"Lady, do you have any idea what you just did?" Sam's voice was low, controlled, but vibrating with anger. "That compass was bait, and you just scared off our fish."
Delilah clutched the compass to her chest. "This compass is in danger. I saw it in a vision."
"The only danger was letting it get away. We've been tracking those thieves for weeks." Sam ran a hand through his hair. "And now they're gone."
"Thieves? I was trying to prevent a theft!"
"By committing one yourself? Brilliant strategy."
Delilah's eyes flashed. "I don't need sarcasm from a—" She stopped, sniffing the air. "You're a shifter."
"And you're a menace." Sam extended his hand. "The compass. Now."
"I can't. My vision?—"
"Your vision just compromised an official investigation."
The back door opened, and Mac stepped out, his expression carefully neutral. "Sam, they're asking questions inside."
Sam nodded sharply. "I'll be right there." He turned back to Delilah. "We're not done."
As he stalked back inside, Mac gave Delilah a quick, apologetic look before following.
Delilah sagged against the brick wall, the compass warm in her palm. "Well, that could have gone better."
Something heavy suddenly appeared on her wrist. She looked down to find an ornate purse dangling there—one that definitely wasn't hers. The clasp popped open of its own accord, revealing a folded note: "Protect it. They're coming. —B"
"Great," Delilah muttered. "Mysterious notes and angry werewolves. Just what my migraine needed."
The compass needle spun wildly, then stopped—pointing directly at the door Sam had just walked through.
"Protect it. They're coming." Delilah muttered. "Couldn't you be more specific, B? A timeline would be nice. A location. Heck, I'd settle for your full name."
The compass warmed in her palm as she examined it under the sickly yellow glow of the nearest streetlamp. It wasn't particularly ornate—brass case, simple design—but something about it hummed with potential. The needle continued its erratic spinning before stopping again, pointing directly at the bar's back door.
The streetlamp above her flickered, dimmed, then brightened with a surge that cast wild shadows across the alley. The other lamps along the street followed suit, creating a wave of light and darkness that rolled down the block.
"Magical interference," she whispered. "But from what?"
"From whom, not what, little sparrow!"
Delilah yelped, nearly dropping the compass. On a bench not ten feet away sat Elder Thornberry, looking as if he'd been there for hours. His wispy white hair caught the fluctuating light, creating a halo effect that made him appear both ancient and otherworldly.
"Elder Thornberry! How long have you been sitting there?"
"Three minutes or three centuries. Time is a circle drawn by a child with a broken crayon." He tapped his walking stick against the pavement, each tap coinciding with another flicker of the streetlamps.
Delilah approached cautiously. "Did you send me this purse?"
"Purses carry things. People carry burdens. Which is heavier?" He peered at her with surprising clarity in his rheumy eyes. "The compass speaks to you, yes? Shows you its secrets?"
The compass needle suddenly whirled, pointing northeast toward the town square, then southwest toward the old mill, then southeast toward the library.
"It's going haywire," Delilah said. "Like it can't decide where north is."
Elder Thornberry cackled. "That compass doesn't just find north, little sparrow—it finds what's been lost! And what's been lost is more than trinkets and baubles! The Collector sees all shiny things, and shiny people too!"
A chill raced down Delilah's spine. "The Collector? Who's that?"
