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Thacker beamed. “Lovely to see you again, Dr. Griffin.”

He did, indeed, appear happy to see her, she thought, but his expression switched immediately to one of concern.

“I must admit I’ve been a bit anxious all day. Ms. Harp was acting rather strangely yesterday evening and she did not show up for work this morning. I had to make my own breakfast. Tell me, did you find the Vortex machine?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, we did,” Leona said.

“Oh, dear, I was afraid of that.” Thacker sighed. “I don’t suppose you were able to open it?”

“I did,” Leona said.

“I was even more afraid of that.”

“No need to worry,” Oliver said. “There was a dead body inside but it wasn’t Vance. Things got complicated, and in the end, Vortex melted down into a slag heap.”

Thacker appeared greatly relieved by that news. “Excellent, excellent.” He tut-tutted. “And not the least bit surprising. Old technology can be extremely problematic. Well, that takes care of the rumors about Vance’s return. I really ought to offer you both tea, but as I said, Ms. Harp did not show up today.”

“Hard to get good help, isn’t it?” Leona said.

“Just as well,” Oliver said quickly. “No time for tea, I’m afraid. We need to get on the road. Long drive.”

Leona ignored the unsubtle hint. She had been lucky enough to get another crack at Thacker’s collection and she was not about to surrender the opportunity.

She rezzed up her most polished smile and turned it on Thacker. “The last time we were here—yesterday—you mentioned you had a journal written by someone named Willard.”

Thacker brightened. “Willard. Yes, indeed. I found it years ago and moved it in here because it referenced some Old World theories concerning the prediction of outcomes associated with various approaches to paranormal enhancement. Predicting the results has always been the problem, you see. Methods of enhancement have been developed over the years but the vast majority have failed.”

“We know,” Oliver said. He checked his watch. “We’re under a time constraint here.”

Leona pretended she hadn’t heard him. “Any chance I might examine the Willard journal?”

“Of course, of course,” Thacker said. “Hang on, I’ll fetch it for you.”

He slid the movable stepladder into position, climbed the rungs to the top, stretched out an arm, and pulled a slim, leather-bound volume off the shelf.

Roxy’s low growl was the only warning they got before Harp appeared in the doorway of the vault, a flamer in her hand. Her eyes glittered with rage.

“You two destroyed the future,” she snarled.

“Ms. Harp,” Thacker squeaked. “I wondered when you’d show up. I say, you’d better put the flamer away—”

He lost his balance on the stepladder. In a frantic effort to recover and avoid a fall, he dropped the volume and grabbed the handrails.

Leona snatched the falling book out of midair. Roxy chose that moment to launch herself from under a nearby shelf. Sleeked out, eyes and teeth showing, she dashed toward Harp.

“I’ve had enough of that fucking dust bunny,” Harp shrieked.

She swung the flamer toward Roxy, trying frantically to aim at the fast-moving target. But Oliver had somehow moved alongside her without being noticed. You never see him coming, Leona thought.

He grabbed the arm Harp was using to hold the weapon, forcing it upward, deflecting the shot. An instant later, he snapped the flamer out of her hand.

“Roxy, it’s okay,” Leona said. “You don’t need to bite her.”

Roxy scrambled to a halt. Harp drew back a booted foot in preparation for a savage kick. Leona swooped forward and grabbed Roxy.

Off-balance now, Harp toppled backward. There was a sickening crunch when her head struck the edge of a bookcase. She landed on the floor and did not move.

Leona clutched Roxy close. “It’s okay. Everything’s under control.”

“Actually, things are not under control,” Oliver said. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

Leona suddenly smelled smoke. She looked up and saw flames leaping from the top shelf. Harp’s errant shot had struck a stack of documents.

“My library,” Thacker wailed. “Ms. Harp, what have you done?”

He started gathering up books and files willy-nilly. Several cascaded to the floor.

Oliver gripped Leona’s shoulder and propelled her toward the entrance of the vault. “Go.”

He was using his Guy in Charge voice. It was effective. She rushed toward the door of the vault, Roxy clutched under one arm, the Willard journal in her hand. She glanced back once and saw that the flames were rapidly consuming the top shelving. Sparks landed below, igniting other shelves filled with highly flammable materials.

“Oh, shit,” she whispered.

“Yep,” Oliver said.

He did not elaborate. Instead, he hauled a near-hysterical Thacker away from a flaming pile of papers and shoved him toward the door. Dazed and panicked, Thacker followed Leona out into the crammed library.

“What about Harp?” Leona called.

“I’ll take care of her,” Oliver said. “Just go.”

Leona looked down to make sure she was on the yellow tape path and then raced through the canyons formed by the towers of artifacts, books, objects, and assorted junk that had been accumulating for a century. She could hear Thacker behind her, stumbling and panting as he struggled to run with his armload of books and files.

Evidently grasping the scope of the danger, Roxy remained sleeked out and wide-eyed. There was no cheery chortling now, Leona noted.

She swerved around a sharp corner, saw the open door of the library, and dashed out into the hall. Thacker followed, dropping a couple of his precious books in the process. When he bent down to retrieve one, he lost another volume.

Oliver emerged from the library, Harp slung over his shoulder. “Outside. This place is going to go up like a bonfire.”

Leona ran down the narrow aisle formed by the stacks that lined the hallway, wrenched open the front door, and burst outside into pouring rain. Thacker and Oliver followed.

By the time they reached the safety of the driveway, the entire first floor of the mansion was exploding in flames.

“This should be far enough,” Oliver said. “The stone walls and the rain will keep the fire from spreading. I think.”

They all staggered to a halt and turned to watch the big house implode. For a time no one spoke. Eventually Oliver dumped Harp on the wet ground and looked at Leona and Roxy.

“Never a dull moment around you two,” he said.

Leona studied him closely, but in the end she could not decide if the corner of his mouth had kicked up in his edgy micro-smile or not. Considering the circumstances, probably not.

She tightened her grip on the journal and opened her senses. She realized Oliver was watching her, waiting for the verdict.

“It’s authentic,” she said. She looked at Thacker. “I really need this document. How much do you want for it?”

“What?” Thacker jerked his attention away from the burning mansion and glanced at her. He appeared bewildered by the question for a few seconds and then his expression cleared. “Oh, right, the Willard journal. It’s yours, Dr. Griffin. I’m happy to give it to you. Least I can do.”

Leona cleared her throat. “Sir, your house and your entire collection are currently in the process of burning to the ground. You’ll need money to rebuild.”

Thacker chuckled. “No need to worry about me. Money isn’t a problem. Inherited a fortune, you see. Besides, you and your sister have a much stronger claim on that journal than I do.”

“Thank you. I am truly grateful. But why did you say that giving me the journal was the least you could do?”

“You’re a legend come to life, Dr. Griffin.” Thacker beamed. “You’re the bride who brought the key to Vortex to Lost Creek, opened the machine, and proved that Vincent Lee Vance was not alive inside.”

“Setting the legend crap aside,” Leona said, “I would remind you that the body inside Vortex was not Vance.”

“Exactly,” Thacker said. “And in the process, you broke the spell that has gripped this little community for the past couple of months.”