She ignored Raife for what felt like an hour through the burrick tunnels before his silent, lurking presence—following at a nominally discreet distance behind her—finally got on her last nerve.

She stopped short and whirled on him to snap, "You need to stop following me. I mean it."

The thief gave her a thin sneer, and held up his hands in mock surrender. "And just who's being self-centered now? I'm not following you. I just happen to have my own business in this direction."

"Oh, really? What business is that?"

"My business," the thief replied. "And none of yours."

Megan scoffed and gave him a sneer of her own. "Sure, whatever you say."

"You're not the only one who has to dig out of a pagan mess, I'll have you know."

"Well, you do have a knack for getting yourself and everyone around you mixed up with them, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

She felt a slight thrill of victory when his sneer dropped and his face sobered. "I already offered to make amends for what part I played in Daphne's trouble," he muttered, "but you won't let me, remember? You can't turn down my help and then continue to lord the mistake over me."

"Offering your help doesn't make what you did right."

"Did I say it would?"

"You don't have to say it. You think I'll forgive you just because you help fix a problem you created? You think that'll make me forget that at least at some point in the last few days, you decided that your welfare was more important than ours? Would you still offer your help even knowing that I don't ever intend to forgive you for this?"

The thief threw his hands wide, and shouted, "Yes!"

At this, she couldn't help but laugh, and when she did, the bitterness of it gave her a chill. "You're a liar."

Raife bristled. "I don't lie about everything, you know."

"Oh, no? Give me one piece of truth you've ever spoken to me."

The thief looked about to say something back, but snapped his teeth shut on it before it could slip out. With a hoarse huff, he hunched his shoulders and walked on around her. As he passed, she thought she heard him say under his breath, "Damned girl…"

"Damned girl!" Megan turned and caught up with him. "Don't you dare try to belittle me, like any of this is my fault!"

"I wasn't—"

"Damned girl!" she snapped again. "Damn you! I've admitted what mistakes I've made, but with you it's always the same. Those stupid girls made me do it, those damned girls got me into trouble, blah, blah, blah, but you know what? I didn't make you take that asinine job for the pagans, I didn't tell you to kill a Keeper, and I sure as hell didn't ask you to—"

She stopped herself before she mentioned the kiss, but the memory of it hit her in the chest and almost took her breath away. She wanted to hit him, to throttle him, to scream at him for humiliating her. She'd almost given in to Daphne's innocent teasing, almost believed for half a second that maybe she could let herself fall into the dizzying daydream that haunted the back of her thoughts when he wasn't around.

But meeting him here, face to face again, remembering so clearly the way he walked out on them, turned the switch on their friendship like it was nothing to him-! She thought she'd been over-exaggerating his callousness, wanted to believe it had all been an act, that somehow, deep down, he really cared and just couldn't—for whatever reason—justify showing it openly.

But that was the lie, she realized. That was the lie that had cut her so deeply. Not his lie, but her own, the one she'd wanted so badly to believe in, even as she'd denied and denied and denied; and now that he'd torn away the curtain of her own delusions by his actions, she was angry at him. But it was herself who was the deceiver.

He stood a short distance from her, his face ashen and his eyes averted. The muscles in his jaw pulsed. When he spoke, he growled. "I wasn't trying to blame you for anything. You think I don't know what a mess I've made of this? I lost the Eye. I got Garrett captured by a damned wood witch. And I gave you and Daphne that cursed letter on top of it all, and until I fix this and get the Eye back to those damned Keepers, don't think for one second that I'm thinking about anything else but what a damned mess this all is and how the only one I have to blame is myself!"

He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath as he pushed his hair back, and again she noticed the thin threads of gray mixed in among the dark. He looked exhausted. "And I didn't lie to you when I told you I was sorry. I am. What more do you want from me?"

His exhaustion was contagious. She could feel it in her bones, weighing down on her shoulders. Megan sighed and looked down the length of the tunnel still stretching out ahead of them. It looked like every other tunnel they'd traversed already, and for all they knew it was leading them even further away from wherever Daphne was being held above ground. They might walk for another day and still not find any way up to the surface. Standing still, she realized how tired her legs were, how hard it was to fight to keep her eyes open. And one glance at the thief told her he was just about to fall over, himself.

But Daphne-! I can't stop. I can't rest. There isn't time. But while her mind was willing to run ahead, her body was quickly making the decision for her. She gritted her teeth. Just briefly. For a moment. She glanced at the thief and saw his eyelids drooping, even as he glared down the tunnel beyond them.

"We should rest," she said, reluctantly trudging to the side of the tunnel. The moment she got there, her knees gave out and she slid to the ground, back to the wall. "There's no telling how far we've come or how far we have to go, or whether or not we're even heading in the right direction. We won't be any use to anyone if we're exhausted."

"Rest if you need to," the thief replied. He straightened his back and frowned with wide eyes, as if willing them to stay open. "I'm fine."

"Really? Because you look like you're sleepwalking."

The glare flashed to her, but it didn't linger. "It'll pass."

"Fine, whatever," Megan muttered, curling onto her side, her arm beneath her head. It felt so good to lay down, and she was too tired to fight with him when he was being stupid and macho.

She closed her eyes and felt them seal shut. There were footsteps, and for a brief moment her heart skipped a beat, realizing that if he walked off and left her there—which he absolutely could do—she wouldn't have so much as a knife to defend herself with if any lone burricks stumbled upon her while she slept. But the footsteps moved closer, not away, and soon she felt a body slump down beside her feet and heard the rattling of a quiver and bow being set aside, and following that, a deep, though stifled, sigh of relief.

"Don't sleep too long," she heard him say from some echoey place far, far away. "I'll keep watch…"

And then she fell sound asleep.

She awoke to the snorting, snuffling nose of her dog nuzzling her face. It was slobbery and wet, and his breath was terrible, but it made her laugh as she shoved his big head away. "Leave me alone, Strider," she grumbled, pushing herself up onto one arm.

Her bed felt crumbly. More than crumbly—downright dirty. And hard. Megan's eyes flew open and found herself staring into the face of a very large lizard creature. She pressed her lips together to keep back the sudden scream that had jumped to the back of her throat, and lifted a hand to pinch her nose and cover her mouth, in case it decided to let out a nice big gust of gas right into her face.

It snuffled and started huffing and shuffling in place, and suddenly the tunnel was filled with the strange, breathy barks. Megan didn't dare turn her head away from the burrick right in front of her, but a quick glance out of the corner of her eye told her it was not alone. Not by a lot. There were burricks everywhere.

Oh, shit.

"Raife," she whispered past her hand, hoping it was loud enough, because raising her voice seemed like a very, very bad idea. "Raife." She reached behind her and swatted his shoulder.

The thief snorted and jerked upright. When he spoke, his voice was still gruff and grumpy from sleep, and none to quiet. "What?"

The burricks let out a chorus of whoops and barks, and she felt Raife catch his breath and stiffen. "Don't make any sudden moves," he whispered.

The burrick nearest to her took a step forward, and she cautiously leaned backwards until she and the thief were back to back. "I thought you said you were gong to keep watch," she hissed.

"I did. I was."

"With your eyes open?"

The lizard beasts were getting worked up. Drool dripped from the jaws of the one not two feet away from her face, and its wheezing call was getting faster, thinner, higher. Its long body trembled, and the burricks beside it pressed into each other, pushed back against it, wriggled and stamped their clicking talons on the ground.

"Give me a knife," Megan whispered. "I don't have any weapons."

She felt the thief move, slightly, and a moment later, felt the smooth hilt of a dagger slide into her open palm. "Don't attack them," he said. "If even one of these things lets out a gas flurry, we're done for."

