But here she found no opening. No escape. Nothing but thick, unbroken branches.

She swallowed hard against her fear. This was it. There was no escape.

Kneeling at the statue, she mouthed, “Mother Mary, save my soul…”

She hadn’t been good.

Oh, God no.

But she wasn’t all bad, either.

Behind her she heard him move ever forward. No rush, no rush at all.

He knew he had her. Terror crawled up her spine.

She kept silently, desperately praying, again and again, Mother Mary, save my soul. And then another voice. Deep. Rough. Echoing hollowly through her skull: She can’t help you. You have no soul to save.

Were they his words? Was that his cruel voice inside her head?

She thought with sudden clarity: I’m sixteen years old and I am going to die. How stupid she was to have goaded him-teased him. Dared him.

What had she been thinking?

This was the crux of her problem: Not only could she see the future, she sometimes tried to change it.

And now he was going to kill her. In the middle of this maze, in the cold of winter, he was going to end her life. Desperately she slipped one hand into the pocket of her jacket, curled her fingers over the jackknife hidden within.

With all her strength she prayed for her life, her soul. Above her pulsing heart she heard the hunter’s footsteps. Nearer. Relentlessly closer. She rose, turning, facing the yawning opening in the thick shrubbery, the only means of escape. From the depths a dark figure appeared.

Tall.