Chapter Thirty Six

"You're what?"

Even though it'd been me who Raffe had been addressing, whispering quietly as possible in my ear, it's Bryon who reacts first, rising so abruptly from the little A-frame of twigs he'd been coaxing into a blazing fire that embers shoot up through the air, circling him like fairies.

"It seems you've already heard me." Raffe crosses his arms over his chest, his lip curling with disgust. "Why repeat it?"

"So people like Ogden and I know what the hell's going on," Hugo calls from where he'd been shuffling through packs alongside the gentle giant. Cocking an eyebrow, he watches both angry males with a fascinated gleam glittering in his coppery eyes, but then scowls angrily.

"If the two of you start fist fighting, or any other kind of fighting besides verbal, I will call my bae, Bay," Hugo threatens, not placing an inkling of emphasis on his little wordplay, despite the ephemeral twinkle in his eyes.

"It will never get that far," Bryon growls, stepping over the fire. His cloak dances over the embers, brushing over the hot coals and grey soot alike, but nothing stains its immaculate length of silky brown fabric. "But what are you planning on doing, Raphael? Did I hear you wrong?" Bryon draws almost uncomfortably close, glaring furiously at Raffe. "Or did I hear right?"

"Did you hear that I'm planning on splitting off from the Tortoise Brigade?" Raffe asks calmly. "Because, if so, that's exactly what I'm going to do."

"At last!" Hugo sighs blissfully at the same moment Bryon growls in a low, icy voice, "In what world is that a good idea?"

"In the world of me trying to keep this Tortoise Brigade safe." Casually, Raffe's hand goes to his sword's hilt by his side, rubbing over the end tip in a silent warning. "Everything is out to get me, let's face it. If I'm away from all of you groundwalkers, then so is everything hunting me. So, it's better off this way."

"It most certainly isn't!" Bryon bellows, eyes without their usual bronze shimmer, instead almost black in color, with no boundary between pupil and iris. His hands adjust their grip on the staff so it almost seems like a dangerous weapon instead of an innocuous walking stick. "Haven't you ever heard of 'safety in numbers'? You angels live and breathe that teaching!"

"Which is why I'm trying to get back to more angels!" Raffe barks, sword sliding halfway out of her scabbard. I inch backwards, both stunned by Raffe's brisk decision and Bryon's sudden outburst of rage, willing to escape the sparks of their butting heads. Noticing my meager retreat with a fleeting flash of his blue eyes, Raffe breathes in deeply, curbing his temper only slightly.

Coolly, he adds, "I'm not sure why you care, Scales. You're taking off as well, going on a hunt of your own. Why should it matter that I'm taking the lonely road as well?"

"I am accustomed to being alone." Bryon shakes his head minutely, his gaze so intense, so saturated with ghosts of past bloody days I feel myself unwilling to glance anywhere near his eyes. "I've been alone for centuries, walking forbidden lands where no one but mountain lions and bears dwelled, not seeing a single face for years. I know how to handle myself, and I know how to handle the silence. You, however, do not. By my side, you're a bad idea. On your own, you're a loose cannon, Raphael. And loneliness can corrupt even the best of people, never mind the ones hovering on the edge of being something horrifyingly awful."

"Big words." Raffe's scowl darkens. "How scary. Every time I came here to hunt, I came alone, and, as far as I can tell, I'm still fit as a fiddle."

Hugo coughs, raising his hand from the edge of the clearing. "Pardon me if I'm wrong, but, Birdy-Bat, I don't think using the times you descended and slaughtered all of Bryon's brethren is a good example. Just saying." He screws up his face and makes a clicking sound with his tongue. "You might want to work on the arguing tactic there."

"What I'm saying is that the sooner I get to the she-aerie, the sooner I can figure all of this out." Breathing in deeply to assuage his raging temper, Raffe glares around at the half-circle of spectators hostilely until his gaze lands on me and grows marginally softer. "The sooner I figure all of this out, the sooner all of you will be safe and cozy."

"Do you think a warrior always has to be pyrrhic in each battle he fights to be successful? It doesn't work like that, Raphael," Bryon growls, voice quiet and foreboding.

