I can’t bear to take my mouth from her skin.

It feels like just a few minutes but it is getting late, getting dark, when we finally manage to part.

As we say good-bye she takes my hand and kisses the side of my index finger, her lips and tongue and teeth on my skin.

We have arranged to meet in a week’s time. The next day seems to take forever to pass. The day after that is worse. I don’t know what to do with myself; all I can do is wait. I am physically aching to see her. My guts are in turmoil.

Finally, the day of our meeting crawls into the light and then takes a year to drag itself to the afternoon.

I wait on the sandstone slab, lying on my back, looking at the sky and listening for Annalise’s footsteps. I am straining at each sound, and when I hear her scrambling up the slope I roll on to my side and sit up. Her blonde head appears over the curve of the hill and I spring down from the outcrop, landing in a crouch with bent legs, the fingertips of my left hand on the ground and my right hand out to the side, showing off a little. I straighten up and step forward.

But something is badly wrong.

Annalise’s face is distorted . . . terrified.

I hesitate. Do I go to her? Do I run? What?

I look around.

It has to be her brothers, but I can’t see them or hear them. It can’t be the Council . . . can it?

I step forward. And then the figure of a man appears, standing next to Annalise. He has been there all the time, his hand on Annalise’s shoulder, steering her up the slope and holding her still. But he had been invisible.

Kieran.

Annalise’s eldest brother is tall like the rest of the family, but he has huge shoulders, and rather than white hair his is red-blond, thinner and cut close to his scalp. His eyes don’t leave me as he bends forward slightly and says something I can’t hear in Annalise’s ear.

Annalise’s body is rigid. She nods her head jerkily in response to Kieran. Her eyes are staring ahead, not looking at me, looking at nothing. Kieran takes his hand off her shoulder and she runs off, stumbling down the slope.

Kieran has the lower routes of escape covered. And now, approaching high to my left, is Connor; to the right is Niall. I could get up some good speed running down the slope but Annalise has told me that Kieran is fast. I could swerve down to the left or right but he is quite a bit below me and if he is fast he’ll . . .

Kieran grins and beckons me forward.

No, forward doesn’t feel like a good option.

I turn and run up the sandstone escarpment. I have made the climb numerous times before and know each handhold and each ledge. I can do it blindfolded. There is no way that Kieran can catch me from his position farther down the slope. But the few seconds’ delay have given Niall and Connor the advantage, and by the time I clear the top Connor is running toward me, not stopping until he stretches out his arms and plants his hands on my chest to shove me back over the edge.

I fall backward, turning in the air to land in a crouch on the bare ground below, back in the position I had been in a minute earlier. It’s a good landing, and now my only option is to barrel down the hill. I have only lifted my hand, though, when a boot wallops into me from the side and my stomach lifts into the air and then I am flat on the ground, winded, face-down.

I start to crawl. Another kick thumps into the side of my ribs. And another. The boots scuff around, kicking up dust and sand into my eyes, and one stomps on the back of my head, pushing my face into the ground.

“Sit on his legs,” Kieran instructs Connor. “Get his arms, Niall.”

Niall gets my arms and holds them down with his hands and feet while sitting on my head. I’m struggling to breathe underneath his sweaty trousers. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t see a thing except gray wool but I can hear Niall panting and Connor’s gasping, nervous giggle. I can’t move.

Kieran says, “You know what this is, Connor?”

Connor has to think about it, but eventually says, “A hunting knife.”

Now I squirm and grunt and curse them.

“Hold him still, Niall. To be exact, it’s a French hunting knife. They make great knives, the French. Look at that blade. It folds away beautifully into the handle. Great design. The Swiss go for all the fancy gadgets in their knives, but all you need is a good blade.”

I hear the rip of my T-shirt and feel the cool air on my back. I buck and shout curses again.

“Hold him still and shut him up with this.”

Niall’s legs move and my T-shirt is pushed into my mouth and I’m trying to bite him but then the blade brushes over my back and I try to shrink from it but it follows me and the point stops in the middle of my left shoulder blade.

“I’ll start here, I think. This half is the Black half, I’d say.”

Then the point goes in. And slowly the pain cuts down my back and I scream and swear into my T-shirt, the sounds muffled.

Kieran hisses in my ear. “Niall told you to stay away from our sister, you Black piece of shit.”

He puts the point back into my left shoulder blade and I clench my jaw and scream while he makes another cut.

He stops again and says, “You should have listened to him.”

He makes another slow cut.

And I am going mad screaming and praying for someone to make him stop.

But he makes another cut and then another and all I can do is scream and pray.

“Time for a break.”

No one makes a noise. But it’s not silent in my head. My head is full of the noise of prayer. Praying and praying to please, please not let him do any more.

Kieran says, “Nice here, isn’t it, Connor? Good view.”

I stop praying to listen.

Connor doesn’t answer.

Niall says, “Kieran, he’s bleeding a lot.” He sounds worried.

“I almost forgot. Thanks for reminding me, Niall. I got some powder from camp.” His voice is closer to me. “They use it in Retributions.”

And I’m praying again, praying louder than ever to please not let him do it, please.

“It stops the bleeding. Can’t have Black Witches bleeding to death. I have heard that it hurts a bit. We’ll find out, won’t we?”

And then I start begging. Just in my head, but I am begging. Please don’t, please don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t—

“Hey. Wake up.”

I can breathe better. Niall is off my head. The T-shirt is out of my mouth.

“Wake up.”

A black boot, polished but flecked with sand and a few drops of blood is all I can see. I close my eyes again.

Kieran’s voice is in my ear, close enough for me to feel his breath.

“How you feeling? Okay?”

I’m feeling frightened.

The pain in my back has faded. But I don’t want any more. I would do anything to stop him doing more. I would beg and plead, and in my head I’m saying, Please don’t do any more. Please. I can’t speak the words, no words come out, but in my head I’m begging, Please, don’t do any more.

“You’re crying. Hey, Niall! Connor! He’s crying.”

Silence.

“Do you think he’s sorry, Connor? Sorry that he beat you up?”

Connor mumbles something.

“Maybe. But I’m not sure. What do you think, Niall?”

“Yes.” I can just hear Niall. He sounds angry.

“Okay . . . Well, that’s good.” And Kieran’s mouth is close to my ear as he says, “So are you sorry you beat up my pathetic brothers?”

And I want to say yes. I do want to say it. In my head I’m saying sorry. But nothing will come out of my mouth.

“And are you sorry you met my sister?”

And I know as soon as he says that, the way he says it, that he hasn’t finished. It isn’t over. He has no intention of stopping there. And nothing I can say will make any difference. All I can do is hate him.