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Just Margery Lawrence, left on her own and now—
    Dead.
    Echoing wails, bitter, bitter grief, wrenching loneliness…resentment.
    And childhood resolve, not quite as young and untouched as it had been only days earlier. I’ll rebuild my own family. My chosen family.
    And the Sentinels will have nothing of me. Not —
    — ever.
    They’d let him die. The Sentinels had tangled themselves in some dumb-ass protocol and they’d delayed and they’d left him out there to die.
    Jared. His last thoughts had been for that woman, a single mother, a joyful coyote with no real place in fieldwork, no training, just heart. His last thoughts —
    Bitter, bitter grief. Choking fury…
    A young man’s resolve. I will never trust them. I will be one of them, but not theirs. Not truly. Not ever.
    For Jared, he would save the ones he could. Hard and independent and…
    Rogue.

Chapter 4
    M eghan sat back against the long-dead fireplace in dazed exhaustion, beyond thought. Beyond decisionmaking or reaction or feeling.
    She stared through dawn light at the huge black cat sprawled on dirt and rock before her, instantly reconnected to the memories they’d shared. His memories, her memories…all the same now. She pressed a hand to the base of her throat where that hard ball of grief welled up so suddenly, so deeply.
    Perhaps not beyond feeling after all.
    Her arm protested the movement; she stretched it out, shoving back torn sleeves for a good look. Punctured, smeared with dried blood, swelling. She’d cleaned the wounds and covered them with an herbal paste—preserved with warding, enhanced with personal power—that would have them pink and closed by thetime she made it home. After last night, Margery Lawrence felt…closer, somehow.
    And meanwhile…she didn’t understand it, but that blood…his blood…his saliva…they’d all mixed, somewhere along the way.
    Made a difference. A connection.
    Luka whickered. Hungry, no doubt, and thirsty…he’d waited, accepting the other side of the crumbling old house as his stall. She’d removed his tack and trickled water into the collapsible water bucket, but he needed more.
    She wasn’t ready to leave the jaguar. Not yet.
    Dolan. She knew his name now. She wasn’t ready to leave Dolan Treviño.
    The darkness lifted, steadily brightening into a typical morning here on the Santa Rita sky islands. Crisp and bitter cold at night, the clear sky quickly turned from star-spattered ink to coral-rimmed cerulean and then to a blue so sharp it almost hurt to look at it. Even here, tucked away in the trees and shadows, the day warmed fast enough for Meghan to ease off her quilted, oversized vest.
    Meghan regarded the jaguar for a long moment from her slumped seat at the hearth. His ribs rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and the growing light picked out the faintest dapples of the rosette patterns within black fur.
    His tail twitched; a paw flipped and went still. Meghan crawled back over to him to rest her hand on his side, his shoulder—feeling for the spasms from the night before. She still had no idea what had happened—what had poisoned him so badly, or how it had gotten into his system. She’d only treated the symptoms—red clover,valerian, magnesium powder, all tied to infusions of power for efficacy—and she’d been lucky when it worked.
    He’d been lucky.
    Dolan Treviño, and not his brother Jared after all. Jared, golden and vibrant and dedicated…and every bit as dead as Meghan’s mother. Killed on his way to her.
    Meghan wondered again if he’d sent out a warning, just as Dolan had warned her. If her mother had known that last night…and gone out anyway, making sure she wasn’t at home when the Atrum Core came after her. Came after the Liber Nex.
    A forbidden book of the dead. An instruction manual for corrupt, death-based, power-wielding techniques, long-buried and long-forbidden. Great. And that’s what Dolan was looking for now? That’s what he thought her mother had