The woman lay in the cemetery on a bed of snow. Snowflakes clung to her blonde hair and sparkled like diamonds. Slivers of moonlight touched her serene face. Her skin was the blue-tinged skin of the Fey.
After turning up the heat in my coat, I reached out to touch her and immediately recoiled. She was so cold that I’d gotten a taste of frostbite, the cold stinging my fingers. Was she dead?
Pixie, a German Shepherd who was my companion and familiar, whined. She was right to lead me here, her thoughts urgent in my head.
She poked the woman with her nose. The woman did not move, did not even twitch. Pixie whined, poking the woman again. There was no rise and fall of her chest. There was nothing.
“What do you think, girl?” I asked.
Pixie gazed at me with eyes that reflected sympathy and intelligence. The thought – Pixie’s – unfurled in my mind.
Not dead. Must save.
My heart thudded. I was Fey Touched, a Hunter of her kind. Technically, she was my enemy. I had the right to kill her on sight. Why didn’t I?
I didn’t like the Fey as a rule. There were Hunters who believed that all Fey were evil and must …