THIRTY-EIGHT
The upir tipped his head this way and that, gaze scanning the road, the dirt of the ground beside, the trees, even the air itself as he walked.
The witch remained glued to the side of the house, watching over him before turning her head to look about. She wasn't merely observing him, she was cautious. Overly so. Worried not for what he might find, but worried for him.
Colorless eyes narrowing, it frowned. Assured the cover of night was on its side still, it slunk backward. Its long, bony fingers slipped along the rough bark of the nearby trees, the sense of life pulsing beneath the surface revolting against its greying flesh.
This was not the time. There was nothing to be gained here.
Yet.
It vanished into the darkness of the forest, leaving the witch and her precious upir behind.
