CHAPTER 1

Tarin sprung from his bed with a scream. The haunting melody still swirled between his ears, even as the vision of the four necks within four nooses started to fade. Usually, he managed at least a few nights’ gap between these awful dreams. But now they were plaguing him with far more regularity.

He stumbled into his trailer’s tiny bathroom. A trash bin next to the sink sat full of empty amber bottles. Tarin splashed water on his face and looked into the dusty mirror. His sandy brown hair lay matted onto his pale forehead. Maybe a drink would help. Sure, it was early, but his heart was still beating fast, and he needed to calm down.

“What’s the time?” he murmured to the mirror.

Four three-dimensional digits appeared near the top of the glass, revealing it was already ten in the morning. Tarin cursed. He needed to be at the ranch in fifteen minutes to feed the horses and lead them out to pasture. Howard would be angry if he was late again, and he couldn’t afford to get fired.

He groaned and splashed more water on his face. After grabbing his coat, he headed out into the chilly November air for the twenty-minute walk—or today, ten-minute jog—to the ranch.

An hour later, he was leading the final horse from the barn toward a fenced enclosure set upon the gently rolling hills of western South Dakota when the horse whinnied and lurched its head back. “Shhh, girl,” Tarin said, “what’s wrong?”

The horse’s wild eyes stared into the sky. He held tightly to the lead line to steady the animal, then winced. The texture of the rope on the palm of his hand brought him back to his dream—to the nooses.

To the poor family about to be killed.

He clenched his eyes shut. “Why do I always run when I hear the music? Why don’t I help them?”

Because you’re a coward.

The inner voice that answered was not his own. It seemed to be made from the dream’s familiar and haunting melody. He tried to think of something else, but the sound refused to relent. It joined with the voices of a battalion of what appeared to be medieval soldiers, always echoing the accusation as he fled an apparent battle. He was this battalion’s leader, though he had no idea why. He appeared to be only eleven or twelve years old.

He focused on this detail and allowed its absurdity to bring him comfort. He knew the dream was just a manifestation of some trauma he must have experienced as a child, something he’d repressed. That’s why he didn’t remember anything from before he was twelve. It was the time after that that gave him pause. The voices and images reminded him of something he’d run from, something far more real than that battle. As he focused on that memory, the dreadful music quieted, but not the ache in his heart.

He managed to steady the horse and led it back out to pasture. As he let it go, a cold wind blew across his face, chilling him. The scent of the oncoming winter reminded him of the day h