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Indarin and Vertigern looked less than amused. Their stony faces greeted her when she turned around. For a moment Shan didnt know what to say. He didnt know what tofeel. All he could hear was the laughter roaring through his mind as the Enchassa enjoyed every moment of it. Oh yes, she loved this. I understand. But not so much that it will injure you. If you will but slow down, I will take the blame. As he wrapped them up in the length of material that had once been a petticoat, his heart began that dreadful ache again. He knew it too well. Hed felt its kindred pain for all such losses. But this was worse. His sister and the wolf were dead. That Jeren was still alive ought to make it easier to bear, but somehow it didnt. I have some conditions. It ends where it started—my grandmothers house. Well meet you there one week from today at midnight. Bring Emma or call me at a quarter till and tell me where Max and Karen can pick her up. Once Max and Karen have Emma, Gabriel and I will join you in the house. Im sure you know Gabriel is dying. He wants to diewith me, and I want to die with him. No tricks, no cops. I want to end this. The wolf fled, leaping through the night. Jeren watched it go, her chest heaving, her fingernails digging into the branch. She held the remains of her weapon up before her and it cast a dreadful light on Analas wounded form lying in the snow. Blood oozed through her fur and she lifted her head, trying to lick it. I grabbed the fire extinguisher and began putting out the flames. Smoke filled my lungs as sirens sounded in the distance.At least one of us had the good sense to call for help. Winter is on its way. Theres no snow on the fells but theres a sawtoothed sharpness to the air. The russets and golds; the honeys and caramels of a few days ago are yielding to the bleached bone and pure velvet blackness of the years end. She nods, brightly. Returns with a small pile of white and brown envelopes along with some cellophane-wrapped periodicals.Can I dry your clothes? she asks, on impulse. “I cant imagine anything worse than damp clothes. Perched atop a metal stool, the artist sat back and selected a Polaroid picture from the selection lined up along the easel. The butcher had been a little confused by her request but had allowed her to proceed all the same. The picture she held displayed a hanging pig carcass, the innards removed. She glanced back and forth between the photograph and her depiction. She concentrates, hard, trying not to let the strange droning incantations seize the edges of his consciousness. An upturned milk crate had been placed beside the table. She had glimpsed crystals; green, purple, lapis-lazuli. She hadnt paid attention. Had been too busy watching the shadows of the trees move across the forest floor; too busy catching droplets of fine rain upon his dirt-grimed face. She turns to look at the big stone farmhouse where she has been a resident these past eight years. They are nice to her here. She teaches sometimes. Gives classes to the new practitioners. Tells them about the places she has been. The journeys to Peru, to Siberia, to South America, ever searching, ever learning. All she asks in return is a place to pitch her tent, and that they do not ask too many questions. She doubts they would like the answers. This was not the proud warrior he had known, beautiful, treacherous, so self possessed as to believe she knew better than anyone else. This was a mockery, and he pitied her. It clawed at his stomach. Ylandra screamed and shadows poured from her distended mouth. Shadow upon shadow, black as night, flowing like hot tar. Indarin froze in horror as the nearest coalesced into the form of a Fellna and threw itself at him. It slammed into his solar plexus and he went down beneath it in a gasping heap. His eyes snapped wide open to fill themselves with her face, with the moment where he pushed her over the edge and his body stiffened, lost in her. She kept her gaze fixed on his, her body convulsing with pleasure, with fulfilment and love. Id let them put him down, he says, without blinking. Not allowed to do what? Dont be mean to her, says Freya, shaking her head. Shes nice. Shes been nice to me. Violet feels herself grow light-headed. Her limbs are too heavy for her body; her thoughts a soft swirl. Thirty years of memories spin, gently, in front of her drowsy eyes. She tries to centre herself. Sees herself doing as she was told; making her way to the secluded little spot halfway up the fellside in a knotted tangle of trees. She had been sweating from the steep climb through the forest, boots caked with mud, shirt clinging to her back, camera bouncing from her softly rounded belly with each step up the near-invisible path. A broad-shouldered, shaved-headed woman had greeted her with an embrace, pressing her own softness against her. She had shushed her even before she found breath to talk. Had helped her from her shirt and her shoes. Led her inside the sacred place and laid her down. She had not spoken. Didnt make a noise until the incantation began..