Blackfeather Woods Of a dollar to earn

The red licks of flame in the grass. Embers inside the trees, contained by the bark. Smoke gushing from somewhere, everywhere, blacking out the sun—and the screaming, the screaming of the children—!

Where is she? A voice tumbled to him. Titmouse focused on it, banished the terrible memory. He did not immediately know the face upon which he gazed but he answered in earnest: Not far. The twin ghosts were rarely separate these days.

Titmouse took a breath to steady himself, seeking composure while tasting soot in the air. The chaotic din that they'd left behind in the hollow was in the past, now. So was Blackfeather—yet here he was, stepping back in time. He did not know the boy, having forgotten some specifics, but the boy's scent was pervasive among the trees.

Blackfeather would always find fresh blood, he grimly thought.