He stole forward, prowling toward her, and in that moment, she guessed what he was. He flickered slightly, moving in bursts. Alive, but barely. Sentient, but not in control. Not a ghost. Not a memory. “Are you an animation?” she asked, forgetting her previous question. Dalton’s mouth twisted wryly. His lips parted. Then Parisa felt a hand on her collar, dragging her backward. “Get out,” said a deep voice. “Now.”