"Yes, it does," Hugo dismisses, waving his hand rudely. "I know, I know, you're older and wiser than me, but it doesn't take a genius to show that you're not convincing him to go against his plan, and that won't change if you spout morals. On that note, Pigeon-Bat, come this way and I will loot you up with mortal supplies."

Hugo turns on heel and stalks towards Scruffy, not once glancing back at the turmoil he'd caused. Perhaps it is a wise thing to do, walking away after mangling an already brutal fight like that, after screwing over the only one I've ever seen defending Hugo no matter the personal consequence. Or perhaps it is a fool's move, betraying a guardian and then turning his back on them.

"Why is it still Pigeon-Bat?" Striding past Bryon without wasting the opportunity to glare lividly at my uncle, Raffe tails Hugo, following him to the elated Scruffy. "I don't have those wings anymore. If it's anything, it's Pigeon."

"No, it's Pigeon-Bat." Hugo burrows in Scruffy's packs for a few seconds. "It makes sense if you think about it."

Bryon ambles my direction, his gaze regaining some of its lustrous qualities, but still maintaining the dark smolder beneath all the concern. "Penryn?" he questions softly, cloak fluttering around his feet. "You look shaken up. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." I smile at him, shaking the shocked thoughts off with a full-body shiver. "Just… didn't expect that. Not just yet."

"It's hard, losing someone you care about," Bryon empathizes, his expression soft. "Hard when they're the one to walk away, they're the one to tell you that they're through. This entire imbroglio must be hard. But I wouldn't worry too much. We're going to see him again, Penryn. There's a reason he hasn't gone his separate way before now."

"Yeah, I suppose." I smile weakly at the ground. "It's not like I'm giving up hope on ever seeing him again, though. I mean, I've always expected this – it's been his plan since the start. But after all this time, it's a bit of a shock. Especially with you, Mom, Paige, even freaking Belle going too. Not that," I add hastily, "I mind you tucking away my family from danger, protecting them from the crossfire with buff bodyguards. In fact, couldn't be happier. It's just… with Ogden escorting them and then joining you on your little crusade against the Horse, it feels like everybody's leaving, all at once."

"Nobody's leaving, Penryn," Bryon soothes, eyes twinkling as if I'd said something he finds mildly amusing. "No one in their right mind would leave you forever. No, we're just taking a short break, and allowing you to continue the next chapter in your grand adventure by yourself. If you ever get lonely with only Chuckles and Furball as companions, you can always call me." He lifts up his cell phone, emphasizing it with a shake. "Raffe and I will always be on hand. When your mother and Paige reach Secrem Domu, they'll be equipped with these cellular phones as well. We're all only a call away."

"I might be abusing that privilege," I admit ruefully. "I'm glad that Pepper showed up to help Mom and Paige back. I can't see them backpacking through the wilderness. At least now, Ogden can use his wing things and they can fly on the wolf."

"Ah, yes, Pepper." Bryon's gaze shifts to where the grey wolf stands rock-steady as Ogden packs him up and my mom strokes his nose and babbles. "I've always found it funny how one kind gesture can quickly lead to another. He's taken to your mother quite well. I trust that wolf to keep your family safe as if it were his own."

I study the grizzled wolf as he swivels his head around to stare at Paige as she brushes through a bramble caught in his pelt with Hugo's wolf brush. "He seems to be at ease with them."

"Yes, he does," Bryon agrees, nodding to himself. "I hope he's as steady a flier as Rumbbaa, because Paige wants to finish the book I brought her before she reaches Secrem Domu. I don't think that's quite possible, seeing as she's still tripping over chapter one."

"Yeah, why'd you get her a book like that?" I turn to him, brow furrowed. "I mean, Percy Jackson is appropriate for kids and all, but she's still really young."

"Pickings were slim, and there wasn't much in English to choose from at the Seraphim library," Bryon sighs apologetically. "I didn't want to bring history textbooks. Look at her, she loves it."