She closed her fingers around the dagger and drew it carefully up to her knee, keeping it—she hoped—out of the burrick's sight. She wasn't sure if it would know what a dagger was, but she didn't want to risk it thinking it was being threatened. In her cloak pocket, she felt the lump of the gas bomb she'd found in the cart where she'd waited for Otto and Daphne, and she pressed her wrist to it. Would it work against burricks? She thought it might.

"Stand up very, very slowly," the thief said, and behind her, she felt him begin to rise, and then felt his hand under her arm, drawing her upwards with him. She didn't argue.

Standing, however, only reminded her how big burricks were. Their backs were nearly up to her chest, and their muscular bodies made a solid wall of flesh around them. The beasts shuffled to and fro, their cries became louder, and then something like a deep-throated belch erupted from somewhere over on the thief's side of the pack.

Then all chaos erupted. The air bloomed with yellow gas, the barking crescendoed and rang in her ears. She felt herself shoved forward, then pulled back by the hand on her arm, heard coughing, started coughing herself as the gas crept up her nostrils. She tripped, fell against a scaly body, and before even thinking about it, lashed out with the dagger as hard as she could. It struck something, because she felt it stop short and a burst of something sticky and warm splattered her arms. A howl rose among the barking, and she stumbled back when a thick tail slammed into her stomach, knocking all the held-breath she had out of her lungs.

She heard a bellow—a human bellow—of pain and then someone stumbled over her. She rolled onto her side just as a pair of taloned feet stomped right across where she'd been a moment before. She slashed with the knife again, scrambled to her feet, felt the world reel around her when she gasped for air and got a lungful of putrid fumes. The hilt was slick in her hand and she almost dropped it as she half ran, half crawled on hands and knees in the direction she hoped was away from the beasts. Several loud, wet thuds struck close to her, just inches from her, and a trio of howls almost deafened her. Something nudged her in the back, and she heard her cloak tear, and then there was a shout and someone grabbing her hand and dragging her forward. She couldn't see for all the sparkles, but she put one foot ahead of the other as fast as she could, trying to keep up with the one who pulled her forward.

How far or how long they ran, she wasn't sure, but she knew the burricks followed. She could hear their grunts and wheezes, could hear their talons clicking on the ground close at their heels and could the cursing of the thief as he dragged her forward. They stumbled over each others feet, tripped and staggered. Belches of gas pursued and occasionally caught them until they turned down a side tunnel and managed to steal a lungful of fresh air.

But gradually, the sounds of the burricks fell away behind them, and the air cleared, and still they ran, though the sparkles in her vision lessened, and her legs became firm beneath her, and at last, turn after turn, they slowed to a stop and took a moment to look behind them. They were alone. Safe once more.

Megan leaned on her knees and took deep breaths of the clean, if stale, air, trying to clear the last bit of the gas out of her system. Her head still spun a bit, and she was a little shaky, but every passing moment she felt stronger.

"I didn't think we'd make it," she heard the thief, breathless himself, say beside her. "You did better with that knife than I'd expected."

She looked up at him, finally not dizzy. He stood a few feet off, his hands laced behind his head. "Did I kill any of them?" she asked.

He shrugged, and grinned at her. It was an odd expression on his face, not mocking, not condescending. It made him look ten years younger than she'd have guessed him for when they'd met him. "No idea. Doubt either of us did. Those things are tough."

He looked so boyish, she couldn't help asking, "How old are you, anyway?"

The thief lifted an eyebrow at her and dropped his arms from behind his head. "Huh?"

"You're not, like, forty, are you?"

"Forty?" The thief looked appalled. "Does this—" He waved a hand at his face.—"look forty?"

"You do have some grays," she pointed out.

"I've had a rough life!" the thief snapped back.

"Daphne thought you might be forty."

"Well, the crazy plant lady would know, wouldn't she?" he replied with a scoff.

Megan frowned as she straightened, at last stable on her feet. "Be nice. She can't help that."

"I didn't say she was trying to be a crazy plant lady." The thief crossed his arms and scowled. "Forty? The Master Thief himself isn't forty!"

"You haven't technically answered the question," she said, fighting back a grin at his display of righteous indignation.

"And why do you need to know?" he snapped back.

Megan felt her face flush suddenly, though she managed to turn her back to him to hide it as she leaned down to wipe the dagger blade clean on the hem of her tunic. "No reason. Just curious," she said.

"Oh, yeah?" There was a crunch of footsteps behind her, and then she felt him grab her arm—gently—and turn her back to face him. He was standing very close, not a foot of space between them. The scowl was gone, but his go-to mocking smirk was back with a vengeance beneath his cocked eyebrow. "Well," he said quietly, and she felt his hand on her arm slide down to her wrist, "I'll have you and your little friend know that I haven't seen more than twenty-four winters. Satisfied?"

She was fairly certain he could see the flush in her cheeks at that point, eating up to the very roots of her hairline. His lips—lips she remembered the press of so very, very well—were right there. All she had to do was tilt her chin up, ever so slightly, and he might—

"Doesn't matter to me. We were just curious," Megan said hoarsely, swallowing hard as she took a step back. He let her hand slide easily through his grip as she pulled away, but he turned to watch her as she walked around to the other side of him. His smirk had strengthened, somehow, and now looked cockier than she'd ever seen it before, though she wasn't sure whether that was because he actually felt cockier or whether she was simply more embarrassed. Either way, she wanted to slap it right off his smug face.

The silence was horrifying, so she quickly said, loud and casually, "So just where are we now, anyway?"

The thief let out a huff of a sigh and crossed his arms as he cast a surveying glance around them. "I'd say we're still in the tunnels. More than that, and your guess is as good as mine."

"Helpful."

He shrugged. "I thought you didn't want my help."

She leveled a glare at him, but only for a moment before shaking her head and turning away from him to start down one length of the tunnel. "I don't. Stay here if you want. I'm getting out."

"Going that way?"

"It's as good a way as any, isn't it?"

There wasn't any protest to that, and after she'd gone some twenty yards or so, she heard him begin to follow her. A quick glance back, and she saw him stalking along. The glance also caught his eye, which brought the smirk back instantly, and Megan quickly looked away and scoffed, muttering under her breath, "Damned boy…"

"Damned man would be more accurate," the thief called from behind, and it almost made her jump. She'd forgotten about those ears of his.

"Why don't you just mind your own business?" she called back, but it was hard not to grin a little, though she'd be damned if she let him see.

His footsteps quickened, and when she glanced back again, saw him jogging to catch up. When he got close, he slowed down and walked with something of a swagger, and gave her a look from head to toe that threatened to bring that blush right back.

"You are such a pain," she growled, crossing her arms and trying to pick up her own pace so he had to walk faster.

"Admit it," he said, "you kind of like that."

She scoffed and shook her head. "You are so full of yourself."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him bob his head to the side. "Maybe."

"Definitely."

He humphed, but it didn't sound angry, and though she didn't dare look him in the face, in her peripheral vision, she could tell he was smirking again.

He looked about to say something, when up ahead of them, she heard a click. Megan drew up short and caught her breath to listen, staring down the tunnel in the direction of the sound, waiting for a burrick's huge head to appear around the corner.

"What?" Raife drew closer, frowning in the direction she was looking, a knife already in his hand.

"I thought I heard—"

Click. There it was again, but it sounded no closer than it had before.

Click.

Not a click at all, she realized as she listened. "Do you hear that?" she asked.

It was softer than a click. It was more like a—

Drip.

Megan's heartbeat skipped a—

Drip.

—beat.

"Something dripping," she whispered. "That way. Maybe there's a hole?"

Raife adjusted his cloak on his shoulders. "Let's take a look."

