’t for Hester Harp, we’d have figured Thacker died a decade ago.”

“Who is Hester Harp?” Leona asked.

“His housekeeper. She’s the one who does his grocery shopping, picks up his mail, and pays his bills. The man would probably starve to death without her.” Edith plucked two keys out of a drawer and handed them across the counter. “Here you go, rooms two-oh-three and two-oh-four on the second floor. Take a right at the top of the stairs. Breakfast is served from seven to eight. Coffee is on all day.”

“Thanks,” Oliver said.

“Any restaurant suggestions?” Leona asked. “We haven’t had dinner.”

“Can’t do any better than the diner across the street,” Edith said. “It’s the only restaurant in town. Closes at eight.”

“Good to know,” Leona said.

Oliver picked up his suitcase and reached for hers.

“That’s all right,” she said. “I’ve got it.”

“I’ll take it,” Oliver said.

Really? They were going to argue over who carried her suitcase? She thought about explaining that when she went into the Underworld, she always handled her own gear, but this did not seem to be the right moment for that conversation.

“Thank you,” she managed, aware that she sounded grudgingly polite.

Oliver was already heading for the stairs. “You’re welcome.”

Stifling a sigh, she scooped Roxy off the counter and hurried after Oliver. The sight of the small amber-and-steel sculpture on a nearby table stopped her. It was a beautifully realized specter-cat. The artist had captured the power and elegance of the creature. The cat’s amber eyes reminded her of Oliver—intelligent and dangerous. Everything about the predator was infused with control.

There was a small price tag attached. Curious, she picked up the cat and turned it over. The name Stark was engraved on the bottom.

She put the cat down. “I see this piece is for sale.”

“Yep.” Edith smiled. “Local artist. We don’t have any fancy galleries in town so I let him put some of his work on display here at the inn. I sell a few pieces for him every season.”

“I see,” Leona said. She realized Oliver was already on the second-floor landing. “I’ll take another look later.”

“No rush,” Edith said. “Not like we’re overrun with outsiders looking to buy souvenirs right now.”

“It’s not a souvenir, it’s a work of art.”

“Whatever.”

Leona abandoned the discussion and hurried up the stairs. She joined Oliver at the top and they started down the hall. The old floorboards squeaked and groaned beneath their feet.

“This inn definitely dates from Vance’s time,” she observed. “You can tell from the architecture.”

“That doesn’t mean he slept here.”

“I know, but it’s possible that he did,” Leona said. “You can’t blame the locals for leaning into the Vance ghost story. There’s not much else here they can use to promote this town. It’s not exactly a vacation paradise.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Actually, it’s amazing anyone can even find this place. If we hadn’t had those old-fashioned paper road maps, we’d still be driving around looking for the right turnoff.”

“Something tells me the locals don’t want to encourage tourism,” Oliver said. “Fenwick was right about that oncoming storm, by the way. I can feel the energy building in the atmosphere.”

“So can I.”

She stopped in front of room 203 and used the old-fashioned key to rez the simple amber lock.

The door swung open on a small, narrow, gloom-filled room crowded with heavy vintage furniture. The one window looked out on the thick woods that surrounded the town.

“Well, at least the bed doesn’t date from Vance’s time,” Leona said. “No minibar, but hey, there’s a rez-screen.”

Oliver set her suitcase on the small luggage rack and studied the vintage rez-screen set. “I’m amazed there’s any reception in these mountains.”

Leona picked up the small brochure on top of the rez-screen. “According to this, there’s a local station. Channel one is available from noon until eight p.m.”

“So probably not much in the way of late-night adult entertainment,” Oliver said.

“Disappointed?”

“I’ll manage.” He headed for the door. “Give me a couple of minutes to dump my bag in my room. Then we can head out and get a drink and something to eat.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“I’m good when it comes to plans.”

She thought about how he had grabbed the artifact at the reception, whisked her away from the scene of the FBPI, and then saved Roxy from the remote-controlled boat.

“I’ve noticed,” she said.