Chapter 4

So much to do here. While the building that would be his main residence was now mostly in order, this new day presented its own set of challenges. Ghost Ranch had become a sort of retreat space in its latter years, and had dormitories, a visitors center, and several different museums. While he would leave the museums alone — the largest space housed a fine collection of art and relics related to Georgia O'Keeffe's tenure here, while others contained Native American artifacts and fossils discovered on the grounds of the facility — he certainly had no need for all those other structures with their small rooms and communal bathrooms that had once catered to the budget-conscious traveler who had come to this place.

After walking the property from end to end and surveying everything with narrowed eyes, he concluded that most of it should go. His house and the museums would stay, and for now he would also keep the library and the building that was obviously some sort of center of worship, but all the guest rooms should be removed. However, he was happy to keep the pool, as well as the lovely labyrinth and Zen garden, both of which offered additional locations where he could be alone with his thoughts.

A wave of his hand, and the collection of buildings was gone. The result was a much barer landscape than he would have preferred, and his eyes narrowed. Something would need to be done about that.

In the next instant, a large pond filled some of the space next to the house, with cottonwoods and willows growing along its banks. Stands of ponderosa and pi?on pines helped to fill in the rest of the landscape, along with artfully arranged sandstone boulders and graceful plantings of wildflowers such as penstemon and Indian paintbrush.

Much better. Now his immediate surroundings were a better complement to the majestic rock formations that had first drawn him to this location. Perhaps in time he would decide to get rid of more of the buildings, but this was a good start.

And while he had no reason to believe the elders would pay him a visit any time soon — it seemed enough that he had agreed to take up residence here — he could not help thinking that if they were to see the changes he had wrought, they would understand he truly was doing what he could to make Ghost Ranch his home.

All this had come much more easily to him than it would have for a regular djinn. While he was not precisely an elder, like them he had control of all four elements, allowing him to work with earth and water, fire and air.

Sometimes, though, he preferred to use his hands, as he would now to make some coffee and a fine breakfast.

Feeling lighter of heart than he had in years, he headed back up to the house that was his new home, already dreaming of bacon and fresh-baked scones, and perhaps some eggs and fruit.

As she slogged along Highway 84, Sarah couldn't help thinking that Carson had gotten the better part of this bargain. She'd never come this way on foot before, and her childhood memories hadn't adequately prepared her for just how steep the hill leading away from the lake truly was.

But because there wasn't much she could do about it now, she knew she could only forge ahead. Assuming that everything at Ghost Ranch still more or less stood, she'd at least be able to sleep with a roof over her head tonight. Yes, she had a tightly rolled sleeping bag stashed in her pack, but she should be able to spread it out across a bed rather than on the floor…or worse, out in the open somewhere. She'd never been much of one for camping, and she didn't intend to start now.

Despite the slog up this hill, she couldn't quite ignore the feeling of lightness that seemed to overtake her as she realized she was utterly alone here, with Carson now miles behind. Maybe to some people, the thought of being so completely by themselves might have been terrifying, but to Sarah, it only meant she was in a place where she could at last be herself.

She crested the hill and pulled in a relieved breath — not the least because she also spied a sign that told her the exit to Ghost Ranch was only two miles away.

Almost there.

In fact, now she could see the trio of slender lodgepoles that formed a frame for the entrance to the ranch, as well as the dirt road that ran beneath them. Her pace quickened a little, although she told herself there was no real need to hurry. The main part of the day had come and gone while she made her way along Highway 84, but there was still an hour or so until sundown, giving her plenty of time to get settled before night fell.

When she arrived at the entrance, she paused there so she could reach inside her backpack to get out the stainless steel container of water she'd stowed there. As usually seemed to happen, it had migrated to the bottom of her pack, and she had to dig past all the other items stowed in there — several changes of underwear, her toothbrush and a travel-sized tube of toothpaste, various other odds and ends — to reach it.

One of those items was the device Lindsay had given her. Sarah began to lift it out of the way, only to have it tumble from her fingers and fall onto the rocks that had been stacked around the base of one of the lodgepoles that marked the entrance to the ranch.

Oh, no.

The crunch of glass on stone hit her ears, and she immediately dropped the backpack and reached for the thing — only to stop once she realized the touchscreens on two sides had shattered, and she'd only risk cutting her fingers if she tried to pick it up.

