Without rising to her feet, the older woman then drew the sharp edge of the knife across the back of her neck.
Rafe was shocked, then realized her intention.
Her own blood flowed over her hands and she grimaced, though Rafe didn’t know whether it was due to frustration or pain. She slashed at her own neck more aggressively to make the wound deeper and her face paled. She looked much older, but no less resolved. Rafe understood that the angle made it difficult for her to free her own identification bead—what she lacked in dexterity, she made up for with sheer will.
With trembling fingers, she worked the glass bead out from beneath her flesh. She held it toward the boy, her manner imperious. He had fetched a bottle and opened it hurriedly. He splashed a clear liquid across the identificat