"She does," I concede. Watching them at this distance, I can hardly tell the difference between my family and a normal, happy one. Mom fondles Pepper's ears and coos irrational things to him, just as any mother would with a beloved family pet. Paige brushes out his fur, massaging his back as she does it and preening through his feathers. I can't see a botched, broken family as they fuss over Pepper – only one preparing for a happy vacation.

"They'll be fine, Penryn. Don't worry about them." Bryon tilts his head to one side. "If you want my advice, go socialize with Raffe while still you can. Critique his choices on what to bring and scold him to death for eavesdropping." Bryon shoots a glance over his shoulder. "He knows he's doing it."

"Most of us aren't eavesdroppers," Raffe calls from across the clearing.

"Right, most people aren't," Bryon calls back, "but we happen to be."

"Break it up!" I shout, patting Bryon awkwardly twice on the arm as I whisk past him, marching across the clearing to stand beside Hugo as the boy showcases his doodads to Raffe.

"Penryn, lovely to see you on this side of the clearing," he greets with a flourish of a hand. His eyes flutter erratically over the numbered pockets of the backpack resting on Scruffy's shoulders, and his hands check each and every nook in its siding for what he's searching for. A low, nonsensical mumble drones from his mouth as he rifles through slots and cupholders, until he holds up a bottle of pills in a green plastic container, and grunts triumphantly.

"You're giving Raffe drugs?" I nearly shout, mouth falling open.

"Of course not," Hugo scolds, glaring belittlingly at me as he lifts the bottle and rattles it. "Why would you think so little of me? No, these little babies are actually machines. They're still prototypes, so there's nothing else like it in the world. Basically, they look like pills, and you take them a lot like pills, but they're not pills."

"Thanks for clearing that up." Raffe rolls his eyes skeptically. "So, technologic drugs, then? Great."

"They're not drugs!" Hugo shakes the bottle irately. "What they do is they're supposed to lodge in your throat right around the vocal chord area, and amplify all the sound that comes out of your mouth. Like a microphone, except ten times as powerful. Not even kidding. With this, you're like God talking. Your voice will echo over the mountains. It's wicked. Prototype of your dad's, actually, Penryn" – he tosses me the bottle – "but, due to unfortunate events, he left behind all of his magicy wagicy stuff and got married. Go, love."

"How are these going to help me in any way?" Raffe wonders, shaking his head incredulously. "They're absolutely useless. The most useless things yet."

"Oooo." Excitement spreads the corners of Hugo's lips back in a gleeful grin. "Was that foreshadowing? I do believe that was foreshadowing. In that case, definitely take these, you're going to need them."

He nabs the bottle from my hands and shoves them towards Raffe, forcing the angel to take them more than anything else.

"Okay, well, I think that's pretty much got us." Hugo feels around his backpack one last time, but comes back empty-handed, shrugging. "I've got nothing other than some oil for your feathers, but that'll just weigh you down. Now, have a sweet Raffryn farewell, will you? Bryon's already slinked off without a goodbye, that bastard –"

"He's pissing," Raffe corrects, sighing heavily.

"Oh, alright." Hugo seems crestfallen for some reason. "Okay. Well, I'll just leave you to it."

"Thank you," Raffe groans as Hugo slouches away, with Scruffy sniffing inquisitively at his shoulders behind him.

"Don't be so harsh with him," I chastise, staring after Hugo. "He's just trying to help in some weird, roundabout way. It's Hugo-logic."

"If you say so," Raffe murmurs, shaking his head dubiously. "Penryn, look, I didn't know your uncle would react that way. I meant to tell you up at the cliff, all alone, but we were rudely interrupted."

"It's alright." I wave my hand dismissively, trying to fight back the desolation eating at my heart. "You're forgiven. But don't you fight with him again, 'kay? It was excusable that once. It won't be next time."

"Understood, ma'am." Though mirth shines in his gaze, I can sense the same sort of forlorn dread in him that's slowly encasing my heart. "You take care of yourself, you hear? Nothing stupid, like last time. If you do end up doing something stupid, call, and I'll clean up after you, alright?"

"I should be telling you this," I scold, shaking my head. "That sword is a bad luck talisman, and she's in your hands now."

"How will she ever like you if you go around saying things like that?" Raffe hisses, stroking the hilt of the sword that'd once been Pooky Bear affectionately.

