3
A complete stranger was standing in the hallway, glaring at her. His voice practically vibrated with startled anger as he went on, “What are you doing in this house?”
“I — ” Elena began, then faltered. The man who’d just confronted her was obviously a warlock — she’d felt the same little jolt she always experienced whenever she encountered another witch or warlock as soon as she stepped in the doorway — but she had a sudden flash of intuition that he wasn’t a Castillo. He’d spoken to her in English, but it was heavily accented, not the sort of pronunciation you’d hear from someone who’d spent their entire life in Santa Fe. Armed with that lucky guess, she found herself retorting, “I might ask the same thing of you.”
He slung the duffle bag he was carrying off his shoulder and set it d
