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The golden highlights in his eyes flickered for a moment before darkening.No. Grabbing both my arms, he shook me hard. “I want you to snap the hell out of it, Dakota. Gabriel laughed.Looks like we understand each other. She stared for another moment.But not enough to beat it? Gabriel opened his door.Hell accept. She sat opposite. Long, dark hair, scalp spilling ink down to her shoulders. Fingers gripping the edge of the table, the surface as familiar as the cracks in her bedroom ceiling. Brightlings Dale was as much a smudge on the landscape as Jeren remembered. The moment it came into view, Shans mood—poor already—darkened. Anala had died here, the brave wolf trying to save them both. Jeren thought of her pelt, stored now in the luggage her retinue pulled behind them. She wasnton horseback, for no lady of the Holtlands rode astride a beast and now she was back in the Holtlands, back to being the lady once more, even that small freedom was no longer allowed. She sat in an open wagon that they could pretend was a carriage. Shan sat less easy beside her. She reached out for him as often as she could, touching him for reassurance, to show her love, but she wasn’t sure it helped. He was like a caged animal, her wolf. Tense, angry, waiting. I presume you know a little about my misspent youth, says Rowan, holding her gaze. Im sorry, Father. But I couldnt stand there and watch him take the throne. Not after what hed done. Ice ran threatening fingers across her heart.What changed it? Why come back? Stop! Take me back. They cant see me like this! Shan, please. Youre police, yeah? he asked, his accent pure Glasgow. Thought youd come eventually. She left this. He held out the sack as if it were a bomb. Ive heard you’ve been asking. If you want my opinion she’s probably dead, but she might just have found a place to get him out of her head.” My thanks. Jeren inclined her head. Indarin backed off but she waited until he was gone again to breathe a sigh of relief. Did he believe that? Khain inhaled deeply—smelling her, tracking her—and gave a short laugh. They didnt know. He sensed it, understood it, but didnt hear an actual reply. They were as scared as he was, taking comfort in each other, in their closeness, their memory of a hive. But even that had broken. The underlying panic told him that as well. They were no longer connected in the same way andthey were scared. Back to pain. Back to fear. Back to all her doubts. 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..