Zack drew his sword. Steel scraped through the small room. He reached for the tarp with his free hand, stopped, and hooked the fabric with the blade instead.
The tarp slid away.
And there I was.
My body lay twisted on the damp earth. Four days of rain and summer heat had swollen the skin and clouded my open eyes.
The silver arrowhead still jutted from my chest, black against ruined flesh. Maggots moved through the wound around it.
Zack gagged and stumbled back. His heel caught on a loose stone. He fell, and the sword clattered beside him. After that first look, he kept his face turned away from mine.
But my soul’s gaze was fixed on Callan.
Callan stood in the doorway, silent. His gaze moved from the silver in my chest to the mud packed under my nails. He took two steps into the room
