“What man would make an offer like that?”

“Neall did.”

Lucian stared at her.

Morag smiled sadly. “That is the difference between you, Lucian. You wanted her. Neall loves her.”

“I cared about her!” Lucian clenched his fists. “And she cared about me. I know she did. She was mine until that mongrel enticed her away from me. She turned me away without giving me a chance to show her what I could give her. And even if she didn’t choose to be my lover, she still belongs at Brightwood. She would be there now if you hadn’t lied to us, made us believe she was dead. Dianna wouldn’t have been trapped there and—”

“You,” Morag snapped. “Dianna. It’s always about you and Dianna, isn’t it? What you want, what you didn’t get, what someone else should do or give up so that nothing inconveniences you.” She bent in the saddle and leaned toward him. “Are you going to stamp your feet and throw a tantrum now, child?”

He took a step back from her, stunned.

“I am the Gatherer of Souls,” Morag continued. “I answer to no one, and I do not care what you want.”

“You have to care!” Lucian shouted. “I am the Lightbringer.”

“You were the Lightbringer.” Morag brushed the reins against the dark horse’s neck to signal him to turn and go down the road. “Now you’re a spirit who has to finish the journey to the Summerland.”

She rode back into the human world, then reined in and sat for a moment, listening. No whispers from the direction of Neall and Ari’s cottage. But in the direction of the Bretonwood Clan house, Death was a chorus, and the woods still burned.

As she turned the dark horse toward the Clan house, she heard the first rolls of thunder and felt the first drops of rain.

Morag rode toward the cottage, swaying in the saddle from exhaustion and grief. The fire hadn’t reached the Clan house itself, but it had swept through the woods around the shining road so fast, the Small Folk who lived in that part of Bretonwood had had no chance to escape. Some of the Fae were missing, but the Clan tried to remain hopeful that their kin had been able to outrun the fire and were taking shelter elsewhere until morning. Since Death no longer tugged at her, she hoped they were right.

The cottage was dark except for the kitchen. When she saw light flicker in the barn, her heart bumped against her chest. No. Too steady to be uncontained fire. A lamp most likely.

Then Glenn stepped out of the cottage, a pitcher in his hand. “Lady Morag?”

“How are you, Glenn? Is everything all right here?” Morag grabbed at the saddle as she felt herself slip sideways.