The face was young and male—unearthly perfection. Around his neck, a torque of dark stone—Wyrdstone, she vaguely recalled—gleamed in the rain. This was the god of death incarnate. It was not with any mortal man’s expression or voice that he smiled and said, “You.” She couldn’t look away. There were screams in the darkness—screams she had drowned out for so many years. But now they beckoned. His smile widened, revealing too-white teeth, and he reached a hand for her throat. So gentle, those icy fingers, as his thumb brushed her neck, as he tilted her face up to better stare into her eyes. “Your
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