The ache in her heart was palpable, the ringing in her ears the knell of death.

“Do you mind if we step inside?” Bentz asked, as if from a distance. Were it not for Slade’s strength, her knees would have buckled. “We need to talk.”

The vision rose again, horrible and potent, so evil it reeked, the scent burning her nostrils. She heard the demon cackling in triumph, smiling wide enough to show a row of sharp little teeth....

Don’t do this. Don’t let go. Be strong, for Cammie. Drive that miserable harbinger of death back to its lair. You can do this, Valerie. You’ve staved it off for as long as you can remember. Do not let the evil creature win. It’s a figment of your imagination, nothing more. Hold on. For God’s sake, hold on . . .

She drew a long breath, determined not to be swallowed by the blackness and fear, though her heart was racing, her blood as cold as the demon’s soul.

Bentz was still speaking, but she barely heard his inept attempt at condolences. His voice came as if through a tunnel, stronger as she brought herself back to the present, forced her legs to hold her upright.

“There must be some mistake,” she said, the words tumbling off her tongue as realization, a cruel, sharp barb, dug deep into her brain. Now she realized why she hadn’t heard from Cammie. The last e-mail, which she so recently read, sliced through her mind: Having second thoughts. Can’t take it anymore. Am leaving St. Marg’s. You know why.

Her heart cracked, but finally the vision slid away. Like the inky phantom it was, it slunk into its shadowy crevice again, to wait patiently. . . .

“What happened?” This time Slade’s voice was clear, strong.

Bentz shot Montoya a glance and said, “We’re not sure just yet. Maybe we should go inside where it’s quiet. A little more private?”

Over the pulsing of blood through her veins, Valerie heard the hum of traffic, caught sight of a hummingbird hovering near a twining branch of honeysuckle, and was vaguely aware of the door to the main house opening to allow a couple in their fifties—guests of the inn—to step onto the broad front porch only to pause and stare in their direction. The man was adjusting a baseball cap, the woman digging through a straw purse, both sets of eyes focused on the unlikely group near the picket fence.

At that moment, church bells pealed, tolling off the morning hours, reminding Val of her sister, cloistered in the convent walls where she was supposed to be safe.

Oh, Cammie . . . no . . .