She shivers. Hugs herself. Blinks tired eyes – grit and eyeliner grimy against her irises. Listens as the rain slaps wetly against the leaves and the rotten timbers and trickles into the damp, dark earth. Considers herself, and what the hell to do. She’s still wearing her grimy going-out clothes. Hasn’t got a phone, or money, or Daddy’s knife. Her heart keeps clenching every time she thinks of the other treasured possessions discarded in her flight. Thinks of all those special, secret words to Aector; the letters and diary entries and pencil sketches. Thinks of the spells – the little scroll, with the private words, and the image she clawed out of his warrant card years before.

There is a sudden growl of painful hunger from her gut. She’s barely managed a scrap of food today. There were some dry, unopened bread rolls in the bin by the truck stop where she woke, but trying to swallow them without water made her gag. She had better fortune once she stumbled her way into the forest that hugs the main road. She has spent huge portions of her life sleeping at roadsides and has a natural gift for foraging, for herbalism; for what some might call hedgerow medicine. She feasted upon bitter dandelion leaves; chickweed flowers, the succulent stems of peppery, parsley-tasting cow parsley. She has managed to get enough nutrients into her body, but she’s ravenous. Ravenous, and cold, and with no bloody idea what to do next.

She looks around, taking in the bleak surroundings. There are large plastic barrels under a tarpaulin; a rusted buzz-saw sticking up from a grimy, cobwebbed table; coils of chicken wire, barbed wire; old doors, still carrying hinges and nails, propped up beneath the central ceiling joist to support the sagging roof. She’s rummaged in every dark corner of the long, low building. Found empty packets, empty tins, broken bottles, condoms and glass.

She shudders at the thought of spending the night here. The long hours waiting for the sky to turn dark have been unbearable. Every car engine, every breaking twig, every raised voice – all have transformed in her skull into the approach of some malevolent force. She hadn’t believed Daddy when he told her she was at risk. Why would the Heldens come for her? Why would they send their hired gun after her, when better, more important Teagues were closer to home.

The answer, when it came to her, was brutal in its simplicity.

Because you’re his favourite, Roisin. You’re Daddy’s little princess. You’re the one whose picture he carries in his wallet. You’re the one whose death would pulverize his heart …

She pushes her hair back from her face. Peers out into the wet black air.

Sees …

There’s something moving. Something slinking, inkily, through the bare, black trees: a needle moving in and out of thick, dark threads.

Roisin forces herself to remain still. She becomes aware of herself – the small, intimate sounds as she shifts, so softly, upon the damp floor; the drip of water from her wet hair; the wingbeat flutter of her breath, turning into ghosts on the chill blackness.