It was further away than she'd expected, but after walking for some time with the sound of the drip gradually growing louder and soon accompanied by the rushing echo of steady rain, she felt herself charged with enough energy to run ahead. Raife followed, and caught up with her just as she skidded to a stop on the damp patch of the tunnel floor beneath a gaping hole. Through it, the skies were deeply overcast, but it appeared to still be in the final hours of the evening light. In the fading grey light and the brush of thick, wet leaves, she could see trees.

Raife stood beside her as she stared up at the surface, the raindrops pattering her face and soaking her hair. "Well, that'll work," he said, slinging his bow from his shoulder and knocking a rope arrow.

The string creaked against the leather of his gloves as he drew the arrow back, and then with a twang, it shot free and true. It struck a solid tree branch overhead, and a moment later, the rope uncoiled and fell down to them. Raife caught the rope and then stepped aside. "After you."

She hesitated, but then grabbed hold and muttered, "Thanks." With a deep breath and a silent prayer that all those years of climbing rope in gym class wasn't completely a waste of time, she started to haul herself up.

No one would have said she was graceful about it, but hand-over-hand, she got herself up. A little swing, and she managed to jump to the edge of the hole and into the rain-saturated undergrowth, which instantly soaked her through. By contrast, Raife climbed the rope in half a second, making it look as easy as breathing. He leapt to the side and landed with effortless grace she tried, and failed, not to be a little jealous of.

The air above ground was fresh and sweet, and while the thief scaled the lower limbs of the tree to retrieve his rope arrow, she breathed deeply and took her first good look around them. They had come out on a steep hillside, surrounded by tall trees and rocky outcroppings. The woods here were deathly silent. Thick mist coiled in a gully a little ways below them, but up near the peak of the hill, the rain clouds above the canopy seemed to be breaking. Pale, watery evening light filtered through the tendrils of cloud.

Even in something close to daylight, it was colder above ground than she'd anticipated, and with her clothes soaked through, Megan fought back a shiver and rubbed her hands against her arms to try to take some of the chill off. Rainwater trickled from her hair down the back of her neck and slid like an icy finger between her shoulder blades. Her hands felt frozen as she smoothed her hair back and out of her face.

A dull crack echoed off the tree trunks as Raife pulled his arrow free. He coiled the rope around the shaft and slipped it back into his quiver. "I don't remember hills where I was before," the thief said as he climbed back down to the ground. "We must be pretty far off."

"At least we're still in the forest. We just have to head back the way we came."

"And that would be?"

They both glanced about them, but there wasn't even a hint of anything familiar that Megan could see. "Maybe we should head uphill. From there we might be able to see something."

"Maybe," the thief replied, but he followed her as she began hiking up.

She was about half-way up the incline when she began to smell smoke. It came on slowly, but before long, it was thick in the air and so pungent it made her eyes water. Raife coughed and squinted up the hill.

"Come on," he said softly as he slipped by her.

Megan followed close behind him until they reached the rocky outcroppings at the top. The slabs of rock were steep and slick with rainwater.

"There's someone or something beyond this hill," Raife said, glaring up at the climb. "Go up slowly, keep your head low so you're not spotted. I'll be right behind you. Maybe we're not so far off after all."

Megan nodded and turned to the outcropping. It wasn't sheer stone so much as a collection of tight-packed boulders, filled in with dirt and shale. The boulders themselves were smooth and hard to grasp, and her first attempt at finding a hand and foot hold failed. She'd just gotten a shallow grip in a sharp little notch when Raife laced his fingers and stooped beside her to hoist her up. She hesitated for a moment, but with a sigh finally stepped up into the stirrup of his grip, and he lifted her a few feet up. From there, Megan walked her hands up until she caught hold of a weather-worn ledge in the lowest boulder. She pushed her toe deep into a dirt vein, and hauled herself up until she got her elbow over the ledge. It was only a slight struggle to get her feet to the next decent step.

Below her, Raife whispered instructions like he was a climbing coach. "Grab that branch to the left. No, a little further—there. That one. And your right foot, try that cleft just above your knee. Careful, it's slicker than it looks."

"Yeah, I can tell that, thanks," Megan shot back at him. Her fingers burned as she gripped the unforgiving stone as tightly as she could. It was slick, but slick she could handle. "I'll do a lot better if you stop talking at me. Instead of micromanaging, why don't you climb up yourself?"

Raife scowled, first at her and then at the outcropping as if it had personally insulted him. "Fine," he said. "Suit yourself. But don't blame me when you slip and fall." He seized a handhold high above his head and jammed the toe of his boot into a little crag in the rockface.

"When I slip and fall?" Megan scoffed and hoisted herself up and over another narrow ledge. From there, she could see a relatively clear route upward. "I may not be from around here, but they do have hills and rocks where I come from, and believe it or not, this isn't the first time I've climbed anything."

"Where you come from," the thief snapped back. She couldn't tell if he was grimacing or smirking at her as he pulled himself up another few feet. "And just where is that, exactly, this other world? Hmm?"

Megan gave him a glare, and this time, she was sure he was definitely smirking. "Are you certain that right now is the best time for a metaphysical conversation?" she asked. She clambered up a slight incline. "I mean, we could certainly discuss the possibilities of alternate universes or wormholes or dimensions of reality or perhaps you'd prefer the alchemy of computer programming? Would you prefer we discuss Java or HTML or C++, or maybe you're more interested in Intel processors or the hardware components of a gaming PC?"

The ledge she was now on was narrower than the first few, and it took some effort to keep her toes on it once she'd managed to stand, but at least the boulder above it sloped back enough for her to keep her balance as she searched for another handhold.

Below her, she heard a grunt and managed to catch the thief's scowl out of the corner of her eye. "Less talking, more climbing," he grumbled.

It was a good thing he didn't have the foggiest idea about computers, or else he probably would have realized she was just spitting out random coding languages that she remembered from her father's bookshelf in the office, but as it was, he seemed suitably irritated by all the words he didn't understand.

Then she breasted the top of the hill, saw what lay below, and froze. A ring of cliff walls encircled a large, grassy space. There were dozens of pagans milling about, busy with what looked like bouquets of vines and branches which they were positioned like decorations around the walls. Nearest their overlook spot, though far below, there was a slab of stone jutting forward like a central stage, and everything appeared to be focused upon that spot. And across the grass—

"Daphne," Megan whispered. She squeezed tighter to her handholds, fingernails grating on the stone.

She was just below, not more than two hundred feet away, so close Megan could see the absent, happy gaze as she twined vines together. But how to get to her? How to fix whatever it was they'd done to her?

The thief hauled himself up beside her. "What have we here?"

"She's right there. By the far wall. See her?" Megan couldn't take her eyes off her, afraid that to glance away might be to lose her again, and maybe forever. "I have to get down there. Even if we can't fix her, we have to get her out. Maybe Artemus—"

"Artemus," Raife muttered. "You shouldn't trust him."

"Aretmus may be the only Keeper I do trust." She frowned down at the steep stone drop-off. She'd have to backtrack down to the bottom of the hill, cut around the outside of those stone walls, and find a way in. A way in? She searched the walls for any sign of a passage.

Beside her, Raife shifted his weight, glaring down at the courtyard. "Why? Why do you trust him so blindly? He's a Keeper. He's lying to you. They all are."

Megan rolled her eyes, but the thief seemed serious. "Of course, he lies to us. Or, well, more accurately he doesn't inform us of things we maybe should know. All Keepers do. But I've known him a lot longer than I've known anyone else here besides Garrett, and in the end, Artemus always comes through, no matter what the other Keepers do."

Raife kept his gaze pinned on the pagans below them, but a muscle in his cheek twitched as he clenched his teeth. As she watched him, she got the distinctive feeling that he wasn't saying something.

