At least if the taps work, I can wash my hands.

Using the only non-sticky square inch on his right palm, Tony pushed against the old lever faucet and turned on the cold water. And waited. Just as he was about to turn it off again, figuring they hadn’t hooked up the water yet, liquid gushed from the faucet, thick and reddish brown, smelling of iron and rot.

Heart in his throat, he jumped back.

Blood!

No wait, rust.

By the time he had his breathing under control, the water was running clear. Feeling foolish, he rinsed off his palms, dried them on his jeans, and closed the tap. Checking out his reflection in the big, somewhat spotty mirror over the sink, he frowned.

Behind him, on the wall . . . it looked as if someone had drawn a finger through the wet paint. When he turned, changing the angle of the light, the mark disappeared. Mirror—finger mark. No mirror—no mark.

And now we know where the paint on Lee’s tux came from. Next question: who put it there? Brenda seemed like the prime suspect. She’d been upstairs de-lining both actors before the scene, she’d have noticed the marks had they already been laid down, and the result had been Lee bare-assed in her trailer . . . And let’s not forget that she’s already familiar with his ass. He probably hadn’t even noticed her stroking him on the way by.

Opportunity and motive pointed directly to Brenda.

Time . . .

Tony glanced at his watch.

“Crap! ” Twenty-three minutes since Adam had called a twenty-minute break. Bright side, Mason wouldn’t be able to bug him about a rule-breaking snack in front of the others. Slipping out into the hall, Tony ran for the back stairs figuring he could circle around from the kitchen. With any luck no one had missed him yet—out of the benefits of being low man on the totem pole.

As he ran, he realized Mason had been right about one thing. It’s fucking freezing up here.

“Why was he in the bathroom? Graham said we’d be safe in there, that they wouldn’t be using it until tomorrow.”

“Be quiet, Stephen!” Cassy pinched her brother’s arm. “Do you want him to hear you?”

“Ow. He can’t hear us from way over here!”

“I’m not so sure.” She frowned thoughtfully as the young man disappeared through the door leading to the stairs between the servants’ rooms and the kitchen. “I get the feeling he doesn’t miss much.”

Stephen snorted and patted a strand of dark blond hair back into the pomaded dip over his forehead. “Good thing we weren’t in the bathroom then.”

“Yes . . . good thing.”

Also by TANYA HUFF

Also by TANYA HUFF

SMOKE AND SHADOWS
SMOKE AND MIRRORS1

BLOOD PRICE
BLOOD TRAIL
BLOOD LINES
BLOOD PACT
BLOOD DEBT

SING THE FOUR QUARTERS
FIFTH QUARTER
NO QUARTER
THE QUARTERED SEA

The Keeper’s Chronicles
SUMMON THE KEEPER
THE SECOND SUMMONING
LONG HOT SUMMONING