Looking back on it, he couldn't even remember what he'd said to her. Or maybe it was his appearance—all muddy and bloody from the fight outside the perimeter. Anyway, it was enough to roust her from bed and send her to the phone. When she found it dead, she sent out runners and the result was this meeting around the kitchen table at Stone Cottage a scant hour later. The wind raked over the house, and hail clattered against the windows. Thunder growled out over the lake. It seemed like it was always storming, these days. It was a disparate group. Ellen prowled the room, flushed and restless, still pumped from the unfinished business outside the perimeter. Sweat glistened on her sinewed arms, and she mopped at her face with her shirt, despite the chilly breeze coming through the terrace doors. Her gray eyes were as turbulent as the surface of the lake. Jack understood—the blood still pounded through his veins, his rebellious body in endless preparation for battle.
