To a casual observer, it probably looked like I was tying my shoe. You would have had to look hard to see the glint of magic in my gray eyes or realize I had my hands pressed against the cold, wet gravel of the driveway.

The sounds of the trees, wind, and small, scurrying animals ran through the stones. Soft, comforting murmurs as familiar to me as a lullaby. No visitors today. I hadn’t expected any, but it never hurt to double-check. I’d stayed alive this long, despite all the incredible odds and job hazards of my former profession. I wasn’t going to get dead now because I’d made a rookie mistake, like not checking the gravel before I stepped into Fletcher’s home.

Once I’d assured myself everything was as it should be, I grabbed my purse and headed for the house. But before I slid my key into the front door lock, I brushed my fingertips against the stone that framed and composed it.

Deep, rich, black granite so hard and solid even a giant would have a tough time pounding through it. Thin veins of silverstone glistened in the granite, adding to its dark beauty. But the magical metal served another purpose besides mere decoration. Silverstone could absorb any kind of elemental magic that came its way—Stone, Air, Fire, or Ice—as well as offshoots of the elements. Instead of being true elementals and being able to tap into one of the big four, as they were called, some folks were gifted in other areas, like metal, water, electricity, or even acid.

Regardless, the silverstone in the door would absorb quite a bit of power should anyone decide to use magic to force their way inside. I’d spent a fortune having the granite installed here and in other strategic places throughout the house, but it was worth it to make sure I was secure.

Helped me sleep easier.

The granite’s hum was low and muted, just like the gravel in the driveway. Nobody had been near the door all day. Good. I’d had enough excitement already.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside. Given its unusual construction, the interior of the house resembled a rabbit’s warren. Small rooms, short hallways, odd spaces here and there that doubled back and opened up into completely new areas. When I was living here as a kid, I’d had to draw myself a map just to get from my upstairs bedroom to the front door and back again. I threw my keys down into a bowl by the front door, kicked off my boots, and headed toward the back of the house, where the kitchen was.

Fletcher Lane had lived in this house seventy-seven years. He’d been born here, and he probably would have died here, if he hadn’t been murdered by an Air elemental.