Belladonna

disappeared. There had been so many hearts eager to hear Its whispers about the boys going into the woods with a man they knew well enough not to fear.
    Until the seasons changed, Its death rollers would remain in the sun-warmed river of their own landscape rather than hunt in the cold water of the pond located at the edge of the village's common pasture. By the time Its creatures came to this landscape, no one would remember the story those boys were telling about a big log that had come alive and pulled a half-grown steer into the water. And by the time the next boy, or man, wandered too close to the pond and died, the fear that lived in these people would be that much riper, that much sweeter. Would resonate with Itself that much better.
    It flowed beneath the main street, heading out of the village. People shuddered as It passed unseen, unrecognized for what It was. Its resonance would lodge in their hearts as uneasiness and distrust, making them wonder which of their neighbors had been the person who had held the knife. When they found the body of the lamplighter ...
    It had been so satisfying to change into a shape with jaws powerful enough to crush bone. So It had crushed the lamplighter, piece by piece. When It tired of playing with Its prey, It had dragged the body into a dark space and fed while the flesh was still succulent ... and alive.
    Of course, by the time the other humans found the body, the rats would have had their feast as well.
    It would return to this place called Dunberry, and when It did, the people would be even more vulnerable to the whispers and seeds It would plant in the dark side of the human heart — the same side that had brought It into being so long ago.
    But first, It needed to reach the sea and head north. The hunting in this landscape would be sweeter once It destroyed the Place of Light.

Chapter Three
Present
    M ichael paused outside the door of Shaney's Tavern and fiercely wished he'd already downed a long glass of whiskey.
    The music was out of tune here. Off rhythm. Wrong. Not as bad as Dunberry, but...
    Dunberry. What had gone wrong there! All right, so he'd done a little ill-wishing the last time he'd passed through, but the ripe bastard had been cheating at cards and deserved to have some bad luck. It wasn't as if he'd prospered from it. He just didn't think it was fair for Torry to lose his stake simply because the boy had had the poor judgment to try to plump up his wedding purse by playing a few hands of cards. And didn't Torry find a small bag of gold a few days later — gold his grandfather had hidden in the barn and forgotten years ago? That bit of luck-bringing had balanced out the ill-wishing, hadn't it?
    But the girl Torry was going to marry ... Stabbed to death, wasn't she, and so close to help, that Torry and his friends had heard her scream.
    He'd heard about it fast enough when he came into the village. Just as he heard what wasn't quite being said. Not about the girl, Erinn, but about two boys who disappeared a few days before she was killed. Someone had seen them going off with a man who wasn't from Dunberry but was familiar enough to be trusted. What would a man be doing with two young boys that they would need to disappear after he was done with them?
    He hadn't been in Dunberry for weeks, but sooner or later someone would put his face or his clothes on that "familiar enough"
    man, and it wouldn't matter that he'd been in another village when those boys had disappeared. Once the villagers decided he was the man, he wouldn't survive long enough to get a formal hearing.
    So he'd snuck away in the wee hours of the morning, putting as much distance between himself and Dunberry as he could before the people began to stir.
    He no longer fit the tune of that village. It had turned dark, sharp-edged, sour.
    That's how he heard places and people. They were melodies, harmonies, songs that fit together and gave a village a certain texture and sound. When he fit in with a place, he was another melody, another harmony. And he was the drum that settled the rhythm, fixed the beat.
    But not in Dunberry. Not anymore.
    The bang of a door or a shutter made him jump, which jangled the pots and pans tied to the outside of his heavy backpack.
    The sounds scraped nerves that were already raw, and his pounding heart was another thumping rhythm he was sure could be heard by ... whatever was out there.
    Tucking his walking stick under the arm holding the lantern, he wrapped his