Alexandra studied him, used the training she’d received in the Flaring discipline. Every tick of his muscles, every shift of his eyes, every movement, no matter how subtle, fed into the hyper-function of her thought processes. He was avoiding what he really came here to say.

“Spit it out, Flint. What the hell happened?”

He drooped a slow blink, let out a sigh of resignation, realizing how futile it was to hide his emotions behind what was—to her—a see-through mask. “Seven pilgrims were killed at the dye pools. It was done with . . . violence.”

“Violence?”

“Immense violence.” He’d been slowly raising his clipboard and charts, readying to share data. But now he dropped it to his side. “Four men. Two women. One child. A boy. They were—”

“Hollowed,” she said. “They were hollowed, weren’t they?”

His face had paled a bit. “Yes, Goddess. Done quite professionally, I might add. Cleaned out. The, uh, refuse was nowhere to be found. Only the ribs remained.”

“Damn that man,” she whispered, fury threatening to overcome her Flare sensibilities. She counted through the digits, that precise mathematical sequence she’d learned as an acolyte that brought peace, calmness, the brain having no choice but to release the appropriate chemicals. “Do you know where he is?”

Flint knew exactly who she was talking about—she read his eyes as easily as the charts and tables he carried with him at all times. As evident as sunlight, she knew he envisioned those poor victims in the dye pools, how they’d been sliced from aft to stern, their every essence of life removed with violent but precise efficiency. The blood, the stench, the horror of such a thing . . . only a certain type could do it and remain hinged. And the both of them standing there had already arrived at the correct conclusion.

“Uh, I believe that he’s gone to the . . .” Flint cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable sharing such personal information from one member of the Godhead to another.

Alexandra stepped close to him, controlled herself until she stood rigid as a corpse. Then she locked her eyes with his, utilizing the optic hypnosis techniques of her discipline. “Tell me where he is.” The proper inflection in her voice sealed the deal.

Flint nodded in submission, then spoke, almost trance-like.

“Mikhail has gone to the Glade.”

Alexandra tried to suppress her shock, but for the first time in an age, her training in the ways of the Flare completely abandoned her. A blinding flash of anger exploded within her mind, erasing the world around her for the briefest of moments. Why? Why did Mikhail do this now? She wanted to scream but snatched it back—literally snapping an arm out as if her voice were a physical thing. Her rage subsided; her vision returned. Flint had a red gash across his cheek, the skin sliced by her very own fingers, her painted nails. A petulant act; she needed better control.