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A smile tugged at her lips. She wondered what Mina would say to that idea. Lady Jeren of River Holt with a warrior totem at her beck and call, like one of the Fair Ones out of the stories. Rowan already knows what hes going to do next. Even as he stands still, considering his next move, there is a part of him that is acutely aware he will go and poke around Violets house. Worse, he knows what he hopes to find. In 20 years as a journalist he has grown used to a life of moral duality. Hes been present at hundreds of murder sites and enquiries, countless for hunts for the missing-feared-dead. He has always hoped for two things. That they missing be returned unharmed, or that something truly unspeakable has occurred. Both are newsworthy. Both are tremendous stories. Rowan has often found himself hoping after two linked murders that a third corpse will be found, turning a half-decent yarn into a sudden front-page headline. Serial killers sell papers. He has a built-in calculator of a corpse’s journalistic worth. It’s a grotesque skill to have, but he has it nonetheless. Reliving my own hell.I wanted to see the murder site. I turned to face him, studying him the same way he was studying me. I guessed he was in his late forties, early fifties, but unlike the older detectives Id known, he didnt have the paunch. Instead, muscles rippled beneath his jacket when he moved. The military cut Id always found unattractive suited him.He doesn’t belong here. He belongs in a big city. So what’s he doing in Savannah, Georgia? The darkness was more complete. It surprised me that no one else could see it, not even Max.Thats my next stop. I turned toward the trail Id followed in from the main road. “Unless youre planning on stopping me. 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. Rowan Blake, he says, trying to smile. He manages to hold her gaze for a moment. I want to tell your story. Like a wave of gold, glittering with shards of agony, Jerens magic burst into the Otherlings retreat. They shied back, seeking to escape it but Shan held them still, calmed them with his will and they agreed to wait. To see. To experience this as well. She caught herself scratching through the fabric of her long sleeve shirt, pulling the sleeve higher up her arm. Another iffy item courtesy of Sweaty Steve. Her nails penetrated the thin, black cotton to attack her forearm. The seam was already starting to come apart from the regular onslaught. She cursed and pulled the sleeve back down to her wrist. Do you have control issues? asks Catherine, sympathetically. Weve got a teacher here whos good for that. Well, not exactly a teacher but somebody whos good at helping people. He’s a healer. Mr Sixpence he’s called, but don’t be put off. He’s not a weirdo, or maybe he is, but not in a bad way. Anyway, he’s good at making you feel better. Positive visualisation is part of it but there’s meditation and something called mindfulness on offer three times a week. Have you heard of Reiki? We do that too. It’s weird but it kind of helps. You get all emotional and these tears come out that you’ve been holding in since you were a baby. Mam says they’re the tears we weep for the sins of mankind, but she chuckles when she says it so she might just be pulling my leg. Eve listens to the sound of the wind playing with the branches of the trees below. Listens to thepink-pink-pink of grimy water falling from the mudguards to the puddles in the road.Sir? 8. Snowdrop fiddles with the phone and holds it up for inspection, displaying a screen-grabbed image of Violet Rayner (nee Sheehan). Shes grinning for the camera; a big mess of frizzy hair piled up on top of her head and wooden earring dangling down below the level of her slightly rounded chin. Shes a few years older than him but he thinks she looks younger. Shes got healthy skin and the whites of her eyes are bright as a new moon. Her dark eyebrows have been accentuated with pencil and brush but she wears no other make-up. There’s something about her that suggests a fizzing kid of energy; a gleam in her eye that says she’s enjoyed the kind of evenings out that don’t finish until breakfast. Lara stared at her for a moment and then nodded.Can you... can you talk to him? What makes you presume that, Detective Browne? I holstered my gun. You are not my mistress!.