Chapter Thirty-Six

The weather for the last two months could best be described as wild and untamed. The media were calling it Father Winter’s last hurrah before he surrendered to spring. Arrin was sick of it, and he wanted to go home. Except he had no home. He had a tent he’d stolen during a stealthy trip into town last month, and for which he hadn’t bothered to leave any dranai behind. Other than he was almost out of money, after the ungratefulness of Fred and Effie, he’d ceased caring about such niceties.

Shivering, aching everywhere, and nursing a monster of a respiratory infection along with a raw, sore throat, he burrowed deeper into his sleeping bag in a futile effort to escape the cold. Outside a bitter wind froze the falling drops of rain, turning them into...

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