"What?" she asked. "You're not telling me something."

The thief glanced at her. "Just something that guy Cyrus mentioned—"

"Cyrus!" Megan scoffed and tried not to grind her teeth at the smirking image of the Keeper that appeared suddenly in her mind. "Anything he said was probably an outright lie!"

"He said Artemus had mentioned to the Keeper council that if the pagans resurrect the Trickster, that transformation spell might draw its strength from you and Daphne, and that to destroy the Trickster, they—the Keepers—might have to kill you. And Artemus didn't deny it when I asked him. Does that sound like something an ally would discuss?"

For the longest moment, Megan studied Raife's face, hoping to see some hint of a crack, proof of exaggeration, of mockery, of something…but he only looked angry. Angry that someone might betray or try to harm her. The somberness of his unflinching glare made her suddenly cold and frightened. "I'm sure he wouldn't hurt us," she said at length.

"No, not without consulting you first, he said. He said he'd consult with you about it if they determined that they had to kill you to stop the Trickster." He let out a soft, bitter laugh and shook his head before looking back down at Daphne. "He was so damned calm about it, like he assumed you'd agree to let them kill you if need be."

The stone was cold beneath her hands, and her fingers were beginning to go numb. She felt lightheaded, suddenly, and leaned her chin on the stone by her hands. That couldn't happen, could it? The Trickster wouldn't draw any power from them. The power was for resurrecting Thornwick, that was all. She and Daphne wouldn't have any part of the Trickster himself coming back.

But if you do? Megan closed her eyes and tried to stop the buzzing in her head. There would be time enough to figure that out once she got Daphne back. Daphne came first, no matter what. And where will you go when you get her back?

"We'll deal with that when the time comes." Megan sighed and opened her eyes again.

"The time won't come," the thief growled softly. "Not if I can help it."

Daphne was still kneeling with the old pagan woman, though they had finished one bough and were starting on another. A flicker of movement caught her eye from the solid stone wall far below them, just barely in sight beneath the steep drop-off. She caught her breath as she saw Thornwick appear, following a woman she recognized without doubt as the priestess who had ordered her to be thrown to the burricks.

As they approached Daphne, Megan watched her friend stand, always keeping close to the pagan priestess. She felt a deep pang, remembering how terrified Daphne had been when she told her about her ordeal in the woods, about when Adrianna had turned her into what she was now. The priestess had to be Adrianna. Even Thornwick appeared to treat the woman with deference. Megan felt her face flush when the woman set a hand on Daphne's shoulder, as if she were protecting her.

Protecting her! After whatever witchcraft she's used to make Daphne forget who she is! Megan felt herself shiver and clenched her fists in rage. If it weren't for them and their magic, we never would have even come to this damned place. If they think for half a second that they're going to get away with all this, they've got another thing coming!

"I'm going down there," she said, and without another glance back at Daphne, she began lowering herself to the ledge below her.

Raife scoffed, at first, but when she was halfway down the rock face, he seemed to realize she wasn't joking and followed. "You're out of your mind," he snapped, cursing when his boot slipped on the rock and he had to brace himself to keep from falling. "Did you see how many—"

"I saw everything I needed to. I'm going to get Daphne."

"And how are you going to do that, exactly? Just walk right on in there and take her by the hand?"

She had made it to the grassy hillside by then, and she glared up at the thief as he continued his descent. "I have an invisibility potion left," she said. "I'll sneak down there and take it just before I go in. I'll grab Daphne and drag her out if I have to."

"Right, and what exactly am I supposed to do while you're trying to get yourself killed?" Raife jumped down to the grass, almost lost his balance, but managed to regain himself.

"How should I know?" she asked. "Do whatever you like. I don't need your help."

"You do," he said back, "you're just being stubborn. We're working for the same goal, aren't we? Getting Daphne and Garrett out, getting the Eye, and getting the hell out of here with our hides intact. What good does it do to bicker over who's helping whom?"

Megan rolled her eyes, but only because she didn't want to admit he had a point. "Fine. Stay here and cover me, then. You'll be safer up here with your bow than if you're down on the ground, and you'll have a better view of what's going on in case I get into trouble."

"In case you get into trouble." The thief snorted. "The second you set foot down there among those pagans, you'll already be in trouble, invisible or not. Those potions don't last forever, you know."

"It doesn't have to!" Megan clenched her fists at her sides. "Look, I'm going down there. Whether or not I have any cover from up here is up to you."

Raife stepped up to her, trying to loom over her again, but at that moment, instead of being intimidating, she only found it irritating to have to look up at him. At least he wasn't sneering at her, though she wasn't sure this somber intensity was better or less unnerving.

"Fine," he said.

She winced when she felt him catch her hand, and tried to pull free, but he held it firmly as he pressed a glass globe into her open palm. Megan glanced down at the blue-green fluid inside.

"You might as well have another one," he said. "If you're going to risk your neck like this, two potions will last you longer and maybe give you a shot at actually getting Daphne out. But remember—" He still held her wrist tight, but when she glanced up at him, the sober frown had taken on the slight tilt of a smirk. "—there are a lot more pagans down there than I've got arrows for, so don't do anything stupid."

Megan clenched the potion in her hand and with a quick jerk managed to break his grip on her wrist. "I'll try to bore you."

He sniffed and turned to begin scaling the rock face to his perch once more. "You'd better."

He hauled himself up the stones so fiercely, she thought he might be angry, but even so, she watched him climb for another moment, fighting a smirk of her own at his back, before tucking the potion into her pocket and hurrying herself down towards the mist-filled gully below.


Sherry was not a fan of pagan woods, but the devil's copse was even worse. There was something terribly eerie about the silent wood space, as if all the trees were listening to them and watching. She couldn't even hear bugs or birds, as if nothing living besides the trees wanted any part of the copse. It gave her the creeps worse than the rest of the woods did, and that was saying something.

Otto and Basso were both infuriatingly calm. The moment Thornwick had disappeared through the trees, the lock pick had settled down at the base of one tall trunk and nodded off. Otto sat himself down by another tree and reclined on the pine needle floor, his hands behind his head as he stared up through the canopy.

"Can you feel it?" he asked softly, squinting up towards the tiny pinpricks of yellowing sky through the needles.

"Feel what?"

"The void of magic," the kid said. "It's like a half-drawn breath that catches in your throat. It's…weird…"

"Tell me about it," Sherry muttered, hugging herself, and frowning back the way the pagan priest had gone.

At least it seemed like he wouldn't be able to bring any of his magic-wielding friends back to capture them. A whole hoard of non-magical pagans, maybe, but perhaps they could be outrun or hidden from. She hated the idea of Thornwick going off by himself, leaving them to wait and wonder what had happened to their friends without being able to do a damned thing about it. She had half a mind to walk right out into the woods and follow him, but whenever she thought about doing so, it seemed she'd hear a crash or a moan from the woods beyond that made her shiver and draw back from the threshold.

"I wonder if the Keepers know about places like this. I bet they'd want to study it, if they haven't already."

"I thought you hated Keepers."

The boy pushed himself up on his elbows. "I don't hate them, exactly. I just don't like them."

Sherry sniffed and sat down across from him, tucking her skirts around her knees. "Well, that makes two of us."

The light gradually grew dimmer as a veil of clouds slipped overhead. A light rain pattered the pine needle canopy, but Sherry only felt the occasional icy drop fall on her head or shoulders. Beside them, Basso snored softly, as if as comfortable here in these strange woods as anywhere. Sherry sighed and leaned back against the tree trunk behind her. Otto had reclined again, and this time, she was pretty sure he was dozing.

