No, focus.

I shook my head and kept walking, my mind whirring as I weighed my options.

Honestly, compared to before, I couldn't help but feel that I was much more powerful. Wearing skin was pleasurable, but the longer I wore it the more I became aware of a gnawing hunger. I wanted 'more', to say it simply, but what 'more' was seemed nebulous.

Other concerns played in my head; the Necromancer and why she'd lost me or let me go. The possibility that someone else had taken her, and the worry of how strong that person was. And time, of course.

It all came together into a single question, indistinct but urgent.

I reached a familiar fence and laid my hand on it, looking up at the whitewashed house of Varlow's sister.

The question burned at the back of my skull, demanding an answer, but every one I thought to ask seemed to be more symptom than cause. A million thoughts of a million paths, what came before and what would come after. Possibilities born of choice, consequences unseen, weighing the odds; choosing only the safest choice.

And then, after minutes of thought, I had it. The question.

"Varlow, you big oaf, what're you doing. You coming in?"

I looked up at the open doorway, at the man who stood there.

The question.