The hawk’s sharp cry preceded its earthward streak. A flurry of feathers and fur, a panicked squeal, a rustle of dry grass—then the kill was over, the raptor rising with its victim limp in its claws. Lucas Herne watched the bird glide across the valley. He was that hawk. That killer. The sudden disturbance over, the land around him calmed. Protective silence gave way to birdcalls, to movement in the grass, to the buzz of insects. Far from dulling his mind, his long fast had only sharpened his senses. Colors seemed brighter, sounds clearer. His dark blond hair, which he wore loose, lifted in the breeze, sending a tingle over his skin. His existence was alive with form and sensation; his world was vivid in a way it had never been. It was as if he were touching and seeing nature’s soul rather than its substance. If only he could be certain what he sensed was real and not a fabrication of his mind. He cocked his head, listening. He could hear the beat of his heart, the blood rushing in his veins.
