I dreamed of a funeral on Christmas day. Dozens of mourners were in attendance, washed out in the gray winter light. I was among them, taller than most, grim in the black slacks and sweater I'd bought for the service. I'd worn the only shoes I had with me, stompy black boots that didn't match the outfit. I'd secretly liked the fact that they set me apart, that they weren't appropriate. They played to an already-present sense of alienation from the people around me. I thought of myself as fish-belly pale, but looking at my distant family, I saw a golden cast to my skin that none of them had. I looked better in black than most of them did.

Growing up, I'd never thought about my mother's family. She was persona non grata to me, the bitch who'd abandoned me with a father who didn't know what to do with me. I'd never indulged in the luxury of imagining my life would've been better with her, and it had flat-out never occurred to me that I might've had aunts and uncles, or cousins, much less siblings and nieces and nephews.

By the time she finally called, I was twenty-six and she was dying. She wanted to get to know me in the time she had left, but she never did. We spent four months traveling around Europe on the basis of a relationship that meant nothing to me, and, as far as I could tell, meant very little to her. We never broke down the barriers of silence, and saw Rome and Barcelona and Prague as two strangers standing side by side. When I met her family at the funeral—aunts and uncles and cousins, yes, but no half siblings, for which I was grateful—they were too caught up in their own sorrow to know what to do with me. I didn't exactly blame them, but I was bitter anyway.

Three months later, when my dead mother rescued me from a banshee, I learned that every one of her choices had been based on trying to keep me safe. I learned, way too late, that she'd loved me. But in the immediacy of the dream, all I knew was I stood amongst strangers who had lost someone much more important to them than she'd been to me.

They had offered—or asked, I wasn't sure which—to let me help shoulder the weight of her casket. I'd wanted to say yes, and had declined because I was so much taller than the others. It was a stupid, pathetic logic, and I'd regretted it immediately, not just for my sake or my mother's, but because of how her family's faces had shut down. In instantaneous hindsight I'd understood they were trying to reach out to me, but my talent had always been in pushing people away.

The priest spoke, as unmemorable in dreams as he'd been in life. Others nodded, wiped tears away; I stared at my stompy boots and waited for it all to be over. Voices murmured around me, whispered remembrances that the priest's words brought to the fore, and all I could offer was she liked Altoids. A bark of laughter filled my throat, inappropriate to release, and so I jolted guiltily when I heard that sound outside my own head.

It wasn't laughter. It was a raven, sitting on Sheila MacNamarra's headstone. The grave was still open, shining casket a black gleam under the dull sky. The raven tipped forward, peering into the hole, and gave another one of its laughlike caws.

That had not happened at the funeral. I edged forward, somewhere between relieved that this wasn't just a miserable dream and worried that it was a portent of some kind. The raven cawed again, then sprang into the air, wings whispering as he flew away into the winter sky.

Wailing followed him, a screech of metal tearing, and it rendered the clouds bloody and red.

I woke up far more weary than I'd been when I went to bed.

Wednesday, December 21, 5:19 A.M.

I couldn't shake the dream, so I just got up. I was meeting Mandy early anyway, although not quite five-thirtyin-the-morning early. Still, finding breakfast and taking a shower seemed better than lying wide-eyed in bed trying to read meaning into haunted dreams.

Truth was, I didn't think it needed that much interpretation. No banshee had cried at my mother's funeral, but with the murders a few months later, and everything I'd learned about her then, I wasn't surprised there was an association. The raven's appearance seemed even less peculiar, especially with my power circle encounter the day before.

Reminded, and feeling a little foolish, I took a foil bag of Pop-Tarts up to the roof of my building and put it on one of the heating vents. "Here you go, Raven. Shiny food. Thank you for getting me out of that psychic snowstorm yesterday." I patted the bag and, feeling even more foolish, retreated to my apartment.

Mandy Tiller swung by to pick me up about a quarter after six, which really meant she lugged a backpack up to my apartment and examined my winter gear. My boots, which were police-issue for winter wear, passed muster, but she looked dismayed at the rest of what I thought qualified as outdoor gear.

"Jeans are out. Cotton's no good for keeping warm. I thought that might be the case, so I brought extras. They should fit pretty well, you're a little taller but I think I'm bulkier?"

I said, "In the thigh, anyway," before realizing that might be insulting. Mandy only nodded, though, and unzipped the backpack to reveal what looked like two-thirds of the stock from the store she worked in. She peeled a pair of leggings out and tossed them to me, grinning at my expression.

"They expand. Really. I know they look like they won't fit a skinny thirteen-year-old, but I wear them all the time." Disconcertingly, she peeled her waistband down to show me the pair of leggings she wore under her pants, then let the pants slide back up. "They wick sweat away. I've got a long-sleeved shirt for you, too. Do you have any sweaters? Wool sweaters?"

Half an hour later I was securely bundled in more layers than I knew could fit on a single human being, and was somehow still only carrying only slightly more bulk than I typically did. I wriggled my toes inside liner socks inside wool socks inside my boots and chortled. "This is kind of cool."

Mandy got a sly look. "If you think it's cool already, you've got the heart of an outdoorsman. We're going to have fun today. Ever been snowshoeing?"

I said, "No," fascinated, and her sly look got even craftier.

"Yeah," she said again. "This'll be fun."

Except for the part where we're trying to lure a killer to us, I didn't say and tromped outside after her.

We took a ferry across Puget Sound, both of us getting out of Mandy's SUV to lean into what was, with all the cold weather gear we were wearing, merely a bracing wind. I'd had my filling breakfast of pastries, but she threw me a ham sandwich and a protein bar, which I ate obediently, figuring there was no point in tagging along after an expert if I didn't take her advice. "You do a lot of walking, right?" she asked as we got back into her car. "A five-mile trail isn't going to kill you?"

"I did more when I was a patrol cop, but I should be okay as long as you don't expect me to climb mountains."

"Only a little one," she promised cheerfully. "If you were really outdoorsy I'd bring you on a much harder hike, farther out. From what I know about the people who've died, most of them would be found on the tough stuff, not on Hurricane Hill. I'm hoping it's enough to draw him out." She gave me a sideways glance and asked the question I'd been expecting all along: "So are you like a black belt? I've never heard of cops going out alone to set themselves up as bait. Don't they usually at least have backup?"

"You're my backup." And I hadn't exactly cleared this stunt with Morrison. "I'm not a black belt, but I have a kind of…profiling thing with people like this. A way to fight that most people don't."

"And you can be sure he'll go after you and not me?"