Shit, shit, shit, went through her mind, but she knew there wasn't anything she could do to salvage the situation. While the devices were great at their job, they were also notoriously fragile, which was part of the reason why they were constantly being repaired and replaced.

No hope of either fixing it or getting a new one, not out here in the middle of nowhere. About all Sarah could do now was reassure herself that there were no djinn reavers left, and therefore she didn't need that device.

Or at least, that was what she tried to tell herself. Considering the circumstances, there wasn't much else she could do.

She used the toe of her hiking boot to nudge the shattered device closer to the rocks, just so it wouldn't be so obvious.

And then she kept going.

The landscape didn't materially change once she'd passed through the entrance to the ranch — the same chaparral on either side, the same scrubby shapes of junipers and pi?on pines. As she'd already noted, the landscape was much greener than it normally would have been at this time of year, but still, her surroundings felt mostly familiar, with only the contours of the hillsides different from those that surrounded Espa?ola.

Despite the loss of her device, that same sensation of lightness from a few minutes before filled her, a sensation she'd only been able to experience during the times when she was away from the people in Los Alamos. It wasn't that she didn't like her fellow survivors — well, most of them, anyway — or that she didn't want them all to thrive and be happy.

No, it was more that, even after all this time, she didn't want to talk about her past, about what the Heat had taken away from her. Saying it out loud would only make her concerns sound selfish and petty compared to all the losses everyone in her community had suffered.

Here, though…here, she was completely alone. And that meant she could do the thing she always consciously avoided when she was in Los Alamos. She only allowed herself to be utterly free during the times when the duty roster sent her foraging in Espa?ola on her own, with no one else around.

She began to sing.

The song was an old, old English folk tune she'd learned a million years ago when she was in her high school's madrigal group.

Early one morning

Just as the sun was rising

I heard a maid singing in the valley below

O don't deceive me

O never leave me

How could you use a poor maiden so?

True, it was late in the afternoon and not early in the morning, and at twenty-eight and with a couple of long-term relationships under her belt, probably no one would have ever referred to her as a "maid," but still, Sarah couldn't help thinking the song somehow fit her situation anyway. She was definitely in a valley, and she was certainly singing her heart out in a way she very rarely had a chance to.

The wind seemed to catch her voice and carry it along, allowing it to echo off the canyon walls. Not so long ago, it hadn't been so strong, had been soft and breathy after years of ignoring her instrument, but now it was almost back to what it had been five years earlier, when she thought she'd gotten her big break at last and everything was going to change.

Oh, it had changed, all right…just not the way she or anyone else had suspected.

In late August, only a month before the Heat came along, her agent had called her with the big news. The producers of the revival touring company of The Phantom of the Opera had listened to her tapes, and they wanted her to come to New York to audition in person.

No time to think about anything except booking a flight and a hotel room, using the money she'd earned from one of the commercials she'd filmed six months earlier. A week of auditions and callbacks and waiting, and then she got the news.

She'd been given the role of Christine's understudy, and would sing and dance in the chorus as well. It was a lot more than she'd been expecting, considering she'd only performed in local productions and dinner theater before that. Even better, she'd be able to perform the lead role in alternating Sunday matinees…and the producers had hinted she might be given an even bigger part if their regular Christine had to drop out for some reason.

A mad rush to rearrange her life so she could be in New York for a month of rehearsals soon followed. And then, only two days before she was due to board her flight, she got a call from the hospital at UNM. Her father had collapsed at work, and she needed to come see him right away.

Of course she'd rushed over, even as a small, selfish part of her kept praying that it was something minor, maybe low blood pressure or low blood sugar. Patrick Wolfe had always pushed himself too hard, had never questioned the sometimes punishing hours required for his high-level job at Sandia Labs. Sarah still didn't know exactly what that job involved, except it was nuclear in nature and highly classified. The work had allowed him to provide a good home for her, to make sure there were always nannies and caregivers to be at the house around the clock, to drive her to school and piano lessons…and later, voice lessons…and anything else she needed or could possibly desire.

What she'd really wanted was for him to be there for her, but she never made the request. Even when she was very young, she understood that when her mother died, she'd taken a piece of him with her, and he would spend the rest of his life trying to compensate for that part of himself he'd lost.

The test results came back quickly.

