As I turned onto Bramblewood Way, the fog rose thick and fast to surround the car. It smothered the road in one quick swoop. I slammed on the brakes as a dark figure vaulted out from the trees on the side of the road, loping into the street. It looked for all the world like a huge wolf, hunched and misshapen. Another figure followed—this one human—and I skidded to the side as I tried to avoid hitting him. As I brought my CR-V to a halt, I lurched forward against the seat belt, almost hitting the steering wheel.

My ribs felt bruised and I was panting but otherwise unharmed. I gripped the wheel with one hand as I fumbled to shift the SUV into park.

What the hell had just happened?

Hands shaking, I slowly unfastened my seat belt, then reached beneath the seat for the crowbar I kept stashed there. Being a single woman in a big city, I had learned how to defend myself with whatever I had at hand. After a moment, I also grabbed the switchblade I kept hidden in my glove box and shoved it into my jacket pocket. Hesitating another moment—there could be anything out there from a coyote to a serial killer—finally, I opened the door and stepped out of the car.

I stood there, scanning the road around me, the crowbar clutched in one hands, while I kept the other free and near the knife in my jacket. I knew how to throw a punch, and I could use a baseball bat with decent effectiveness, but it all depended on who was on the receiving end.

The road was silent, a hush of fog. My house was a block and a half away, but right now it felt as good as a mile. As my breath coalesced into a cloud of white vapor, I tried to sort out whether I had actually hit anyone. No body in the road—check. No sign of what dog . . . wolf . . . whatever had launched itself in my path—check.

“Are you all right?”

Startled, I whirled around, raising the crowbar. To my left stood a man, around five eleven. He was lean and fit, and so close he could have grabbed my arm. I took one deliberate step back.

What the hell? I hadn’t seen any sign of him—or anybody else—when I’d stepped out of the car. Nor had I heard him approach, and I had good ears. “Where did you come from? Who are you?”

He held up his hands, gesturing to the raised crowbar. “I promise, you won’t need that. I’m not going to hurt you.” He took a step back and kept his hands out in plain sight.

As I slowly lowered the makeshift weapon, I looked him over. His wheat-colored hair was in a casually tousled shag, reaching his collar in back and on the sides. A well-trimmed beard and mustache shrouded his face. But something about his eyes caught my attention. I realized that, even this close, under the streetlamps, I couldn’t tell what color they were. And yet his gaze pierced through the fog. I frowned. There was something familiar about him . . . but I knew we hadn’t met.

He ventured a smile, still holding his hands where I could see them. “Allow me to introduce myself—and apologize for startling you.” His voice was soft but firm. I had the feeling he could sing with that voice. “My name is Bryan Tierney. I’m your neighbor.”

Neighbor? When I’d left Whisper Hollow, the estate next door had been empty and I hadn’t realized somebody lived there now.

I gazed at him calmly, but inside, alarm bells were going off—but I couldn’t tell what they were warning me about. I wasn’t afraid of him, not really. I didn’t sense danger from him, and he most definitely wasn’t a spirit—but something was tugging at the edges of my consciousness.