CHAPTER 7

Amber tossed and turned in her bed as the last of an interminably long day bled away, evening fading into night, night blurring into sunrise; she wondered if sleep would ever be as easy again as it was before she met Jack.  Birds flitted back and forth among the branches of the tree outside her window, crowding the stage as they sang their good-mornings.  She resisted the urge to grab her phone from the nightstand and dial Jack’s number—the last fifty or so attempts had been unsuccessful, and there was no reason to assume number fifty-one would be any different.

Jack was gone.  Not incommunicado as Sohrab reassured her; eyes told the tale even if words did not.  The Shadowman, of all people, had offered a half-hearted attempt at assu...

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