Stage IV pancreatic cancer.

Even now, she couldn't completely piece together what had happened after the diagnosis. More tests, discussion of possible treatment…the realization that hospice was the only thing anyone could truly offer with his disease so advanced.

No thought of going to New York after that. She'd called the producers directly and let them know what had happened, made her apologies. They'd sounded sympathetic and had even told her that perhaps there would be a place for her in the production later on.

Maybe that had been a kind lie, and maybe it hadn't.

All Sarah knew was that none of it really mattered, because several weeks later, her father passed while she sat at his bedside and held his hand. And a few days after that, stories of a terrible fever began to circulate on the news, and within another thirty-six hours, most of the world's population was dead.

But she wasn't.

Not that it seemed as if she would be alive for very long after that, considering the way the djinn appeared soon afterward, hunting anyone who'd managed to survive the terrible fever. She'd hidden in her father's house for a few days, but then a group of fellow survivors had come along and told her they were heading to Los Alamos, that a scientist there claimed to have created some sort of device that would protect them from the bloodthirsty elementals.

She'd gone along because right then, she hadn't known what else to do.

When she got to Los Alamos, though, she said nothing about her background in music. It seemed horrible that she still mourned what might have been when it was only a silly role in a musical, after all.

Or maybe it had been easier to let herself hurt over that than come to terms with losing her father in such a way, with it happening so fast, she'd barely had time to absorb what was happening before he was gone forever. Maybe some people might have said cancer was still better than the Heat, but Sarah wasn't so sure. She supposed the only good thing about the situation was that at least she'd been able to properly say goodbye to him.

That was something most of her fellow survivors in Los Alamos hadn't been able to do.

Even when opportunities to sing came along — like when Nora Almeida had organized a caroling group their first Christmas after the Dying in an effort to cheer everyone up — Sarah had demurred. It was easier to pretend she couldn't sing at all than to have to tell people about the way she'd almost had her dream finally come true…only to have it snatched away by the cruel hand of fate.

The first time she'd sung had been almost two years after her escape from Albuquerque. The town council had decided there was enough coverage by the devices in Espa?ola that it was all right to let people go foraging there on their own, and Sarah had been sent off with a pickup truck and an admonishment to find whatever she could but to make sure to be back before sundown.

That part was easy enough; no chance that she'd allow herself to get caught away from Los Alamos when night fell. What had shocked her, though, was how she seemed to relax once she was finally by herself, and how she'd started humming as she picked through an abandoned barn on the north end of town…and then finally lifted her voice and sang.

It was like being able to breathe again after being held underwater for too long.

She still had made sure not to request too many solo assignments, just in case someone noticed that she was a little too interested in being out on her own. Even so, over time her voice had come back to her, had almost returned to what it had been when she'd stood in front of those New York producers and sung "Think of Me," Christine's opening piece from Phantom .

And that was why she used it now, knowing that Carson was miles and miles away, and her friends and acquaintances in Los Alamos even farther.

Out here in Ghost Ranch, she wouldn't have to explain herself to anyone.

Abdul paused just as he was about to clip a branch of Indian paintbrush so he could place it in a handmade ceramic vase he'd found in the gift shop earlier that day. Sweet sound drifted on the wind, something so unexpected, he had to take a moment to analyze what it could possibly be.

Was someone singing?

He wanted to tell himself that was impossible. Perhaps someone had left a music player of some sort behind in one of the buildings he had yet to raze, and it had come to life through a kind of glitch.

But no, this didn't sound like a recording. It was far too real.

He set the clippers down on a nearby boulder and lifted his head into the breeze so he might get a better idea of where the sound had originated. Yes, definitely a woman's voice, clear and bright and lovely, so entrancing in its perfection that for a moment, he could only stand there and drink it in.

Reason kicked in a moment later, of course, telling him that no matter how pure and perfect those tones might be, they had to belong to a human…a human who must be uncomfortably nearby.

The voice was drifting to him from the west, toward the dirt road that led into the property. That made sense — there was only one true way in and out of here, unless someone was prepared to do some fairly serious rock-climbing.

And he found himself doubting that anyone would be able to maintain that kind of breath control while scaling down a sheer rock face.

Now he was glad he hadn't yet torn down the visitor's center or the museums, as they provided ample cover for him to take to the shadows and get a good look at the intruder.

