“I try to take precautions,” Sierra said. She shoved her gloved hands into the pockets of her leather jacket. “Doesn’t always work.”

Larissa turned back to North and gave him a searching look. “Any news on your dad’s condition?”

“For the moment he’s stable,” North said.

“That’s something, at least,” Larissa said. “If the doctors have stabilized his condition there may be time to reverse the trauma.” She glanced down at the lockbox North gripped in his left hand. “Find an interesting artifact?”

“Yes. One that might have something to do with my dad’s situation. I want to show it to a witness.”

“A witness?” Larissa looked startled. “Who in Fogg Lake would know anything about . . . ? Oh, you must mean Marge, the street lady they brought in from Seattle. There are rumors that the Foundation sent her here because she needs protection. How is she involved?”

“We don’t know,” North said. “Where is she?”

“In the library.” Larissa waved a hand toward a two-story building in the small town square. “The Oracle is keeping an eye on her.”

North raised his brows. “The Oracle?”

Larissa laughed. “Her name is Harmony. No last name as far as I know. You’ll understand when you meet her.”

“Right.” North started across the square. “Let’s go, Sierra.”

Sierra smiled at Larissa. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same here.” Larissa lowered her voice. “Take good care of him, okay? He’s been through a lot.”

“I know,” Sierra said.

Larissa raised a hand in farewell and hurried back to the trailer that evidently served as her office.

Sierra jogged a little to catch up with North.

“I heard that,” he growled.

“That business about taking good care of you because you’ve been through a lot? She means well.”

“I know. But here’s the thing. You don’t want gratitude. I don’t want pity.”

Sierra decided to shut up.

The door of the library opened just as North reached for the big brass handle. A dramatic figure loomed at the entrance. She was nearly six feet tall and was constructed along statuesque proportions. A long mane of silver hair framed features that would have done justice to a warrior-saint. She wore knee-high leather boots and an ankle-length black cloak. She appeared to be in her sixties, but her eyes were a thousand years old. They were the eyes of a woman who saw more than she wanted to see, the eyes of a woman who lived with an unrelenting mission.

Sierra smiled. “Hi, Harmony. Nice to see you again. It’s been a long time.”

“I’ve been expecting you,” Harmony said, speaking in resonant, ringing tones that could have been used to announce the apocalypse. “You are late. Time is running out. The ghosts of the Bluestone Project have been aroused. They seek vengeance and power. Just as one fights fire with fire, the dark forces of the past must be met with the light of the future.”

“Thanks for the prophecy,” Sierra said. “This is my client, North Chastain. But then, you probably know that already.”