He thought of the stag. Imagining Nadine lying dead in the road, her bicycle twisted, one tire still rolling, bloody punctures all over her body.

He saw Tish's reproductive organs tacked to the wall, her face gray, the bow still taut around her throat.

Saw a baby in a coffin—little Ruby St. John—frail and purple in a tiny white lace gown.

Sheila would suffer a similar fate if she stayed with him. It made him want to run and leave her behind. But the trail of blood would eventually catch up with her, whether he stayed or ran.

Sooner or later she would die like the others, for the simple fact of being someone he cared about.

He stepped into the circle, feeling their power the moment he entered. A dull vibration in his fillings. A high, almost imperceptible whine in his ears. A softly ticking throb in his groin.

And something else—something he couldn't describe. For a moment it felt like he was seeing through two sets of eyes at once. His vision doubled. Five stones became ten, closing them in. A confusion of vague thoughts and images and emotions washed over him like a flash flood, so fast he barely had time to register them before they were gone.

Something had entered him, he sensed that much. A living thing—no, multiple beings. A community. He felt their presence, sensed their memories... and then they were gone, leaving an abscess, a vast black hole in their wake.

Sheila's eyelids fluttered. She craned her head back. "Can you feel it, Martin?"

He said that he could.

"Come," she said, still swaying. Her hands never left the stones.

Reluctantly, he came to her side, feeling the magnetic pull of the stone she held. It seemed to pulse between her fingers, like a living thing. The black heart of the island.

He put his hand on hers, right on right. Her fingers entwined with his. He felt high. Like he'd just taken a massive hit of the best shit on earth.

Before he could react, Sheila jerked his body around her and pushed him roughly up against the stone. Her eyes snapped open, locking on his. Irises impossibly wide, his reflection swirling in them, cauldrons as black as the rock. The stone was oddly warm. She pinned him there with her hips.

"Sheila—"

She pressed a finger against his lips, shushing him like she had that night nearly six years ago. This time, she kissed him first.

He stopped resisting, leaning in to her. The throb became an ache as she ground her hips against him. She reached down, slipping a hand between their bodies. Worked open his belt and unzipped his fly without taking her eyes away from his.

Her cold fingers grasped him by the root and tugged. She nestled herself against his thigh, squirming against him. He felt her heat through the fabric. He wanted nothing more than to come, to shoot gobs and gobs of his seed inside of her.