Yes, there she was, walking along the dirt road, long brown ponytail caught in the wind even as she sang some sort of sprightly song about a corner of the sky, or some such. He was not very good at estimating human ages, for he had never spent any time among mortals, but she seemed fairly young, perhaps somewhere in her twenties. Middle height, slender, and…pretty. Or at least, he assumed most people would have thought her even features and oval face were attractive, although he had never been in a position to evaluate a mortal woman's looks in such a way.

She wore serviceable clothing, jeans and hiking boots, with a denim jacket tied around her waist and a large backpack hanging from her shoulders. Her stride was neither fast nor slow, but measured, as though she'd come a long way already and intended to continue at that steady pace until she reached her destination.

Which he assumed had to be somewhere here on the grounds. Why she had come to such a remote place — and unaccompanied — he had no idea. And that meant he needed to remain in hiding while he watched her movements and decided what to do next.

The easiest thing, of course, would be for her to complete a survey of the property and then leave, but Abdul doubted he would be given such a simple outcome. It was far too close to the end of the day for her to turn around and head back to wherever she'd come from, which meant she surely planned to spend the night here.

That would never do.

He watched her as she paused in front of the welcome center, a frown plucking at the clear skin of her brow even as the song she had been singing cut off abruptly. It seemed she was disturbed by something, for even from where he lurked in the shadows of a clump of junipers and a sheltering boulder, he could see the way she glanced from the welcome center and up the hill, then back again, as if attempting to compare the scene before her with something she held only in her memory.

Could it be that she had been here once upon a time, and was trying to reconcile the highly altered layout of the campus with what it had been before? Abdul wanted to curse himself for his haste in altering the landscape to something he found more aesthetically pleasing, although he had to admit that he could never have known his sanctuary might have been intruded upon by a mere mortal. Humans hadn't ventured here in years and hadn't shown any sign that they wished to return.

What possible reason could she have for coming here now?

A visible lift of her shoulders, and then she kept moving past the visitor's center, along the path that led upward to the house of worship and the labyrinth…and to the long, low home he had taken for his own.

His first impulse was to hurry out, grab her, and blink her back to the road before disappearing. However, while doing so would certainly remove her from his property, such actions would only let her know that something unearthly lurked nearby. She might go back to Los Alamos — for he could not think where else she might have come from — and return with reinforcements.

But if she went inside his house, she would see right away that it was occupied. Everything was clean and new, not covered in dust the way it should be if it truly had been sitting here empty for nearly five years.

The frown he wore mirrored the one on the strange woman's face, although even if she had been close enough to see him, the hooded cloak that was his perpetual outer garment would have kept his expression hidden from her.

For now, he decided, he would only observe. It was possible that she wanted to conduct a brief survey of the buildings and afterward would return whence she had come.

If she made a move to go inside…well, then he would decide what to do.

The place was different. Sarah wouldn't flatter herself into believing that she remembered every single nook and cranny of Ghost Ranch, not when it had been almost twenty years since she'd come here with her father, but still, she knew there should have been many more buildings scattered around the property. Also, it hadn't felt this…manicured…for lack of a better term. Still wild and lovely, but more like someone's carefully xeriscaped backyard than a location that had always had a lot of weeds and rocks to give it character.

True, the big open field across from the visitors center looked familiar, although greener and not as overgrown as she remembered. But there had been lots of smaller buildings in various shapes and sizes, and almost all of those were gone now, replaced by careful groupings of native plants and some pretty spectacular boulders.

Maybe a survivor of the Heat had made their way here and then decided to turn the Ghost Ranch campus into something that more closely matched their tastes. All this work would have taken a lot of time, but then, it had been nearly five years since the Dying. Even a single person could accomplish a good deal in that sort of span, especially if they didn't have any other projects to keep them occupied. But if that was the case, where were they? She hadn't detected a single whisper of anyone else's presence here, and surely they would have heard her and come to investigate who was singing as she trespassed on their property.

Farther up the hill was a low house with more trees clustered around it, some of them cottonwoods and weeping willows, signaling there must be some kind of water there. It seemed as good a place as any to check out, so that was where Sarah headed now.

Besides, the sun kept slipping farther and farther to the west, and since she had to crash somewhere around here, it might as well be the one structure that looked as if it might have a real bed inside.