"She'll live," I laugh, "and so will you. But keep that feathery ass out of trouble. Don't let yourself get killed before you even get a shot at this Messenger thing."

"And you before you elevate to the rank of Evil Queen."

"Nephilim Queen," I correct, arching my brow.

"Same thing."

The ache in my heart has grown unbearably heavy, and, if it hadn't been connected to pillars like arteries and veins, all depending on its rhythmic pulse, I'm almost certain it would've grown too heavy and shattered against the floor. We may see each other again, Raffe and I, but I begin to realize that the moment on the cliff was perhaps our last moment with all barriers cast aside, and this our last as anything more than allies. I don't know why this is certain to me, and I don't know why it has to be so, but I know it just is. Drinking in the deep blue of his eyes, I find myself wondering if maybe, just maybe, they're a tad lighter in shading than they had been before, during less momentous times.

I swallow with difficulty around the lump in my throat. "So… this is goodbye?"

Very, very slowly, swallowing as well, Raffe nods. "This is goodbye." His lips twitch in a pathetic attempt at a smile. "For now, at least. I'll see you again."

"Right. It's just… a goodbye for now. That's what it is."

"Exactly," Raffe agrees, cautiously stepping towards me, half-raising a hand. I cross the rest of the distance, throwing my arms around his neck and squeezing him as tightly as I can. The angel doesn't really seem to mind, leaning against me as much as I lean against him.

Lowering his lips to my ear for only the two of us to hear, Raffe whispers, "You will not be the devil's bride for as long as my heart is still pounding, my lungs still pumping. I won't allow it. So you've got absolutely nothing to fear from him, or me leaving you all alone with him."

"Thank you, Raffe, my Knight in Feathered Armor," I croak, hugging him tighter and nearly choking him, "but you've got to be Raphael again eventually."

"What are you mumbling about, darling?" Thea lifts her arm, staring into the mismatched eyes of the little dragon that'd been dispatched, handed into her tender care. "Are you singing? To be perfectly honest, I was not aware Nephilim had acute enough vocal chords to sing."

Uttering not verbal words but rather a low, melodic keen, Belle corrects her, grinning escatically. Throwing her head up with a triumphant whistle, the little creature bounces up and down excitedly, as if she can't wait to share her talents.

"Can she sing?" Daisy looks questioningly to Thea. "Bryon said she was five-eighths – that's never happened before, we don't know what her genetic compound is like. And Bryon can talk when he's scaly. For all we know, she could sing."

Making popping noises, Belle smiles slyly, twining up Thea's arm and wrapping like an exotic necklace around her throat, settling her head in the concave created by the jugular vein, her horns brushing against tender skin. And, as the dragon tickles her with tiny claws that brush through her hair and toy with the braid it had been bound into, Thea knows that, whatever secrets the child may hold in her talons, guarded from all by her lack of a voice to analyze, she will not give them up easily.

It's not as lonely as I had expected with Hugo, clumped around the campfire Bryon had built earlier this evening, but I must admit that I do miss Belle testing how long she could sit on the scalding embers before squealing in pain as they burned through her scales, jumping into Bryon's arms. It'd been funny, how he'd never gotten tired of getting burned by her smoldering scales.

Hugo strums on his guitar, testing out notes and chords. He'd been teaching me all of Bryon's favorites from the Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron soundtrack and singing along with them in pitiful vocal agony, but Scruffy had tried to gain his master's attention, first licking up and down Hugo's arm – which he'd successfully ignored – then all over his fingers and consequently the guitar strings, throwing the instrument's tuning out of whack.

"Don't look at me like that," Hugo scolds, punching Scruffy in the nose and causing the wolf to yip in hurt. "You were the one that did this. Why don't you go run around and pee on trees like normal dogs? Why are you so cuddly?"

Scruffy worms his head beneath the guitar, his chin resting in Hugo's lap. Panting excitedly, he gazes up at Hugo, mouth open and slobbering all over his pants, tail thumping audibly against the ground. Groaning, Hugo brings the guitar down on the wolf's head, but Scruffy doesn't seem to mind – in fact, the thumping of his tail grows only louder.

