Hed described himself as looking like a child molester waiting for a chance to strike. He wasnt comfortable with his appearance.

Soulcatcher scrubbed him with a vigor that recalled his mothers. Dont take the skin off.

Your wound is healing slowly. Youll have to tell me what I did wrong. Shed never been a healer. She was a destroyer.

Croaker was puzzled by her interest. He wasnt valuable. What was he? Just a dinged-up old mercenary, alive well beyond the expectations of his kind. He squeaked a question.

She laughed, voice filled with childlike delight. Vengeance, dear. A simple, gentle, guileful vengeance. And I wont lay a hand on her. Ill let her do it to herself. She patted his cheek, drew a finger along the line of his jaw.

It took a while but I knew the moment was inevitable. Fated. The consummation, the exchange of the magic, deadly three words. Fated. I sensed it before you met. Again the childlike laughter. She was an age finding something so precious. My vengeance will be to take it away.

Croaker closed his eyes. He could not yet reason closely. He understood only that he was in no immediate danger. The plot was easily voided. He would become a tool of no value, broken.

He put it out of mind. First he had to heal. Time enough later to do what had to be done.

More laughter. This from a woman adult and knowing. Remember when we campaigned together, Croaker? The trick we played on Raker? The fun we had tormenting Limper?

He grunted. He remembered. Everything but the fun.

Remember how you always thought I could read your mind?

He remembered that. And the terror it had inspired. That old fear crept back.

You do remember. She laughed again. Im so glad. Were going to have such fun. The whole world thinks were dead. You can get away with anything when youre dead. Her laugh gained an edge of madness. Well haunt them, Croaker. Thats what well do.

Hed regained enough strength to walk. With help. His captor made him walk, forced him to gain strength. But still he slept most of the time. And dreamed terrible dreams when he did.

The place anchored the dreams. He didnt know that. His dreams told him it wasnt a good place, that the very trees and earth and stone remembered evils done there.

He felt they were true dreams but found no supporting evidence while he was awake. Unless he counted the ominous crows. Always there were the crows, tens and hundreds and thousands of crows.

Standing in the doorway to their shelter-a half-ruined stone structure, buried in vegetation, in the heart of a dark wood-he asked, What is this place? The wood where I chased you a few months ago?