Ricky spun around, but even as he did, he knew he wouldn’t see her. “Liv!” he shouted again. Yeah, that wasn’t smart, yelling so close to his quarry’s den, but what mattered was that she was gone and this forest was wrong, unnatural and wrong, and he’d brought her in here. Fuck the signs. Fuck the omens. Fuck the fact that the raven wouldn’t cross the threshold and their damned tusks were cold weights in their pockets. They had their weapons, and they had each other, and that was enough. It’s never enough. It never was. Ricky squeezed his eyes shut as if he could block Arawn’s voice. You did this. So cocky. So confident. You dragged her into this place knowing—feeling—the danger. Which was bullshit, of course. No one dragged Liv anywhere. But that didn’t mean Ricky failed to accept responsibility. He would never be Arawn, blaming Gwynn for centuries until he’d finally faced the truth—that he’d been equally responsible for Matilda’s death. Ricky had sensed the danger here, and they came in anyway.
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