Physically he was just the tall side of average, his rangy build more bone than flesh, belying a fierce, sinewy strength that, combined with uncanny quickness and an aptitude for ruthlessness, made him a match for men twice his weight and girth. It was an advantage he was seldom called upon to substantiate. Most people were quick to pick up on his stay-the-hell-away-from-me attitude and smart enough to do exactly that. Men let him pass with relief; women were often a bit more reluctant, wondering what it was about him that made their pulse quicken and what it would take to unleash what their hormones told them was caged beneath those iceberg cheekbones, eyes as gray and bleak as winter skies, and chiseled lips that seemed to have forgotten how to smile.

He’d been told he was handsome, too handsome in fact, and though it had been years since he’d looked in a mirror, he assumed it was as true as ever. And he couldn’t have cared less. As far as Hazard was concerned, his face was simply one more weapon in his arsenal, to be used whenever and however it suited his purpose.

The door of the Mercedes S600 closed behind him with the solid thud befitting a car engineered to withstand attack by hand grenades and small arms missiles and things that go bump in the night. It was falling prey to those night things that most concerned him, not because he didn’t want to die, but because he didn’t want to live on anyone else’s terms.

Somewhere in the darkness a dog barked. Hazard instinctively tipped his face to the starless sky, letting the cold night air wash over him as he took the time to carefully absorb his surroundings. He didn’t like surprises. The dog was at least a block away and likely tethered since the barking hadn’t drawn any closer. The scent of burning wood was nearer. He closed his eyes and sniffed. Hickory, and much nearer.

He glanced around and saw smoke curling from the chimney of the house behind him. The lights in the house were on, the curtains open, and from where he stood he could see children scurrying about as a plump woman cleared dishes from the table. An equally plump man, his necktie loosened, newspaper clamped beneath one arm, appeared at the front window and peered into the darkness, frowning.

Hazard stood still, trusting his dark hair and clothing to render him one with the shadows. He had every right to be there, but he liked complications even less than he liked surprises. Having the police summoned to investigate a suspicious stranger lurking about would be a tedious complication of the sort he preferred to avoid. It would require talking to others and explaining himself, two things he generally abhorred doing. He waited patiently as the man surveyed the street in both directions and apparently satisfied that all was well with his little piece of the world, returned to his comfy chair by the fireplace, giving his wife’s round bottom a little love pat in passing.

The simple gesture set off a strong and unexpected twinge of yearning, and Hazard quickly turned away, cursing under his breath. God, he had no stomach for domestic bliss. And if he had ever yearned for a plump wife and comfy chair of his own, he’d long since gotten over it. Irritated with his little dip into sentimentality, he shifted his full attention back to the matter at hand, the reason he was out there freezing his ass off, his purpose in coming to Providence in the first place.

The quiet street, located on the city’s genteel east side, was lined with stately elm trees and painstakingly restored older homes. Older, that is, by American standards. Age was relative, after all. And the past had a way of losing its allure when you’d accumulated enough of it. He should know.

Not that he permitted his own past to burden him overmuch. Most of the time it existed only as shadows and ghosts, hazy memories of memories locked deep inside him, as deep as he could bury them. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow anything he’d once thought or felt or was interfere with what he was now.

A hunter.

First, last and only.

It wasn’t always so. Once he’d been something more. Something better. But that was ages ago. Once he’d been a loyal son, a passionate lover, a good man. Once he’d fought for a cause greater than himself and been glad for the privilege.

Now all he cared about was the hunt. It was, quite literally, his life. It dominated his every waking thought, and at night it filled what passed for dreams. And, if the hairs that had lifted at the back of his neck the instant he got out of the car were to be trusted, it might soon be over.

If his sources—and his gut—were correct, the hunt would end there, at 128 Sycamore Street, in the gracious Victorian-style home with its ample front porch and beguiling turret and who knew what dark secrets locked inside.

Even now a subtle but unmistakable current of excitement told him that this was it, that this house held the key to success. He wasn’t sure how—yet—but he had faith it would provide the missing piece of a centuries-old puzzle. He’d followed enough false leads and blind alleys to have learned not to get his hopes up so early in the game, but for reasons he couldn’t fathom, tonight, for the first time in a long time, he couldn’t stop himself from hoping. He couldn’t suppress the thrill of knowing the prize was in sight and all that remained to do was make it his own.

He’d intentionally arrived early for his appointment with Ms. Darden of East Side Realty. He’d wanted to be alone when he saw the house for the first time. He knew his limitations and that he would need time and silence if he was to pick up on any sense of connection with the old house. And he had picked up on it, quicker than he’d hoped. It was faint, but it was there.

Reaching to his inside coat pocket, he pulled out the Realtor’s report that had been delivered to him that afternoon at the hotel and moved closer to the circle of light from the street lamp to read it once again. According to the report, the house had been built in 1902 on an oversized parcel of land and had been largely rebuilt following a fire twenty years ago. Hazard paused to mull that over for a moment, just as he had the first time he read it, wondering how any damage done by the fire might effect his search and once again concluding there was no way to know. He frowned. He didn’t like questions he couldn’t answer or problems he couldn’t solve.

He continued reading. The three-story Victorian had six bedrooms, three baths, and a turret room ideal for use as an artist’s studio or romantic hideaway. Hazard had no interest in either. What did interest him was what was described as the room’s “stunning panoramic view of the city.”

A panoramic view meant the turret also had 360-degree access to the flow of light and energy, and that fit perfectly with other useful facts he’d discovered about the house, facts not mentioned in the Realtor’s report. With good reason; the form had no little check boxes for “magical protection wards” or “lingering traces of mystical activity.”

The rest of the report was prattle. Central air-conditioning, three-zone heat, backup generator in basement. New roof, galvanized gutters and downspouts. He glanced up to assess the roofline. As if, thought Hazard, he could see a damn thing in the darkness or that anything he did see would influence his decision to buy the house. That decision had been made before he ever set foot in Providence, and any flicker of remaining doubt had now been extinguished. The meeting with the Realtor and tour of the inside was merely a formality.

He considered it a stroke of luck—or fate—that his arrival had coincided with the current owner’s transfer to his firm’s West Coast office and his decision to sell the house. It simplified matters considerably; it meant he could acquire the property using his weapon of choice, cash. Cash was quick and tidy and he had plenty of it. The timing only added to his certainty that he’d been drawn to Providence and to this house in particular because this is where his search was fated to end.

What else could it be?