The Sign of Seven Trilogy by Nora Roberts Page B

street was quiet, the brick and buildings unmarred. Tricks up his sleeve, Cal reminded himself. Lots of tricks up his sleeve.
    He made himself stride forward, through where the false fire had run. There was a strong acrid odor that puffed then vanished like the vapor of his own breath. In that instant he recognized it.
    Brimstone.
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    U PSTAIRS IN THE ROOM THAT MADE HER BLISSFULLY happy with its four-poster bed and fluffy white duvet, Quinn sat at the pretty desk with its curved legs and polished surface writing up the day’s notes, data, and impressions on her laptop.
    She loved that there were fresh flowers in the room, and a little blue bowl of artfully arranged fresh fruit. The bath held a deep and delightful claw-foot tub and a snowy white pedestal sink. There were thick, generous towels, two bars of soap, and rather stylish minibottles of shampoo, body cream, and bath gel.
    Instead of boring, mass-produced posters, the art on the walls were original paintings and photos, which the discreet note on the desk identified as works by local artists available at Artful, a shop on South Main.
    The room was full of homey welcoming touches, and provided high-speed Internet access. She made a note to reserve the same room after her initial week was up, for the return trips she planned in April, then again in July.
    She’d accomplished quite a bit on her first day, which was a travel day on top of it. She’d met two of the three focal players, had an appointment to hike to the Pagan Stone. She’d gotten a feel for the town, on the surface in any case. And had, she believed, a personal experience with the manifestation of an unidentified (as yet) force.
    And she had the bare bones for a bowling article that should work for her friends at Detour .
    Not bad, especially when you added in she’d dined sensibly on the grilled chicken salad in the hotel dining room, had not given in to temptation and inhaled an entire pizza but had limited herself to half a slice. And she’d bowled a strike.
    On the personal downside, she supposed, as she shut down to prepare for bed, she’d also resisted the temptation to lock lips with the very appealing Caleb Hawkins.
    Wasn’t she all professional and unsatisfied?
    Once she’d changed into her bedtime flannel pants and T-shirt, she nagged herself into doing fifteen minutes of pilates (okay, ten), then fifteen of yoga, before burrowing under the fabulous duvet with her small forest of down pillows.
    She took her current book off the nightstand, burrowed into that as well until her eyes began to droop.
    Just past midnight, she marked the novel, switched off the lamp, and snuggled into her happy nest.
    As was her habit, she was asleep in a finger snap.
    Quinn recognized the dream as a dream. Always, she enjoyed the sensation of the disjointed, carnival world of dreamscapes. It was, for her, like having some crazy adventure without any physical exertion. So when she found herself on a crooked path through a thick wood where the moonshine silvered the leaves and the curling fog rippled along the ground, a part of her mind thought: Oh boy! Here we go.
    She thought she heard chanting, a kind of hoarse and desperate whisper, but the words themselves were indiscernible.
    The air felt like silk, so soft, as she waded through the pools of fog. The chanting continued, drawing her toward it. A single word seemed to fly out of that moonstruck night, and the word was bestia.
    She heard it over and over as she followed the crooked path through the silken air and the silver-laced trees. She felt a sexual pull, a heat and reaching in the belly toward whatever, whoever called out in the night.
    Twice, then three times, the air seemed to whisper. Beatus . The murmur of that warmed her skin. In the dream, she quickened her steps.
    Out of the moon-drenched trees swam a black owl, its great wings stirring a storm in that soft air, chilling it until she shivered. And was, even in the