Trudging uphill at the end of such a long walk wasn't much fun, and her calf muscles told her exactly what they thought of the additional exertion. She kept going, though, knowing there wasn't any point in stopping until she'd reached her destination. Without a device to protect her, it seemed even more important to find some kind of shelter.

Yes, that was a small pond located next to the house, with willows drooping graceful branches into the water and cottonwoods whose leaves fluttered with the slightest breeze. Sarah couldn't remember seeing anything like that when she visited Ghost Ranch all those years ago, but then again, she didn't think she and her dad had explored the various casitas and guesthouses. She supposed it was possible that the pond had been here all along.

The L-shaped house overlooked a large courtyard set with brick in a basketweave pattern, and at the front of the courtyard were several sets of Adirondack chairs obviously placed there so they could take advantage of the magnificent view, which was pretty much due south, with Georgia O'Keeffe's beloved Pedernal centered in the middle of the scene.

A gorgeous setup, but Sarah couldn't stop herself from frowning at the big wooden chairs, all of which had been painted a cheerful turquoise that was a perfect contrast to the red brick beneath and the warm adobe of the house behind them. If those chairs had been sitting here since the Dying, the paint should have been flaking off, and at least one of them probably should have also been knocked over by the wind.

But everything looked peaceful and tidy and well-cared for, and she frowned again.

A little shiver went down her spine.

Even though she still felt utterly alone, she couldn't help wondering if someone was lurking nearby, watching her.

"Hello?" she ventured, hoping she didn't sound as small and frightened as she felt.

No response. Was that better or worse?

Even so, she waited there for a moment, gaze scanning the courtyard and the trees that sheltered the house. Nothing moved except branches swaying in the wind.

She had to be alone here, right? Anyone who was watching would have responded to her greeting…wouldn't they?

Part of her wanted to turn and run back to the highway, but she knew that was no solution. There was no way in the world she could make it back to the turn-off for Abiquiu Lake before night fell, and even if she did decide to go blundering around in the darkness, she would have to hope that Carson had left his walkie-talkie on so she could reach out to him. That didn't seem very likely, not when he wouldn't expect to meet up with her until sometime tomorrow afternoon and probably had shut the thing off to conserve the batteries.

Well, damn.

You're here, she told herself. So you might as well go inside and take a look around.

Fine.

She reached up to adjust the backpack she wore, then made herself walk over to the nearest of the several sets of French doors that opened onto the patio. The handle turned easily when she wrapped her fingers around it, so it clearly wasn't locked.

A deep breath, and then she headed inside.

The place looked like something out of a magazine, or maybe a travel brochure. Smooth oak floors, rough-troweled plaster walls, expensive Navajo rugs underfoot, and a large wagon wheel of a wrought-iron fixture overhead.

She had no idea the accommodations here at Ghost Ranch had been so fancy.

And just like the meticulously tended grounds she'd walked through to get here, this place looked way too clean to have stood empty for the past four and a half years. Not a speck of dust anywhere that she could see, and when she left the large living room and passed through the dining area, it was to find a kitchen that again looked like it should have been in House Beautiful or something, or maybe one of those home improvement shows her father liked to watch when he was trying to relax after yet another ten-hour day at the labs. Fabulous countertops that she thought might be quartzite or soapstone, an enormous copper hood over the eight-burner stove, backsplash of the same pale stone with greenish veining that covered the counters.

Maybe this house hadn't been intended for guests at all. Sarah supposed this might have been where Ghost Ranch's director had lived, or someone else high up in the organization. It had been so long since she'd been here that she couldn't even begin to guess.

A peek inside the refrigerator showed that it was empty, although it was definitely on, the interior cool and ready to accommodate whatever food needed to be stored there.

And that was also weird. Yes, the place probably had solar panels to keep things going, but still, if the house had been empty all this time, you'd think there would be long-spoiled food remaining inside the fridge.

None of this made any sense.

She turned away from the refrigerator and let out a shocked gasp. Standing a few feet away was a tall man, his face and form completely hidden by the long robe he wore, which had a hood so deep that it concealed everything within it. The getup looked like something a medieval monk might have worn, and she couldn't help gaping at the apparition.

Despite the way the hood fell forward and shadowed his face, she fancied she saw a glitter of eyes from inside the hood as he demanded, "What are you doing in my house?"