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Liam knelt next to the girl, put his fingers against her throat, but she was dead. Had been for a while.

“Who are you?” Kris asked.

“Right now we’d best be more concerned with who she is.”

Liam didn’t recognize her, so she was probably a tourist. Which was only going to make things worse.

“I’ll go to the village and bring the proper authorities,” he said. “Will ye be all right?”

Kris hesitated, peering at his face as if she could see into his head and discover all his secrets. But Liam knew better. No one had discovered his secrets in years.

“Kris,” he said quietly when she continued to stare at him without answering.

Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll be fine. Much better than she’ll ever be again.”

“I’ll be quick as I can.” Liam turned, but she stayed him with her hand on his arm.

“How do you know my name?”

“A ghràidh,” he murmured, sliding out of reach. “Some say that I know everything.”

*

Kris kept her gaze on her mystery man until he melded with the darkness. What was it about him that made every lucid thought in her head fly away?

He’d nearly kissed her again. She’d seen the intent in his marvelous blue eyes, sensed it in the slight increase of his breath, felt it in his touch. But even more amazing than that intent was her desire to let him.

She should have pushed harder—for his name, for an explanation of how he had known hers. But it had seemed beyond tacky to do so with a dead girl at her feet. They had more pressing issues than names.

An icy, damp finger seemed to brush her cheek, and Kris glanced toward the loch. A thick haze had formed, hanging above the water, blocking any hint of the opposite shore. The wind pushed the fog in her direction; vapor settled on her skin and in her hair. She saw—

“Through a glass darkly.” She’d always liked that phrase but hadn’t really understood it until now. Peering at the dead girl through the mist was like peering into a murky mirror.

“First Corinthians.”

The voice was firm and commanding. The voice of God.

If God had a thick German accent.

The tall, slim outline of a man wavered in the depths of the haze as the voice continued: “‘For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.’”

The old man who’d been staring at her in the pub stepped from the gloom. He bowed slightly, an Old World gesture that seemed completely at home in this old world.

“Chapter thirteen, verse twelve,” he finished. “Very apropos. Soon, you will no longer know only in part.”

“Know what?” Kris asked. “How did you get here?”

“I walked, Miss Daniels. The same as you.”

He knew her name, too. Had it been written in the sky when she wasn’t looking?

“You followed me?”

“Why would I do that?”

Kris glanced at the dead girl, suddenly remembering that the old guy had disappeared from the bar before she had. He hadn’t followed her; he’d beaten her here. What had he been doing before she arrived?

Kris took a step backward, preparing to run, and he snatched her elbow with surprisingly quick and freakishly strong, bony fingers. “You do not want to do that,” he murmured.

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