“After my father disappeared, my mother drank herself to death. It took eight years. It wasn’t pretty, and I was helpless to stop it. Every single day growing up, I would pray that whatever was making her so sick and so scared would stop. I think she was literally scared to death. By the thought of what was following her, the thought of who and what wanted to see her dead.” She looked at Morgan. “The Ikati. And now you’re telling me I’m supposed to be—what?—in charge of?—the leader of?—the very people—things—that killed her? The things that killed my father?” She shook her head sharply. “No. No way. Not a chance in hell.”
Morgan gazed at her for one long, solemn moment. “I’m sorry about your mother,” she said quietly. “I didn’t know about that. All I knew—all any of us were ever told—was
