Daisy Hairapple found the dead rose at her dressing room door, same as the four before it. Black petals, snapped stem, laid clean across the threshold. She was the headliner at the grimy punk club tonight, blonde hair spiked, vulture shirt stretched tight, spiked belt cinched over black leather. She had built a name on this stage. But someone in a vulture mask had been hunting her, and she meant to hunt him back. This rose came with a note. The last four had not. She crouched and read it under the buzzing marquee light. The words made no sense. Letters ran backward. Symbols cut between them like claw marks. One line she could almost read: a time, tonight, and a warning. Ignore it and you die. She needed someone who knew this kind of threat. She knew exactly who. Spikey Popapple leaned against the bar inside, shirtless, bony, blond hair shooting in every direction. He'd played this club dead and alive for twenty years. Nothing scared him. He glanced at the note and his grin dropped. "Where'd you get this?" His voice went flat. "My door. Fresh rose on top." She watched his face. "You know the writing." "I know who writes it." Spikey set his drink down. "A hunter. Lives out past the orchards, in the briars. Calls himself Corvin. He leaves roses before he leaves bodies." Daisy's stomach turned. "Why me? I'm a singer, not prey." "Doesn't matter why. The note's a trap. It names a place. You show, he takes you." Spikey tapped the symbols. "But flip it. You know the place now. He doesn't know you can read it." She decided fast. She would not wait for a sixth rose. She'd go to the named spot early and see her stalker's face. The place was a cramped house on wheels at the edge of the orchards, windows glowing sick green and orange. She crept to the porch before the hour on the note. The door hung open. Inside, a figure turned. Black fur, long ears, eyes burning orange. One ear was torn ragged at the top. He wore a dark coat and a cruel grin full of teeth. Not a mask. A face. "You came early," Corvin Blackhare said. "Nobody reads my notes." "I did." Daisy stood her ground. "You've been leaving roses at my door. Why?" "A trade. Someone paid for you." He stepped closer, claws flexing. "But I like it better when they run." He lunged. Daisy swung the heavy stage lamp she'd grabbed from the porch and cracked it across his torn ear. He howled and reeled back. She ran. She made it to the trees, breath ragged, alive. She had her stalker's name and face now. Corvin Blackhare. A hunter in the briars. But he had seen her read the note. He knew she was coming for him. The hunt had turned both ways.