• • •

THE MAGIC WAVE receded three hours after we had left the Swan Palace. Twenty minutes later a lone figure dotted the field ahead of us.

“God damn it,” Curran swore.

The dot grew at an alarming rate until it finally became Thomas, running full speed over the snow. He sprinted to us, leaped into the cart, and hugged Robert to him.

“It will wear off,” I told him before he could freak out over Robert’s stasis. “The more distance between us and Roland, the better.”

Thomas turned to me. “Make her go faster, Consort.”

We found the rest of our people waiting where we had left them. We loaded up our gear and headed toward Atlanta.

At some point I climbed into the back of the cart and fell asleep. I dreamed of Christmas and garlands. They wrapped around me in long shiny strands. I kept trying to break free, while Jim was reassuring me that I was a lovely Christmas tree and the Pack was appreciating my efforts on its behalf.

Another magic wave hit closer to the morning. I felt the moment we passed out of Roland’s territory. It was like hitting a speed bump in the road. I lay there with my eyes open and took a deep breath.

He’d let us go.

We weren’t done. He said he would see us in Atlanta. Things would only get worse from here. Not only that, but both Naeemah and Thomas had disobeyed. It was a partial disobedience—Naeemah had left to get the cart before I announced that they had to stay put, and Thomas ran to us after we had left the Swan Palace—but still, there was a price to be paid. I half expected their eyes to melt from their sockets.

“Incoming,” Curran said.

I raised my head. A swirling clump of darkness appeared on the road in front of me. The tightly wound whirlwind of dark twine, snakes, and feathers spun on its end, stretching to seven feet high.

“What the hell now?” Curran growled.

“No clue,” I told him.

The clump broke open and spat a person onto the road. He or she wore pants and a tunic of animal hide with patches of fur sewn onto it at seemingly random places. Pale paint covered the person’s hands and face, with two scarlet vertical lines stretching from the hairline on both sides of his or her nose down to the lips. Three scarlet lines curved from those two, tracing the cheekbones. A pair of longhorn’s horns, painted with bands of red and white, rested on top of the person’s head, positioned so the tips pointed downward.

The person shook a staff at us. “Daughter of Nimrod!”

A man.

“I cast my eye upon you!”

The man threw something to the ground. Red smoke exploded. The wind cleared it, and the man had vanished.

Shaman ninjas. Perfect. Now my life was complete.

Curran looked at me.