Well, they might as well sleep if they can, she thought, leaning her chin on her knees. If I could sleep at a time like this, I would.

Sitting there, she could feel how sore her feet were and how physically exhausted she was. The little bit of food Basso had gotten for her after their escape had only just barely taken the edge of starvation off, and little else. When had she last had a proper sleep?

Not here, not now, she told herself. You need to be awake when that damned pagan gets back, and after that, you'd better be too busy to sleep.

She thought she'd only blinked, but she awoke with a start to the sound of someone hissing, "'And here stand the woods even the great Master will not tread."

Jumping to her feet, Sherry peered around the tree trunks towards the voice, at last spotting Thornwick at the edge of the devil's copse. He appeared to be alone, but she took her time coming forward, and even then, just enough for him to spot her amidst the shadows.

"We're here," she said, keeping her voice low in case anyone else had followed him with or without his knowledge. "Did you find her?"

"I did," he replied, "but I'm afraid Adrianna has stolen her memories and buried them in the woods. Daphne doesn't know herself anymore, and she won't know you if you try to rescue her."

Sherry felt a chill run through her, both from the thought of Daphne being hurt by that nasty pagan witch again, and also by the idea of what Daphne might do if they got in her way and she didn't remember any of them. She could all too easily recall the reedy voice and lashing vines, not only from Gormalt, but from far earlier, in the woods, just the two of them, when she'd seen Daphne's face streaked with tears of horror at what was happening to her.

"That bitch," Sherry growled. But now was not the time for anger, justified though it was. "How do we fix this?" she asked Thornwick. "What do we need to do to get Daphne back the way she was?"

"I have a feeling I know where she would have planted those memories," he said. "It shouldn't be far. If they've sprouted already, we should be able to find them."

"Sprouted?"

Otto and Basso had come up behind her, almost as softly as Thornwick himself traversing the undergrowth of the woods.

"What do you mean, sprouted?" the kid asked again.

"Sprouted, like a seedling. Memories are magical, constantly changing things. Adrianna wouldn't have held onto them herself for fear that Daphne would discover them and regain them. When you plant a memory in these woods, they have a tendency to grow. You'll find them by their flowers, or more accurately, but the whispers they emit."

They had joined him at the border, by this time, and the moment they stepped from the devil's copse, he began to move away from them, leading them who-knew-where.

"Come. There isn't much time. When we find them, I'll show you what I mean," he said, motioning for them to follow him blindly yet again. Sherry was growing tired of the vast stores of trust he kept requiring from them.

"And what do we do, if we find them?" Sherry asked. "How do we get those memories back in Daphne's head?"

The pagan looked up at the leafy canopy, and the dimming light through the branches. "I'll show you how to return them once we find them, but we must hurry. It grows darker with each moment, and at dusk, I must leave you or risk your discovery."

"What happens at dusk?" Basso asked.

"A miracle."

After that, he didn't say much, instead leading them deeper into the woods, and further away than Sherry felt was right. If Daphne was back near the devil's copse, she didn't like putting more distance between them.

She could feel the coming night leeching what little heat there was from the air, and the rain still splattered down on them, the droplets delayed as they ran down leaves and branches. The undergrowth was soaked through, and the ground so soft beneath her feet, every step seemed to sink half an inch into the soil. It made for quiet tread, and all of them moved something like ghosts through the woods.

Sherry found herself holding her breath as she walked, straining her ears for the sounds that might mark a betrayal of trust, of an ambush that Thornwick had laid for them. But there were no such sounds, and after a time, she began to relax despite herself.

The ground began to grow hilly. Boulders pushed up through the ground like hatchlings pushing through their shells. If the trees thinned a bit, it was only overtaken by the vivacious undergrowth, which became a hindrance as they progressed. So long as they stayed close within Thornwick's path, however, it seemed the saplings and brambles and bushes somehow leaned back from them; any divergence from that path meant thorns, tangling vines, and frustration.

At last, Thornwick brought them around the side of a hill and came to a stop. The clouds overhead had begun to break, though mist still lay heavily in the dips and valleys of the forested hills. Below them, amidst the fog, they saw something of a meadow, shadowed by the large trees, but exploding with delicate blue blooms.

"Every flower here is someone's memory, often planted just before a pagan's death to keep history alive in some small way and to help the dying transition into the next life by releasing them from the holds of the present. The memories of my own bodies are here somewhere. I suspect Daphne's will be here as well," Thornwick said, and Sherry could barely hold back a cry of dismay. There were thousands of such flowers.

"And how are we supposed to know which ones are hers? Where do we even start?"

She took a few steps forward, until the nearest bloom brushed her shin, and she paused. In the whisper of the flower's movement, she heard a voice. If she stooped, she could make out the softest voice murmuring, And there she was, in the doorway, waiting for me like she knew to expect me. And I fell on my knees, begging her to forgive me for running away. "I was a fool," I said. "The woods are not the place for me." And she took me back, just like she'd always…

Sherry leaned back from the flower, and the voice died away. It had been a young man's voice. "They talk… The flowers talk," she said.

"You'll find any blooms of hers near where the ground has been recently uprooted," Thornwick said. "Listen for her voice, and you'll know when you've found one of hers."

"How many are we looking for?" Basso asked. "A dozen? A hundred?"

It was the first time Sherry thought she'd seen any kind of anger on the pagan priest's face. He tried to hide it by glancing back the way they'd come, but she saw the distress in his eyes. "What did Adrianna do to her?" she asked, rising to her feet. "How bad is it?"

"She doesn't know me, or anything about her past."

In her line of work, she had become very good at detecting when a man was angrier and more dangerous than he was trying to appear, and when Thornwick spoke, she heard that measured tone that always hinted at anger held at bay. He was better at it than most, though she equated that with his likely noble upbringing. "Her visions of her other world, the one with such strange things and places, it's all gone. It's as if Adrianna took every ounce of her and hid her here."

"So, a lot, then," Otto said. "It could take us weeks to find them all."

"Not so long as that. Perhaps hours, maybe a few days. Adrianna had to hide them all within the last day, and she can't have anticipated that I would show you where to find them, so I doubt she'd have taken more than a cursory precaution to hide them. They may not even be sprouted yet, so rip out any budding ones you find. The worst that can happen is you will release other memories which are not Daphne's.

"I'm sorry," he added quickly, glancing up at the sky. It had taken on a deep orange tint in the past minutes, and seemed to be growing darker with each moment. "I must go. Dusk approaches, and I must be ready."

When he looked down and met Sherry's eyes, he said, "I wish you all speed and luck to help Daphne. She didn't deserve this. If, by the end of the night, it is within my power to help her or your other friend, I will do so."

The lock pick stuck out his hand. "I don't forget an ally. If you ever need help…"

"Thank you," Thornwick replied. A small smile played across his face, as if he knew some private, funny story. "Your offer is appreciated, though I suspect that after tonight, I will have more than my share of allies."

And with that, he nodded to her and to Otto, and then walked off, disappearing back around the corner of the hill and out of sight. Sherry turned back to the field of flowers, and felt her momentary confidence waver. She put her hands on her hips and glowered at the task ahead of them.

"I guess we should spread out," she said.

Otto nodded. "We'll cover more ground that way. I'll go left—"

"I'll go right." The lock pick began wading through the flowers.

"I guess that means I'll get the middle," Sherry muttered, not relishing the idea.

Every time she stepped amongst the flowers, a chorus of soft whispers swept up from the blossoms, calling out to her, trying to tell her their secrets. But she didn't want all those voices. She only wanted one voice, the voice she knew she'd recognize without hesitation.

"Come on, Daphne, you've always been a chatterbox," Sherry whispered back to the flowers as the trio split along their lines. "Talk to me, will you? Where are you?"

