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Doria shook where she stood. Then a sob rippled up through her body, breaking out at the same second as the tears burst from her eyes. She buried her face in her hands and wept.My babies. Oh, sweet Bright Lord, my babies are alive. She scowled and her voice turned vicious.No.Ourchildren. Feyna children. Those Holt-whelps fled the moment the Fellna appeared. They probably brought us to them, probably made a deal. Wounded and carrying her over his shoulder, he didnt know where he found the strength to run. Anala dwindled to a black speck in the distance, heading north towards home. Shan fixed his eyes on the wolf, ignoring the sounds of pursuit. He could outdistance any man, but even a trickle of blood would leave a trail a child could follow. Two others passed by outside, their voices carrying to Shan. They were both Holters, one was Vertigern, the other a River Holter from his accent. Marcus jotted down the information. Jenna had said Harris couldnt remember where he pawned it. Hopefully, his memory was returning and he would remember what he did that night. Thats a good start. You said you couldnt remember where you were the night Turner was killed. Have you had blackouts before? Stop calling me that! Youre suggesting I take his place, that I should…what? Murder my brother? Take River Holt by force? Eve swallows again. Derrick moves to get her some water from the elaborate bedside table. Pearl sits him back in his seat with one hard look. Not until next year, but soon youll be married, and Vertigern of Grey Holt is twenty-four. Marcus read the indictment against Harris as he waited for the deputy to bring him in. Parish was right—most of the evidence was circumstantial, except Harris couldnt remember anything about the night Turner was killed. That was never good. Alibis were the nectar of free men; faulty memories were their downfall. Okay, said Mike, his voice returned to normal. Im trying. Pain lanced up his leg again, and he felt the barb of the arrow deep inside the soft flesh. Only his own kind could help him. If he didnt find someone to get the arrow out, it would kill him. Rowan rolls the car to a halt in the parking area at the end of the road. The copse of trees that surrounds St Olafs is a couple of hundred metres ahead. There are several vehicles in the car park; mostly working vehicles; flat-bed pick-ups and bottle-green Land Rovers. Theres a blue BMW, a black Jeep and battered red works van; its mudguards clogged up with torn grass and thick mud. Beyond the car park, the road peters out at the front of the big hotel. Its a long, imposing building that looks up to the task of doing daily battle with the elements. Its front is the colour of old butter and thick black gloss serves as thick mascara around the dark windows. Rowan scanned the website before they left, taking a mental note of the names of the owners and a little about the place’s history, in case he needed a tool with which to start a conversation with a taciturn local. He now knows that this is where British climbing began. It has been a hotel for two centuries or more, providing much-needed lodgings for the peddlars, merchants and tradesmen who laboured over Black Sail, Sty Head and Burnmoorpasses to ply their trade in adjacent valleys.It has played host to the great men of British climbing; Victorian upper-class daredevils who pitted themselves against the towering crags and made daily wagers with the elements. Many of those early pioneers are buried in the consecrated ground of St Olaf’s. And you heal people, yeah? A branch snaps in two beneath the sole of her left foot, gunshot-sharp against the silence of the night. Unbidden, her eyes flutter open. She glimpses at her surroundings and feels panic claw its way up her aching throat. Mist rises from the mulch of the woodland floor; shapeless wisps that coil around the bases of the rain-blackened trees. The moon is a leering eye, half hooded by a skein of thick cloud. It finds its likeness in the flat, bronze-black surface of the lake. Jesus, mutters Rowan. There must have been an enquiry. I mean, thats pretty damn suspicious …, I dont think I like the sound of that. I accept. My life for Emma..