"You are such a pest," Hugo snarls, shoving Scruffy's muzzle away. "Go find someone else to bother."

"I think I'm going to go take a walk," I announce, deciding I need a minute to clear my head. Standing, I question, "About where are my boundaries, so we don't repeat the cherub bathroom incident?"

"Uh, well, Scruffy's been trained to do something funny when it's just up to me, and there's no Bryon dictating everything." Hugo shoves the wolf's muzzle away, scowling at him in irritation. "He's officially protecting one hundred fifty yards in all directions, but if you go past that invisible line, he'll accompany you as a big furry bodyguard for another two hundred. If you try to pass two hundred, he'll herd you back."

"Okay." Rubbing Scruffy's head as I pass, I walk towards the edge of the dark, foreboding woods, clicking on my flashlight as I do so. "If you see this wildly flashing around, I've probably run into trouble. So just keep an eye out."

"That's this guy's job." Hugo pushes Scruffy away as best he can. "But be careful – we're pretty close to the road, and people are still fleeing from these angelic bastards. We've got absolutely no idea what sort of nutcases are still strewn over the roads. Be very, very careful."

"Got it."

And so I plunge myself into the shadows, allowing darkness's chilled yet gentle embrace to blanket me. The cold, cold wind welcomes me into the woods the moment I leave the clearing heated by the fire's crackling light behind, hissing softly in my ears and whisking my hair about. Though the shaft of light provided by the weak flashlight does comfort me more than absolute darkness, the moving shadows in the corners of my eyes created by the shaking beam unnerve me perhaps more than the blackened night had.

Glancing once back at the smoldering embers and the thin plume of smoke it releases into the air, I swallow, wondering if I should rethink my decision and head back. But Scruffy protects this land, and, although the goofball really is nothing to fear, people don't know that, and people will flee at the sight of the big, bad wolf.

So I continue, tromping onwards. The forest ground here is matted with brambles and thorns and snagging brush. A stray thought crosses my mind, a silent plea for a pair of jeans to keep the sharp edges of various plants from slicing into my legs.

Perhaps they are the trying to keep me in the present with the jab of thorns into my calves, those thorns. Perhaps they attempt to keep me wary of danger as I lapse into my mind and all of its abstract abysses, all of its bizarre concepts, submerging into the maze of dreams and ideas that makes up a human brain. Perhaps the thorns only try to keep me awake as opposed to being a zombie on my feet.

Something moves in the dark, and I feel every bone in my body go rigid. I freeze, shining my flashlight to where I'd thought I'd seen the movement, only to find nothing there at all. Had it been a creature, like a rabbit or a squirrel, dashing madly through the undergrowth? It'd seemed so much larger… and absolutely silent. What sort of squirrel is quiet?

As I ponder upon how a brash squirrel could stealth through the woods, I notice another anomaly – nothing else seems to make any noise, either. No bugs sing to one another, no owls croon to the stars, no rodents scuttle over the dry leaves. It makes the most terrible sounds louder in the still night – the sounds of bones snapping just outside my vision, of a human growling with lips not meant to be so feral, and of flesh being yanked from a body.

Beginning to grow nervous, I find the more familiar trail of smoke in the sky, and calculate the distance between us. I could make it back in a heartbeat if I sprinted – it wouldn't be all too difficult. For some reason, I have a feeling that strange, carnivorous sounds should be reported, but I can't make myself do it. My legs are locked.

The sound of ripping flesh distracts me from the tantalizing whims of the fireside gang. My skin crawls as if worms are writhing beneath its surface. I haven't yet passed the border of one hundred fifty yards, where nothing else is allowed to cross, or else Scruffy would be by my side. Something tells me that the source of this tearing is located snugly on the other side of that invisible line.

Scruffy pads from the trees, eerily quiet. He makes no noise, doesn't truly greet me, even. The wolf looks surprisingly menacing as he trots past me, disappearing back into the shadows before I get a chance to register his presence properly. A surge of fear pulses with a single beat of my heart, and I find myself tailing him, if only to keep with something familiar in the sea of unknown. I click off my flashlight, sticking it in my pocket, and allow Scruffy to navigate for me.