A sea of voices rushed around her ankles. Every so often, she had to pause to let them quiet down so they wouldn't drown each other out. Across the narrow field, she could hear the murmurs of other blossom voices as the kid and the lock pick made their way through. Her heart skipped a beat every time one of them stopped to kneel down for a closer listen. Had they-?

But no. Always, they would stand and continue along their path. Sherry let out a sigh and moved forward once again.

The night was coming on swiftly, and something in the back of Sherry's mind urged her to go faster, to hurry, as if time were running out. "Come on, Daphne," she whispered. "Come on. Let me find you. Say something!"

The shrill call of night birds cut through the stillness, catching her off guard and making her jump. The insect hum of day had died down suddenly without her noticing, leaving in its wake a damp quiet not dissimilar to the devil's copse. Sherry let out a sigh as Otto and Basso began moving again, and the distant whispers rustled like leaves.

And then, as if from somewhere very far away:

It was me and Katherine, and we were driving down Route 3, cruising for guys, of course. We went to this MacDonald's and there was this super creepy manager guy, and when we tried to buy a vanilla shake, he—like—wouldn't let us pay for it! He just kept saying it was on the house, and we were soooooo creeped out, because he had to be like forty or fifty or something, and then we just took the shakes and drove off as fast as we could. And he was there again the next time we went, so we don't go to that MacDonald's anymore!

Sherry dropped to her knees, exciting a whole rabble of voices. But there, among them, she heard Daphne, clear as day. She bent her ear low to the blossoms, searching both by sound and by sight for the flower that held her voice, and there-! She could see a tiny flower, so new it wasn't fully open yet. The ground around it still bore the handprints of whomever had pressed the soil down.

With both hands, she dug into the dirt and extracted the tiny, trembling flower.

"Hey!" Otto called. "Did you find something?"

Sherry dusted off the tiny hairlike roots of the plant, and there, tangled in the middle of them, was a small, blue ball, like a finely polished gem stone. Only, it was soft like jelly. Sherry dug her fingernail into its side until it popped. There was a small rush of breeze and a familiar laugh that made her heart race, and then the plant wilted and went silent.

She was certain Daphne had just remembered something. And in the stillness that followed that first success, she heard other snatches of Daphne's voice, some louder than others.

"She's here!" she called back to Otto, and he and the lock pick made their way through the flowers to her. "Just listen for them, and when you find one, pull it up and pop the little seed. Hurry!"

And they did.


Little Sprout waited for the beautiful woman at the entrance to the holy arena where the great Tricksie Lord would awaken, come the evening. She had worked long and hard with the weavers, and her hands were chafed and raw from twining the stiff branches and thorny flowers. Still, she looked with pride at the work they had done, and felt certain that if the Tricksie Lord had any taste whatsoever—which, of course, he must if he had created such a beautiful forest and so many lovely flowers—he would be deeply pleased by their decorations.

The woman—Adrianna, the scarred man had called her—was speaking to a cluster of priests. She was a very kind lady, Little Sprout thought. She was gentle and quiet and calm, and so many looked up to her. Little Sprout felt very special that such a woman would pay attention to her, and treat her with such interest. She caught Adrianna's eye at that moment, and Adrianna smiled at her, nodding for her to go on through the passage to the village beyond the arena.

The walls of the passage were narrow, and she had to slip sideways to pass through. The jagged stone was moist on the inside and cool to the touch, like the shadow of a tree. Outside, she saw that the sky was quickly growing red-orange. If she looked directly overhead, where the sky was highest, she could make out the piercing light of the first star of the evening. It was beautiful to look at, framed as it was through the silhouetted leaves, set amongst all that fiery, dying light.

Again, she felt that strange hollowness, as if her mind had reached for something and come up short and empty-handed. She didn't like the feeling. It made her shiver, and feel strangely sad. On such a festive night as this, it seemed wrong to be sad.

Just then, she saw the scarred man approaching the passage. He met her as she side-stepped out of his way, and paused to lay a hand on her arm.

"I am so very sorry for all the trouble we've caused you," he said softly, so softly she almost didn't hear him. "Know that I have done what I can, and will continue to do what I can to help you."

"Help me?" Little Sprout laughed. "Thanks for the offer, but what do I need help for?"

He looked so terribly upset to hear her say that, that she immediately regretted laughing. She knew he was important to the assembly that evening, and it was important for him to be happy. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, feeling her face burn with humiliation. "I didn't mean to laugh like that. I just—"

He glanced at the ground and she thought she saw the shadow of a smile before he looked at her face again. "It's quite all right. You don't yet understand, but in time, you'll see. Whatever happens, know that your friends care very much about you, and that they will not rest until you are safely back with them."

It was such a strange thing for someone to say to her. "Back…with whom? Adrianna said that—"

"Forget I mentioned it. For now. But remember it later."

Then he took her hand in both of his and kissed her knuckles very softly. It was such a tender, gentle gesture, it made her face blush all the more. It occurred to her that perhaps the thing her mind kept looking for and not finding had something to do with him. But before she could ask him about it, he had released her hand and slipped through the crag in the stone. The night air seemed a tad bit colder when he was gone, but she contented herself to stooping beside the entrance and watching the people work as she waited for Adrianna.

Most of the people had finished their preparatory work, and were gathering together what Adrianna had said would be their "tithes" to the Master. A pair of pretty girls had four baskets of all sorts of flower blossoms. An older man had a trio of goats tied by a rope. Another man, younger, had a long line of fish so fresh they still looked wet and didn't smell. Everyone had something, which made her suddenly think that she, too, should have something for the Master. How terrible if he came and when he met her, she had nothing to give to him.

"There you are, Little Sprout," Adrianna said. She had come up so silently, Little Sprout hadn't realized she'd arrived. "I think we're nearly ready. I have a little something for you. Come with me."

Adrianna took her to one of the huts carved into a tree. Inside, Little Sprout found a lovely shift dress of plain cotton and a tub of water perfumed with roses and honeysuckle. And to go with the dress, a lovely necklace made of vibrant gemstones.

"Wash up and dress in these," Adrianna said, putting her hand on Little Sprout's back between her shoulder blades. "And be quick. It won't be long until the ceremony begins, and once it's started, it will go quickly."

Little Sprout hardly dared to touch the necklace, it was so lovely, like a waterfall of jewels. "Oh…" she said, "Oh, thank you! But what shall I bring the Master as a tithe?"

Adrianna smiled and pet her head as she had when she drew the little spheres from her brow. "Never you worry about that, my darling. I have a very special tithe for you to present to him. In fact, you shall be the one to herald his coming. How do you like that?"

Little Sprout drew her hand away from the necklace and threw her arms around Adrianna's neck. "Oh, you're so good to me! And I don't even know why!"

She felt the rumble of the woman's low laughter resonating through her, echoing in that strange hollow place within her. "Wash up now," she said, untangling herself from Little Sprout's embrace. "Hurry, or we'll all be waiting for you!"

Adrianna left her there, and Little Sprout immediately stripped down and climbed into the tub of water. It was just then that she felt a strange pinch inside her head, as if a bee had stung her, though the pain was fleeting and gone in an instant. The moment it was gone, she frowned, because she had the strangest thought. She remembered being in a great metal contraption, roaring faster than a deer could run down a flat strip of packed earth so dark it appeared sodden, yet had no give. And she remembered the taste of sweet, milky vanilla on her tongue, and the uncomfortable gaze of a man she did not find attractive in the least. The word MACDONALD'S stuck out to her; why did that sound so familiar? She couldn't place where she might have heard it, or where she might have seen the red and yellow building she remembered so vividly.

