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gold-shot hair tousled from sleep.
    In the faint morning light, her eyes were luminous, dark, and haunting blue. She’d grown up to be beautiful and . . . good. And he disappointed her. He’d seen the flicker of it in her eyes—that he hadn’t turned into a hero who could heal the world of its sorrows. He remembered with uncomfortable clarity the way she used to cling to him, the way she followed him and watched him, and put her small hand in his.
    This version of Penelope Sheehan looked harder, less vulnerable, and yet she hadn’t stopped trying to help. In Tru’s book, that made her crazy.
    He lofted the rifle in his hand. “I thought I’d get breakfast, actually.”
    “So you’re going hunting.” Was that relief in the softening of her mouth?
    “That was my plan. I’d invite you along but somebody needs to keep an eye on the kid.”
    “You’re good with him,” she said. “Just like Mason was with you.”
    Oh, low blow, lady. Low. Blow.
    He wondered how much she remembered of their time together. If she recalled whispering in his ear when she wouldn’t talk to anyone else. If she remembered climbing into his lap after she had a nightmare. It felt weird being confronted with her as a grown woman. He hadn’t seen any of her awkward, intermediate stages, as if she’d transformed from caterpillar to butterfly without need for a chrysalis. If that wasn’t magic, he didn’t know what was.
    “And?”
    “How long do you plan to stick around thereafter?” she asked.
    I don’t. Calla had been his incentive to play along.
    Penelope must’ve read the truth in his eyes. She smiled at him, really smiled—and the sight stole his breath. But her eyes held an assessing look, as if she had some scheme in mind. Tru admired a clever female, even if they were often more hassle than he desired. This one promised to be more work than ten women.
    But when had he last set his sights on anything other than quick and easy? A challenge might be . . . interesting.
    “When you get back,” she said, still smiling, “I have a proposition for you.”

FIVE
     
    Pen didn’t expect him to come back. Worse than that, she didn’t want to expect him back. But the idea she had for continuing her work against O’Malley never left her mind.
    She collected water from the swamp, which was revolting. For a fire she had gathered branches from one corner of the shelter, which looked to be an abandoned animal’s nest. Even if Tru returned, and even if he found game, they would still need drinking water. And she desperately wanted to get clean.
    The morning was sticky and warm. She’d sweated like hell in the truck, and the brief subsequent rain hadn’t brought a hint of cool. Now the challenge was drawing an easy breath. Heavy humidity sat on her chest like a stack of stones.
    She found Adrian still awake on the pallet he’d made of Tru’s blanket. Exhaustion added a waxy pallor to his dark skin. The whites of his eyes were far too big, as if he always looked at the world in a state of surprise.
    Maybe he did.
    “You should sleep.” She touched his forehead. No magic with this touch, although rest and food had restored her to full potency. Just the comfort skin could give to skin. He sighed quietly as his eyelids dropped.
    “He won’t be back,” Adrian said, his voice a whispering rustle. “Will he?”
    “Best to prepare yourself for the worst, I think. People don’t come back. Or they die.”
    “Like Calla.”
    Pen stopped, swallowing a surprising clench of sadness. She spoke frankly about death because that was what needed to be done. She wasn’t used to . . . revisiting. Certainly not dwelling. But Calla’s panicked eyes wouldn’t leave her be. The girl had been so scared. And then she was gone. Just like that.
    “Yes, like Calla.”
    When was the last time she’d stopped to mourn? She couldn’t even recall. Grief was a wound that wouldn’t heal. As long as she had people to help and knowledge to pass