Laying my hand on his rugged coat of fur, I find comfort in his warmth. My other hand flies to Emilio's knife, which slowly, inch by inch, I free from its leather restraints. Winking cruelly in the moonlight at me, it almost seems gleeful to be released from its scabbard, breathing the air once more – or perhaps I've spent too much time with Pooky Bear.

The closer I draw to the awful growls and snarls, the more certain I am that they're human. No animal I know can issue such grotesque noises, nor would any have a desire to rip apart another creature as this human is evidently doing. Pitching wildly, my stomach isn't pleased by my decision to keep an open mind – perhaps it's a starving traveler, one nearly killed by hunger that'd finally found something to sink its teeth into. Maybe it isn't madness that drives its limbs and its teeth – maybe it's desperation.

This naïve theory is difficult to maintain as a guttural laugh rings through the forest, gurgling and nasty. I shake off mental images of a man cackling with blood dripping from his mouth.

Scruffy pauses when the noises are unbearably close. It surprises me that I can be so close to the person making such a ruckus – I'd have thought that they'd noticed my failed attempt to approach without a twig broken. We can't be more than ten feet away from the bastard, and he's still utterly oblivious. Maybe he's deaf. Or maybe he doesn't care.

I sidle up net to Scruffy, peering through the same bush as him but on a slightly intersection of branches. Clapping a hand to my mouth to silence myself, I bite down on my tongue, not allowing my gasp of horror to escape. I've seen worse, after all. By now, the lengths humanity would go to in order to survive shouldn't come as a surprise.

It always does, though.

As it happens, my naïve theory and the more likely madness that'd driven the man are some gruesome concoction, the likes of which I hadn't even pictured – the hunched figure of a greying middle-aged man rips into the corpses of an entire family strewn about the clearing.

Shoveling raw organs into his mouth, he eats with abandon from the father's ribcage, tearing out slices of his skin and cramming it down his throat. Sniveling with silent laughter, he turns to the mother after downing a mouthful of kidney and spits blood over her dead face. Judging by the red speckles already staining her ashen expression, I don't believe this was the first time this happened.

Swallowing down my nausea, I shuffle backwards, unwilling to draw any closer. But before I can make a mad dash back to the campfire, the rumble of an engine distracts me, and the single beam of a single headlight thunders over a hill on the road not even fifty whole feet from where the cannibal rips into the flesh. It screeches to a halt before the bodies, a scene that must be visible from the side of the road, and two voices with rich southern accents call out to one another quickly following the creak of opening car doors.

"Oh, shit, man!" a male voice cries from the general direction of the road. "Oh, shit! Oh, shit!"

"What're you talking about, dumbass?" sneers another one with a nasally voice. "Why'd you stop the car? What – oh, shit."

I can hear the cannibal lift his head, abandoning the corpse in front of him to stagger to his feet and stumble drunkenly towards the other men. Seeing the hostile approach the innocent people, Scruffy growls thunderously, his pearly whites glistening in the car's headlight.

The wolf pounces, jumping clean over the bush I'd been cowering behind. Terrible, savage roars thunder from the wolf's lungs, more beastlike than I'd ever heard him sound. He lands with a heavy thump, his front paw accidentally striking through the belly of a little girl who'd had her insides eaten before we stumbled upon the scene – shaking the paw daintily, he growls at it, as if disgusted, before refocusing on the problem at hand.

I turn Emilio's knife over in my hands anxiously, not certain if I should join in on the action and get in Scruffy's way.

"What the hell is that thing?" screams one, his cry swiftly followed by the click of a loading gun. "What's it want with us? Why's it growlin' at Pa?"

"It's Hell!" bellows the other, shooting forward to drape the cannibal's arm over his shoulder. "It's Hell, Jimmy, coming for Pa! Don't let it get him! Kill the damn demon!"

The chorus of a gun pierces the still night, and the wet thunks of bullets burying in flesh. Howling in agony, Scruffy stumbles backwards, his legs giving out. My heart pulls, and suddenly, my dilemma is made very clear.

