Savannah looked around the yard at the various training implements. A target was nailed to the side of the house, its red and blue circles almost worn invisible from thousands of knife throws. In one corner, a punching bag hung from a tree. “What’s that thing?” she asked, pointing at the twin posts stuck in the middle of the yard. A burlap sack dangled from a cable stretched between them. Balled-up newspaper peeked out from several rents in the fabric. “Practice dummy. You try stabbing it while another person pulls on the rope to make it move around.” “Looks like fun.” Walking closer, she tugged on the guy rope, jiggling the bag. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Are there any Tuatha De Danaan women hunters? Or is it just the men?” “A few. Traditionally, it’s mostly the men. But my mom was a pretty good hunter, even though she was half mortal. At least, that’s what my aunt and uncle told me.” “Is that how she died?” “Rafe, don’t ask him that,”