She shivered violently and sank up to her chin in the scented water. Maybe it was a dream she'd had at some point. But what a strange dream! She put it from her mind and washed quickly, and after drying off, she dressed in the shift and picked up the necklace. Oh, how lovely she looked dressed so simply, but with that glorious necklace ringing her throat! She looked like a forest nymph.

Another pain pinched in her head, sharply, and this time so suddenly, she almost cried out as she clasped her head in her hands until the pain passed. It took longer, this time, and when it was gone, she felt a sudden rush remembering Thornwick—Thornwick was the scarred man's name!—and his hands pressing hers, his knee bent before her, his eyes shining—no, burning!—up at her with such reverence as he said, "You are a gift from the Trickster, a guiding spirit sent from his realm, and I am at your mercy. Forgive me my ignorance and my disrespect. I did not understand before."

A gift from the Trickster? Little Sprout pressed her hands to the necklace about her throat. Perhaps that was why Adrianna chose her to participate in the great ceremony. Because she was special, somehow, because she was more than a girl, but a guiding spirit.

Am I? she thought. Somehow that didn't feel quite right, but she couldn't refute it, either. She didn't feel much like a mystical spirit, but perhaps mystical spirits didn't feel so different from ordinary people.

And Thornwick… so kind, so reverent. Even he had appeared to be impressed by her. She considered again what he'd said before entering the arena, but could make no sense of it. Who were her friends he spoke of? Other spirits, perhaps? Maybe that was what he meant.

But since there was no time to waste, she shrugged it off and let herself out of the hut, crossing the grass beneath the trees to where Adrianna waited for her with a little cloth sack cupped in her hands.

"You lack for only one thing," Adrianna said after giving her the little sack. From a woman standing near her, she took a crown of flowers and placed it on Little Sprout's head. "There," she said, leaning back to admire her. "You are perfect now. Follow me. It is nearly time."

Little Sprout followed behind her as they headed back to the arena. They weren't more than ten paces from the entrance when again she felt the stabbing pain in her head. It was a briefer pain, thankfully, and she managed to ease it only by pressing her fingers to her temple beneath the wreath of flowers. "I told you already, my name is Daphne Dawson, and I go to Haylin High School. I'm a tenth grader, and I've already taken my SAT preps. I didn't do as well as I liked, so my parents—"

"Is everything all right?" Adrianna's voice cut off the sudden recollection of her own voice speaking swiftly, decisively, under the spell of a speaking glyph. But she couldn't remember why she had been under a glyph, or what she was talking about, or who Megan or Raife, or Garrett, or Legolas were.

"—the trinket at the same place I ran into Adrianna, which let me tell you is one spooky place. Moving trees, crazy animals, and then there's the Pagans! Oh, don't get me started on—"

"I-I'm okay," she stammered. Was her name Daphne? That felt right, somehow. But what was a high school or a tenth grader or an SAT preps? And why, when she remembered mentioning Adrianna's name, did she feel such a chill of fear? It didn't make sense, but she knew—deep within her—that this was something best kept quiet. "Just a little headache."

"It has been a long day," Adrianna said, but something in the way she looked at her, the slight narrowing of her eyes, somehow made Daphne—Little Sprout…who was she?—feel as if she knew she was lying. "Come. Let us hurry. It is nearly dark."

The arena had transformed since she had left it not half an hour ago. The open lawn was filled with people pressed shoulder to shoulder, squeezed in so tight there was no space between them. Others gathered along the ridges of the walls, their legs dangling or tucked beneath them on the mossy surface of the ringing walls. The bonfires had been lit, and burned bright and hot. Spicy smoke coiled towards the sky, deadening the starlight with its dense smog and reflecting the flickering of the flames across its underbelly. Everyone spoke at once, their voices reverberating against the walls, ringing and echoing so that the roar intensified and seemed to come from every side. It was almost deafening, and Daphne—no, she was Little Sprout—fought to keep from pressing her hands over her ears to block it out. Instead, she clenched the cloth bag in both hands.

The stone stage was not empty either. Ringing the far wall, a dozen priests and priestesses stood facing the center. Firelight lit all but the recesses of their faces, making their eyes and cheeks hollow like corpses. Daphne felt a sudden chill and pressed closer beside Adrianna. It seemed as if their eyes—shrouded within their dark sockets—were all secretly watching her.

A man clad in black stood bound to a wooden post at the center of the stage, and facing him, Daphne saw Thornwick. He was dressed in a robe like the priests wore, only it was open in front, revealing a sculpted chest and no other clothing save a loincloth for clothing beneath. His nakedness made her blush, and when he caught her eye, she glanced down at the pouch cradled in her palms.

"The ceremony begins," Adrianna whispered softly, her hand sliding to Daphne's shoulder and giving it a firm, lingering squeeze.

Like she expects me to run.

She clutched the cloth bag in both hands as if it alone could hold her up. She had the strangest feeling that something was terribly wrong, but she couldn't begin to guess what it was. When she glanced back up at Thornwick, his attention was directed now to a trio of priests and a priestess bringing him a wooden bowl, and from nowhere, she felt another mental stab. This time, she remembered another fire-lit place smelling of blood and smoke. There was a man in her arms, a man with long, dark hair. His long face grimaced in pain; his black clothes were sticky with blood. She remembered begging him to hold on, and apologizing to him. I'm so sorry! He was dying right in front of her, and then the memory ended.

I almost killed him, she thought. Raife. I almost killed Raife. Now that she had a face to the name in her thoughts, she found she felt no better. If anything, she felt more confused, as if somehow her mind were dislocated from her body. She knew she ought to know more, knew that whatever memories the pain recalled to her was the truth, that these were scenes from her life. But why were they coming to her like this? Why had she not been able to remember them before? What did they mean?

Adrianna touched her arm. "It's almost time."

The crowd in the arena had fallen so silent she could hear the subtle, rhythmic rumbling of drums for the first time. Thornwick received the bowl from the priests and took a long drink; some kind of liquid trickled down his chin.

The man in black was looking at her. She looked back at him, and felt the hollow inside her as she grasped for some little detail she could no longer recall. I think I know who that is, she realized, but beyond that, she was at a loss.

Amidst the ringing voice of the priests and the roar of the fires, she felt a slight tug on her the sleeve of her shift, and heard very softly, "Daphne."

She glanced beside her, but there was no one. She looked back to the center, and the moment she did so, she felt a hand on her arm. There was no hand, but she could see where an invisible grasp pressed the fabric close to her skin.

"Daphne, it's me, Megan," the voice whispered. "Do you remember me?"

Megan. She didn't know the face that went to that name, but she remembered talking about a Megan. The grip on her arm was firm, and it pulled her slightly.

"Come with me," the voice whispered. It had a breathy quality, as if someone winded were trying to speak softly. "Hurry! There isn't much time!"

Thornwick finished with the bowl and handed it back. The priestess who took it from him approached the black-clad man. She set this bowl at his feet, beginning even as Daphne watched, to shift from woman to plant. Her arms writhed into a tangle of vines, and she grabbed the black-clad man by the throat. She heard him cry out as the woman's fingers turned into sharp, narrow spears, and the instant they did so, she stabbed them towards his face.

The explosion came from nowhere and everywhere at once. It was as if the central bonfire had erupted, showering the stage with burning embers. The priestess was down, collapsed in human form, sprawled across the ground before the feet of the black-clad man. The ropes binding him had caught some of the little sparks, and even from where they stood, Daphne could see the glowing embers eating through the bindings. The man clad in black kicked once, twice, and the cords around his legs slumped away. The crowd erupted and surged towards him, clambering up onto the edge of the stage. The man in black pulled a knife from the priestess' belt and spun away from the first wave of attackers. Adrianna's grip on her shoulder tightened so sharply, Daphne almost cried out in pain.

