“Anwatan,” Walker said, the first to name her.

There was no happiness in the cerva’s voice. Only surprise at her unexpected appearance. And sadness for her death. Perhaps a touch of worry that she was here, instead of moving on into the next world.

So this was the girl the bogans had killed, Joe thought.

“How dare you decide on the manner of my retribution?” she demanded of Minisino.

The war chief actually retreated a step from her, but that, Joe decided, was involuntary, because it soon became apparent that he wasn’t backing down from his plans.

“This isn’t about you, Anwatan,” Minisino told her. “This is for all the cerva the aganesha have slaughtered.”

The spirit shook her head. “The dead see through the lies of the living,” she said. “Why don’t you tell this army you have gathered the truth, since they seem to be conveniently blind to it?”

“That’s because he wouldn’t have an army if he did,” another woman’s voice answered before Minisino could speak.

She didn’t take shape the way the deer spirit had. She’d stepped out of nowhere—the way you did in the between, when you come from the world that Raven made, or from the otherworld—a small woman with long tangles of red hair, dressed in baggy green cargo pants and a tight black T-shirt. There was something familiar about her, but Joe couldn’t quite place it. What he did know was that she wasn’t human or fairy, a cousin or a spirit.

Cody’s balls, Jack said in his head. This is turning into a regular variety show for freaks and misfits.

No kidding.

Minisino looked at the newcomer, and Joe saw something change in his eyes. Whoever the stranger was, the war chief knew her. Knew her and didn’t want her to be talking.

“Don’t even start, Christiana,” he said. “This is neither the time nor the—”

“Hey, speak for yourself,” Joe broke in. “Me, I’m all ears.”

Because now he knew who she was. Jilly’d spoken to him of her. She was Christy Riddell’s shadow.

“Yes,” the spirit of Anwatan said. “Let her speak, or I will.”

Minisino glanced back at his army.

“Drum,” he commanded. “Dance.”

But not a hand touched drum skin, not a foot moved, not a voice was raised in the stomp dance chant. Like Joe, the gathered buffalo knew that their war chief was afraid of the stranger’s words, and while they would readily follow their leader wherever he might lead them, whether it be battle or a strategic retreat, they would not follow a coward.

“Speak,” Anwatan repeated.

“Well,” Christiana said. “You all see a war chief standing here at the head of his army—and damn, he really looks the part, doesn’t he?”

“Christiana,” Minisino said softly, the threat plain in his voice.