To Lucienne, who believed

To my mom, who suggested I give my old dream of writing a go. If I become a victim of artistic Darwinism, I blame her. Also to Shannon—best friend and sister with a black belt in tough love; to my patient editor, Anne Sowards; to the infallible Kat Sherbo; Brian McKay (ninja of the dark craft of copy writing and muse of a fictional disease we won’t discuss here . . . but did discuss at length in Roadkill ); Agent Jeff Thurman of the FBI for the usual weapons advice; talented artist Aleta Rafton; Lucienne Diver, who astounds me in the best possible way at every turn; and great and lasting friends Michael and Sara.

He dreamed of sun, wind, and horses.

He always did.

Strange. He’d never touched a horse, much less ridden one, but that was the dream all the same. It was the same every night since he could remember. There was the sweet green smell of grass and the smooth motion of the mount between his legs. The wind was cool in his face as the buttery sun beat down like a warm hand on his head. There was a handful of mane tangled in his fingers. Black and coarse, it was rough silk against his skin. It was a feeling so familiar, so right. The sky stretched overhead, the endless blazing blue seemingly as close as the hand he raised toward it. He could almost snag it in his grip and trail it along behind him like a kite.