Her breath caught in her throat when her hair was gripped by long, hooked claws, dragging her forward, and she remembered that as well, the tug at her scalp and the loss of balance as she fell forward. The creature leaned in, pressing its face to her hair. It was smelling her, Dara realized, her heart climbing up to her throat. “Christmas Eve, 2013,” he rasped, rubbing a strand of her dark hair between his fingers. “Money laundering, theft, fencing stolen goods. You were a spare, if I remember correctly . . . I see your luck has remained absent, little one.”