"Give Thornwick the gift," she hissed in her ear. "Run!"

She clutched the cloth purse to her chest, wrenched her arm free of the invisible grip, and bolted across the stage. Thornwick turned towards her, but just then something hit her hard from the side, knocking her from her feet and throwing the gift from her grasp. Daphne hit the ground hard, skinning her shoulder and jarring her teeth on impact. The purse bounced away from her, but before it could come to a stop, the air seemed to snatch it mid-bounce. And then, with a flicker, she saw a girl standing there clutching the gift. The girl faced her, and seemed about to shout something, when a trunk of vines slammed into her, drove her down to the ground. Adrianna stood suddenly beside her, her skin a deep, angry green, and her voice ringing with the voices of the insects.

"Go," she said, "take the gift from her. Quickly."

Daphne scrambled to her feet and ran to where the girl lay pinned to the ground by Adrianna's grasp. The girl writhed and struggled against the coiling vines that gradually encircled her throat and began to squeeze. She only got out a squeak before Adrianna's grip silenced her. Her arms were pinned by her sides, and in one hand, she clenched the cloth bag so tightly her fingertips were bloodless.

Her lips parted as Daphne stooped to pry the pouch from her grasp, and she tried to say something, though no sound could escape. Her cheeks flushed and she turned her head sharply, trying to pull her throat away from the vines that only circled tighter. Her grip was weakening.

A wet thump and a vicious howl made Daphne look back towards Adrianna. Her mistress glowered down at the shaft of an arrow buried in her shoulder. A quick flick of her hand broke it off at a stub, but another bolt struck her in the side and went deep.

"There!" Adrianna screeched, and Daphne saw—up on the ridge above the arena—the shadow of a hooded figure darting away down the rock face and into the trees.

A sharp kick from the tangled girl caught Daphne off guard. Adrianna's grip had loosened too much, and the girl had managed to wriggle half-out of her bindings. "Daphne, wait!" she cried. The gift was in her hand.

It took only a very slight tug on the seed within her to lash out with her own thorn-spiked arm and rake the girl across the face. The attack caught her enemy off-guard. The girl stumbled, her free hand clapped to the slices across her neck and cheek. Blood smeared her stunned face.

"Give it to me!"

Daphne's own voice had multiplied, and when the girl did not immediately drop the pouch, she swung again. This time, the girl was more prepared, and managed to dive just out of reach. She stumbled, tripping on the binding vines that reached for her legs and ankles, and fell to her back.

Daphne was on her then, one set of her own vines around the girl's throat, the other prying the gift from her fingers. The girl screamed when Daphne bent a finger backward and at last got the pouch away from her. "Tricksie girl," she hissed, "how dare you interfere?"

But a strong hand on her shoulder hauled her back suddenly. Daphne swung, ready to defend herself, but it was Thornwick. "Stop this," he said, gently taking the gift from her hand. "You're not yourself. This girl is your friend. If you hurt her, you'll regret it."

"I'll regret nothing!" Daphne cried. She tore herself from his grasp and sharpened the branch of her arm into a spear.

A piercing pain cut through her head, and several visions flooded her mind at once. She faltered, losing her grip on the seed within her as she clenched her hair and pressed against her burning skull—and we logged on in her computer room, and Meg brought us sodas, and we opened the game—And tampons!—so I caught him under the arms and started swimming towards the island—Why, why, why didn't I think to hide my hands?!—a Karras Servant! Here!-

She almost fell, but the girl jumped up and managed to catch her before she did. The girl…the girl was—

"I'm not here to hurt you," the girl said through her clenched teeth, "I'm here to help you! Please! We need to get out of here before-"

"Meg?" The moment she spoke, the girl's blood-smeared face broke into a smile.

"Daphne! You remember me?"

"I—"

"Go," Thornwick said beside her. "Go as quickly as you can. The time has come, and I must do what I was made to do. Hurry!"

Megan shifted Daphne into a sturdier position and began hobbling her across the stage. There were pagans everywhere, rushing towards them, though as they approached, a deep calm suddenly came over the arena, as if everything had suddenly paused. Megan stopped, and Daphne looked back behind them. She saw Thornwick draw the cloth pouch from the gift and hold up the strange artifact in his palm. The Eye lay there, glittering in the firelight of the bonfires.

His voice boomed out across the space, clear and ringing as if he spoke right beside her. "Him's Eye am our rock, gives it into the soily flesh that lies inside the ground! Witness it! Our Lord returns!"

"Oh, shit," she heard Megan whisper, and then Thornwick plunged the Eye into his eye socket.

There was a terrible flash and a roar like a landslide crashing down upon them, and then Daphne felt Megan's grip on her slip and her own legs give out, and then there was nothing but darkness.


He had been humiliated, and he knew his men knew it, too. Matthew Grayson stood by one of the gaping windows in his quarters, and absently rubbed the bruises at his throat. The bank of clouds from the day's drizzle had broken off at last, leaving behind the scattered remains of their purple underbellies against the fire of the sunset. The streets of the city were slicked in dying, orange shine.

The knuckles of his right hand ached, the rough bandage pressing against the torn skin from punching the stone wall. His voice was hoarse from the choking, so he didn't speak, but brooded silently in his rooms, his glare daring any man to comment on the events of the afternoon.

At least the mecha had been spared. Dented, yes, filled with stone dust and debris, yes, but it was still functional. Already there were men working to fortify and rebuild the outer wall of the cathedral. The machine had been moved to the inner courtyard for safe keeping.

Matthew clenched his fist and savored the squeezing bandage against sticky, scabbing skin. When he found that girl, he'd kill her. He'd blast her out of existence. He'd toss her corpse into the canal and let the rats devour it. He'd hang it on a spire of the cathedral's towers. He'd burn it to cinder at the front gates. He'd cut it up and ship each of her dismembered parts on different ships heading different directions to be tossed into the deepest parts of the sea where whatever sea creatures existed here could swallow them down.

Who the hell did she think she was, telling him he had to leave? Telling him that she'd take him out of this world? He sneered down at the city. Did she even know what the prophecies said? Did she even know that the man she helped escape—escaped! He could spit thinking of it—might destroy the entire city if he, he didn't stop him?

"Bitch," he muttered. It rasped against his raw throat, made him wince and grind his teeth. He couldn't wait to see her face when his mecha bore down on her, cannons blasting the street to shit around her. Maybe he wouldn't even blow her up. Maybe he'd just step on her until the weight of the machine liquefied all her internal organs or made her head pop off.

A knock on the door broke his reverie, and he whirled with a snarl as a priest entered. He was an ancient ruin of a man, barely more than a walking skeleton under his holy robes. Matthew bet the man had never been able to get it up in his life.

"I beg thine pardon, Holy One," he said in a weak, age-trembling voice, "but Brother Gromlin felt thou shouldst be informed. The signs art present. He doth believe it will happen tonight."

"I know," Matthew replied. It took considerable effort to make his voice loud enough to be heard in the large room. "I can feel it."

"Dost thou wish us to ready the troops?"

Matthew swallowed, and his throat cramped and burned. Grimacing, he nodded.

"Dost thou have any other instructions at this time, Holy One?"

"No."

The priest bowed his head and backed out of the doorway, closing it firmly behind him. Matthew glanced back towards the window, his hands clenched behind his back. Tonight. The thought of it gave him a sudden thrill, made his heart beat faster, his head suddenly spin. Dusk was full upon the city, now, the light fading with each passing breath. A violent shiver overcame him, and he gasped as if struck by an invisible hand. No one saw his eyes roll back, or saw him convulse, once, before crumpling to the carpet.