The ghost stared at the four wisps of spirit now clinging to Morag’s dress. “I heard a child crying. But they weren’t children anymore. They were the bad things.” She sighed. “They didn’t get my girl, my Breanna. I didn’t let them get my girl.”

As she led the ghost to the other circle of light, Morag fought against revulsion, fought against the desire to fling those four wisps of spirit as far away from her as she could. Children. Bad things. Something that could tatter a spirit after the body died. Something that had consumed almost all of the spirit within itself.

She’d known since her first encounter with them that there was nothing inside a nighthunter for her to gather, which was why her gift did nothing more than stun them. But she hadn’t realized there had been a spirit residing in that flesh once—a spirit the creature had consumed as it changed.

Children. The Inquisitors had done this to children. Mother’s mercy.

“Mama!”

The ghost of an older woman stepped out of the other circle of light and opened her arms. The short-haired ghost ran to her, held on to her.

Morag mounted the dark horse, who had followed behind her, then held out her hand. “Come.”

The ghosts floated over to her, floated up behind her. The fog cleared for a moment, showing her a stone bridge that spanned the brook she could hear but not see. As she turned the dark horse toward it, the older ghost said, “Can you take them, too?”

She looked at the spot the ghost pointed to and saw the Small Folk standing on the bank, watching her. “Come. I’ll take you up to the Shadowed Veil.”

After she crossed the bridge, she paused a moment before turning the dark horse toward the field, riding slowly as she followed Death’s summons. When she reached the field that climbed to a low rise, she guided the dark horse around it, keeping behind the trees that bordered it. Then she opened the road that led to the Shadowed Veil and took the ghosts as far as she could on their journey to the Summerland.

With eyes filled with pity, the older ghost gathered up the four wisps of spirit and cradled them in one arm. Taking her daughter’s hand, she walked through the Veil. The Small Folk raised their hands in farewell, then followed the witches.

Morag rode back down the road and through the trees until she reached the big field on the other side of the rise. In whispers, in pleas, in cries, Death called her.

She rode into the field and began gathering the spirits of the dead—and the spirits of the men who, wounded and suffering, wanted to leave the world of the living.

“Master Adolfo!”