Tobin Sedge stepped past the antlered shelter at the edge of Nutmeg Grove just before dusk. Someone had dropped a pack here and run. He noted the collapsed roof, the boot prints pointing only outward. He came to tame the phantom badger. He could not tame what he could not find. He walked deeper. The trees thinned into a clearing of dead grass. At its center stood a tall, boarded-up house with rotting beams. Lanterns still burned behind cracked glass, though no one lived there. Tobin stopped and listened. The light was wrong, but the light was a clue. He circled the porch and found what he wanted. A stone-mouthed den had been dug straight through the foundation. Bones ringed the opening in a wide, picked-clean arc. Small bones. Bird, rabbit, fox. The arc was too neat to be accident. Something living here sorted its kills. Tobin crouched at a safe distance. Dusk pressed down fast. From the dark mouth came a dry, scraping breath, then a glint of yellow eye. A small shape edged forward, a pinecone snagged in the fur of its skull, paper scraps clinging to its whiskers. Not a phantom. A badger. Wearing the trash of every poster hunters had nailed to these trees. It did not charge. It watched him. Tobin lowered his eyes and stayed still. He had his location now, and his first honest look. The woods behind him went black. Whatever else moved in the Grove after dark, he would be meeting it on this badger's doorstep.