He nodded, and twenty minutes later we were parking opposite the park’s fully lit entrance. The wildness either side of the path was wrapped in darkness and, in this weather, seemed somewhat threatening.

I tugged on my coat, tied its hat down, and then, with a deep breath to ready myself for the abysmal conditions, grabbed my backpack and climbed out.

Abysmal wasn’t doing these conditions justice.

The wind howled, and the rain sheeted sideways, and it was all I could do to remain in the one spot and not be blown backwards. I half raised a hand to reach for—and maybe calm—the wind, then clenched my fingers and tucked them into my jacket pockets instead. After Beira’s warning, I wasn’t quite ready to risk reaching for any part of the storm, just in case things went wrong again.

I slung the pack over my shoulders, then made my way to the front of the van and caught Cynwrig’s offered hand. He led me across the road, his big body leaning into the wind and seeming to have little trouble moving forward.

Maybe the wind just had it in for me. Or maybe my father was using the storm to tell us we were on the wrong track.

Of course, if that were the case, it would be handy if he could also tell us where exactly the right track was.

We moved past the old hip-height stone wall, through the metal bollards, and then followed the well-lit stone track until we were into the first circle of trees. Cynwrig immediately went left, moving through the long, wet grass with the certainty of someone who could see very well.

The streetlight out the front of the little cottage dimly reflected on the half-height stone wall that separated the house’s backyard from the park. Cynwrig climbed over, helped me, then walked around the newish-looking extension that had been built onto the park side of the house. An unconnected and very rustic-looking stone shed sat on the opposite side of the yard, creating a nice little courtyard area protected from the prying eyes of neighbors.

Cynwrig stepped onto the covered deck, then stopped. After studying the rear of the building for a few seconds, he said, “I’m not seeing any physical alarms. Are there any magical ones?”

I drew a knife and stepped closer to the building. There was no reaction, so I pressed the point against the bifold’s lock. Again, nothing.

“It’s clear externally. There could be sensors or magic inside, of course.”

He moved up beside me and pressed his hand against the metal doorframe and lock. Energy rose, its feel dark and weighty, as if it were coming from deep within the earth itself. The air shimmered around his fingers, and a heartbeat later, he smiled and slid the door open.

“Wow, that was easy,” I muttered. “I’m surprised the world hasn’t gotten around to inventing plastic locks just to keep you buggers out.”

“Oh, they have.”

“Then why aren’t they widely used?”