A face that, for the last few weeks, had haunted his dreams.

Yet all but immediately, the damn parasol had come up and re-obscured his view.

“Damn!” One part of his mind was telling him, calmly, that it couldn’t possibly be she, that he was seeing things he wanted to see…Some other part, a more visceral part, was already sure.

He hesitated, waiting to see again-to know for sure.

Movement in the crowd behind the parasol caught his eye.

Cultists.

His blood literally ran cold. He’d known they’d be waiting for him-he and his people were expecting a welcome.

But Emily Ensworth and her people weren’t.

He’d vaulted the railing on the thought. He landed on the wharf, his gaze locked on her.

He came up from his crouch with considerable momentum, cleaving his way bodily through the crowd. He came up with her just in time to grab her and haul her away from the blade a cultist thrust at her.

Her gasp was drowned beneath a cacophony of sound-exclamations, shrieks, shouts. Others had seen the menacing sword, but even as the crowd turned and garrulously searched, the cultists melted away. Taller than most, Gareth saw them pull back. Over the heads, one cultist-an older, black-bearded man-met his eye. Even across the distance, Gareth felt the malevolence in the man’s gaze. Then the man turned and was swallowed by the crowd.

Mooktu appeared by Gareth’s shoulder. “Should we follow?”

Bister was already further afield, scouting.

Gareth’s instincts screamed follow, to pursue and deal appropriately with any cultist he could find. But…he glanced down at the woman he still held, his hands locked about her upper arms.

With her parasol now askew, he looked down into wide, moss-hazel eyes. Into a face that was as perfect as he recalled, but pale. She was stunned.

At least she wasn’t screaming.