Three nights. That's how long Nell Rusk has left.

There's something living inside her throat, something old enough to have been worshipped and hungry enough to have earned it. The iron collar around her neck keeps it contained, but every night the metal grows tighter, and every night a little bell rings somewhere beneath her skin.

She knows two ways to survive. One involves finding the remains of a dead saint in a ruined monastery. The other involves an intimate ritual she's considerably less enthusiastic about explaining to strangers.

Unfortunately, the monastery is full of things that should have stayed buried, the ritual requires someone willing to participate, and Nell has never been particularly good at asking nicely.

At least she's still got her sense of humor.

It's a dreadful sense of humor.