Micah stopped halfway up the cliff face. It had been a while since he did any free climbing, but it came back to him quickly. He looked a question at his left shoulder, and the ugly imp perched there shrugged.

"She's still up there. I got no idea why. Not my lookout. I just tell you where she is."

Micah shook his head in frustration, then started climbing again. Not for the first time in the past few months, he cursed himself for a fool. A few minutes after he'd spoken with Sammy, the pain from his Words had... twisted, like the danger changed yet again. Worse, the sense that something threatened his wife, his living, breathing, work of Art, had rocketed to the top of his Words' threat list.

Less than thirty minutes later, Sammy called him back to the club. He hadn't gotten far, hadn't gotten anything done, but he came. His Words drove him there, proof enough for him that the Morrigan was tied up in the danger to his wife. When he arrived, after dealing with the Door Warden's stupid procedural games, Sammy sat at his usual table, two ornate scroll cases in front of him.

"Thank you for coming so quickly, Micah."

"My wife is in danger, Sam. What can you do to help me."

Micah hated the knowing smile that slid across Sam's face, but he couldn't do anything about it without further endangering Phil.

"I'm glad you came quickly, because I hate having things like these on the premises."

"What are they?"

"Magic, Micah. Fairly simple, but also fairly potent. The one on the left will guide you to the person you wish to speak with. The one on the right will guide you home again."

That last brought a frown to Micah's face. "Why would I need a guide to get back home? If I have to, I can walk there. From other continents if need be."

"Do you know the way home from other Realms? From Underhill, or Niflhel, or Abaddon? I think not."

Micah hung his head, momentarily ashamed. "I'm sorry, Sam. I should have known." He reached for the scrolls. "I owe you one."

When his hand touched the scrolls, Sam's was suddenly atop it, pinning it to the table. Micah hadn't even seen him move. "No, Micah. For this you will not owe me. Instead, you will carry a message for me."

He didn't let the fear show on his face. His hands were steady. He thanked his creator for not making him prone to sweat. "What message, to who."

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"When you find her, tell her that she plays a dangerous game, one where winning may be more dangerous than losing."

Micah shook off the sudden foreboding and gathered the scrolls in his hand. "I will."

Sam's hand was once again toying with his wineglass. "I would ask you to stay for wine and cheese, but something tells me you wish to begin your journey."

"Yeah." Micah pocketed the scroll that would lead him home, but before he could break the seal on the other one, Sammy spoke.

"I would also ask that you not use the first scroll here. Go," Sammy paused, thinking, "go to thirtieth street station. That ought to give you a bit of a head start."

"Sure. Thanks, Sam."

"Do not mention it, Micah. Best of luck to you."

That's how it started. Now Micah was in Washington state, halfway up a cliff face, trying to catch up to his mother-in-law before she did whatever she was going to do to his wife. His only consolation was that if she was here in Washington, she wasn't anywhere near Philadelphia. He tried to forget about how easily the Morrigan could transit mortal space.

As he levered himself over the top edge of the cliff, he was forcibly reminded. The imp on his shoulder grabbed at his ear, pointing ahead and upward.

"That's her! That's her!"

A giant raven hovered over a cabin in the woods, maybe half a mile away. A terrified scream split the silence of the mountain plateau, coming from the cabin. Micah was on his feet and sprinting before he really thought about it. He grinned when he remembered a comment by his daughter-in-law Michaela. She once told him he had cop instincts; when there was trouble, he ran towards it.

His shoulder hit the door of the cabin. The screws in the old hinges let loose under the impact, and he burst into a scene from a horror movie. A young woman hung, naked, suspended upside down from the ceiling. Bound hand and foot, blood covered her face, dripping through her hair to land in a bucket beneath her. A man in coveralls and a flannel shirt stood next to her, one hand holding a bloodied knife.

Micah didn't even think. He closed with the maniac, his left forearm blocking the knife. It hurt like he'd been slashed to the bone, but that's all it did; the blade never penetrated his skin. His right arm drove his fist into the man's face hard enough to throw him backward across the room. He hit the back wall of the cabin with a sickening crunch. He hung there for a few moments, slowly sliding down and away, a series of quiet squelching noises coming from behind him.

Only then did Micah realize that the entire back wall of the cabin was covered with a series of hooks, each holding something with a blade, a spike, or both. The murderer's eyes had already glazed over. A quick glance told Micah he'd arrived too late to save the woman's life. Her eyes were glazed, she wasn't breathing, and the bucket beneath her was near full up. Another, slower perusal of the cabin told him he'd saved her, potentially, from worse than that. Her skin had been marked with a sharpie, and the leather drying on racks told him this wasn't the first time the psycho had done this.

It was certainly the last, though.

Micah wanted to do more, to call in the authorities, but a quick check with the imp told him the Raven had already flown away. There was no identification on either the murderer or the victim. He had to content himself with cutting the dead woman down, covering her with a small cairn of rocks, and moving on. The psycho he left for the animals. If he managed to make it back to Philadelphia in one piece, he would call Matt and Michaela and have them take a trip out here to sort things out.

For now, he had a Raven to catch.