Inside an ancient ruin, Keira discovers the mythic stone angel she seeks—but also senses a malevolent presence…just before the ruins collapse around her. Search-and-rescue veteran Simon Cahill finds Keira in the rubble just as she's about to free herself. Simon holds no stock in myths or magic, so he isn't surprised that there's no trace of her stone angel. But there is evidence of startling violence and—whatever the source—the danger to Keira is quite real. The long-forgotten legend that captivated her has also aroused a killer…a calculating predator who will follow them back to Boston, determined to kill again. Carla Neggers is the New York Times bestselling author of more than 60 novels, including her popular Sharpe & Donovan and Swift River Valley series. Her books have been translated into 24 languages and sold in over 35 countries. A frequent traveler to Ireland, Carla lives with her family in New England. For more information, visit CarlaNeggers.com Near Mount Monadnock Southern New Hampshire 4:00 p.m., EDT June 17, Present Day Keira Sullivan swiped at a mosquito and wondered if its Irish cousins would be as persistent. She'd find out soon enough, she thought as she walked along the trail to her mother's cabin in the southern New Hampshire woods. She'd be on a plane to Ireland tomorrow night, off to the southwest Irish coast to research an old story of mischief, magic and an ancient stone angel. In the meantime, she had to get this visit behind her and attend a reception tonight in Boston. But she couldn't wait to be tucked in her rented Irish cottage, alone with her art supplies, her laptop, her camera and her walking shoes. For the next six weeks, she'd be free to think, dream, draw, paint, explore and, perhaps, make peace with her past. More accurately, with her mother's past. The cabin came into view, nestled on an evergreen-blanketed hill above a stream. Keira could hear the water tumbling over rocks and feel it cooling the humid late spring air. Birds twittered and fluttered nearby—chickadees, probably. Her mother would have given all the birds on her hillside names. The mosquito followed Keira the last few yards up the path. It had found her at the dead-end dirt road where she'd left her car and stayed with her throughout the long trek through the woods. She was less than two hours from Boston, but she might as well have been on another planet as she sweated in the June heat, her blond hair coming out of its pins, her legs spattered with mud. She wished instead of shorts she'd worn long pants, in case her solo mosquito summoned reinforcements. She stood on the flat, gray rock that served as a step to the cabin's back entrance. Her mother had built the cabin herself, using local lumber, refusing help from family and friends. She'd hired out, reluctantly, only what she couldn't manage on her own. There was no central heat, no plumbing, no electricity. She had no telephone, no radio, no television—no mail delivery, even. And forget about a car. On frigid New England winter nights, life had to get downright unbearable, if not dangerous, but Keira knew her mother would never complain. She had chosen the simple, rugged existence of a religious ascetic. No one had thrust it upon her. Keira peered through the screen door, grateful that her mother's stripped-down lifestyle didn't prohibit the use of screens. The pesky mosquito could stay outside. "Hello—it's me, Mum. Keira." As if her mother had other children. As if she might have forgotten her only daughter's name since chucking the outside world. Keira had last visited her mother several weeks ago but hadn't stayed long. Then again, they hadn't spent much time together in the past few years, never mind the past eighteen months when she'd first announced her intention to pursue this new commitment. Her mother had always been religious, which Keira respected, but this, she thought as she swiped again at her mosquito—this isolated hermit's life just wasn't right. "Keira!" her mother called, sounding cheerful. "Come in, come in. I'm here in the front room. Leave your shoes on the step, won't you?" Keira kicked off her hiking shoes and entered the kitchen—or what passed for one. It consisted of a few rustic cupboards and basic supplies that her mother had scavenged at yard sales for her austere life. Her priest had talked her into a gas-powered refrigerator. He was working on talking her into a gas-powered stove and basic plumbing—even just a single cold-water faucet—but she was resisting. Except for the coldest days, she said, she could manage to fetch her own water from the nearby spring. Winning an argument with Eileen O'Reilly Sullivan had never been an easy task. Keira crossed the rough pine-board floor into the cabin's main living area. Her mother, dressed in a flowing top and elastic-waist pants, got up from a high stool at a big hunk of birch board set on trestles that served as her worktable. Her graying hair was bl