Adolfo finished pouring wine into a glass and settled himself on the blanket-padded bench inside his tent before he said, “You may enter.”

A young Inquisitor almost leaped through the tent’s opening, his face shining with excitement. Two guards came in behind him, dragging a bound, bridled man.

“Master,” the Inquisitor said. “We caught this witch-lover.”

“Any man who fights against us is a witch-lover,” Adolfo replied in the tone he used as a mild scold—and warning. “What makes this one special?”

“Remember the nest of witches we cleaned out from that estate along the Una River?”

Of course he remembered. He’d drained some of those old women while learning to create nighthunters at will. “What of it?”

The Inquisitor fairly danced with excitement. “We didn’t know what had happened to the young ones in the nest.”

“I’m aware of that.” The Inquisitor’s excitement stirred his interest, but Adolfo took care not to let it show.

“This is one of them. His name is Rory. One of the men who came from a village near there recognized him. We think they ran to this Old Place to escape us.”

Which meant the man was known to the bitches who lived in this Old Place. Was, perhaps, even kin to them. Which made him perfect.

Draining the wine glass, Adolfo set it aside and stood. “Bring him.”

The Inquisitor looked crestfallen. “Don’t you want to question him about the witches, Master?”

Adolfo smiled. “I have a better use for him.”

There were so many. Morag lost count of the number of spirits she had taken up the road to the Shadowed Veil, and there were still so many. She couldn’t keep going. She was tired. The dark horse was tired. She’d ridden all day to reach the Old Place and had been gathering spirits for hours now. Time to stop. Time to rest. She needed to make her way back to the Old Place and find Ashk.

This would be her last trip up the road to the Shadowed Veil. She would open the road right here and let the spirits nearby follow her to the Veil.

Just as she opened the road, she saw a ghost moving toward her. He smiled and raised a hand in greeting.

“Merry meet, Gatherer.”

Tears pricked her eyes. “Sheridan,” she whispered, then held out her hand. “Come.”

As he floated up to her, he said, “Tell Ashk I’ve gone to the Summerland, and”—regret filled his face for a moment—“tell Morphia I hope to meet her again one day.”

“I’ll tell them.”

She couldn’t talk anymore. She’d recognized some of the men she’d gathered, but Sheridan had been a friend, as well as her sister’s lover. She wondered if he’d moved away from his body as a kindness to her, so she wouldn’t have to see how he’d died.