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Her magic surged, responding to the blood. She struggled briefly, but it swept through the boundaries she had placed on it. So much blood, covering him, draining from him. It called to her and she answered. Drawing his life force from him, empowering herself, claiming his energy as her own. Jeren abandoned us to our fate, Doria replied, her hands on her hips, her thin elbows thrusting out. He raised her up and smiled.Well teach you how to do it right the first time. He transferred her to his hip and held out the knife. “Kill her. My cell buzzed, and I glanced at the message before I rose and took the paper.Thank you, Dr. Rivers. I have to go. The silence on the phone had me gripping it so hard for a moment that I thought Id broken it or hed hung up. I needed to keep him talking. We should meet. Talk about Mother. Samara retreated deeper between the two squat buildings and beneath the arch, emerging from the other side into the college gardens. He flicks a cigarette between his lips and canters down the grimy stairs, passing streaks of graffiti on mouldy white tile, kicking aside stray pages of newspaper and empty cans. The woman was pretty in a flashy kind of way. Her hair was a little too blond, and for a woman her age, her dress was a little too short. Mr. Turner had made a lot of money over the last few years, and shed clearly enjoyed spending it. Something in her eyes and the way she held her body excused most of that. She was a woman who had lived in fear for a long time. Good, thought Jeren. She had no love for the place, or its people. All her memories of it were foul. But if she could win it, and win it without bloodshed... Gods, she hoped it could be without bloodshed. Am I a shaman? he asks. He shrugs. No, I dont think so. Im a Shamanic practitioner. He breathed in, slowly, as if fighting to control a temper. He looked at the owl as if in accusation.Her name? he asked Jeren. He settled opposite her and closed his eyes. Jeren followed suit, still now, attentive, waiting for his voice. He settled opposite her and closed his eyes. Jeren followed suit, still now, attentive, waiting for his voice. 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. My phone buzzed, and I glanced at the ID—four missed calls from Max and three from Gabriel. Eventually, they would give up, but I needed a new phone. Dont play with her, Dervin. Shes as good to us dead and less trouble. Kill her and have done with it. The sight of the Seers teaching Jeren did nothing for Shans worsening temper. That Indarin stood there calmly, watching from a distance, was even worse. At least Fethan was no longer with them. Whatever had happened, no one spoke of it. And that made it even clearer. Something terrible had occurred..