Yelling furiously, I charge the shooter with Emilio's knife in hand, positioning the little blade to stab through his ribs. As I do so, the other, nasally-voiced man takes on Scruffy, grabbing a log and slamming it into Scruffy's nose with a crack that rings in my ears. Scruffy wails in pain as blood gushes from his nostrils.

The man I charge notices me slightly too late – I kick his feet out from under him, sending his bullets spraying erratically through the air, endangering us all. Growling, I pounce on top of him, pinning his legs beneath mine and using my free hand to hold his gun down to the ground where it can't hurt anything but the violated corpses.

At last, the man comes to his sense with a burst of understanding in his eyes, and the brawl first begins.

"There's two!" he shouts, free hand shooting up to grab my knife arm's wrist, strangling it mercilessly, not allowing the razor sharp blade to descend any more than I have it lowered. "The demon and his hellbitch!"

"That's ironic," I snarl, spitting down at him with effort, "considering you're the one with the cannibal for a father figure."

I realize after a moment that grappling on the ground for power like this isn't going to get me anywhere. Though surprise had allowed me to temporarily overpower the man, I can tell that he's much stronger than I, and any physical battle will most surely be lost. So, slamming my knee into his groin mercilessly, causing him to whimper in pain, I wrench my hand free and shoot up from him.

Readjusting my grip on Emilio's knife, I find myself frustrated that I still haven't put it to proper use. As the man rises, beady eyes glinting dangerously from a squat, bearded face, I grin broadly, realizing that it won't be long at all.

The man's expression flickers. Maybe the fact that I'm beaming as we circle one another is scaring him into believing I'm crazy. Maybe he's right.

Before we meet again, more gunshots ring out in the night, this time fired from the other man's gun at Scruffy. My attention briefly drawn to him, I notice that he's fighting the cannibal just as hard as I'm fighting this man – the predator doesn't want to leave its food behind for the scavengers, evidently.

"Pretty girlie, why'd you and your mutt have to get into this?" the man circling me sighs, looking genuinely sad as he reloads his gun. "Why couldn't ye have just kept your noses in your own business? I can't let you go and blab this to everyone. I can't have a witch-hunt for my pa. If it were up to me, I'd do it, I'd set you free, but it ain't."

Roaring furiously, Scruffy rears up on his hindlegs behind the gentleman and slams his paws back down on his back, crushing the overgrown farmboy beneath his weight. Blood waterfalls from the wolf's nose and mouth, hindering his breathing slightly – crimson liquid splutters with each pant he takes, trickling down and onto the man's back.

The pinned man rips free from underneath the wolf's paws and whirls onto his back, gun braced in both hands. He shoots up at Scruffy with a perfect angle to hit his heart, neck, and brain, but whether each sharp bang causes Scruffy to merely flinch or if the bullets hit their mark, I am not certain.

I lunge for him and drive my knife between his ribs, caring not that the gun he shoots now pinwheels wildly, strafing poor Scruffy. Snarling, I wiggle the embedded blade back and forth, just for the fun of it, before wrenching the knife free, stabbing him once more on the opposite side of the chest, and then staggering backwards, leaving the man to Scruffy's mercy.

But Scruffy doesn't attack.

He doesn't snarl or growl.

He groans in anguish, and his back legs give out.

I scream, and, in that instant, as Scruffy collapses on top of the man, the other person grunts behind me. Something hard swings into the back of my head like a baseball bat.

My vision goes dark as Scruffy rolls his eyes shut.

Twice, I have failed you with nonsensical polls.

No longer, I say!

No longer!

Thanks to a review – much appreciation, Anonymous – the second was caught early on, but it still causes quite a bout of embarrassment. I shall check over my polls from now on, I swear to you. On that note, if you see any errors in the text that I may have missed, one as blatantly obvious as the poll, please, point them out. I try my best to type, reread, edit, and submit all my chapters as quickly as possible – that means I miss some typos. It'd be appreciated if you helped me remedy those mistakes for the benefit of future readers!

Now that I'm finished with that grisly business, I'm free to admit how excited I am that we're finally reaching the time of the she-aerie and the Horse. I try to keep my interaction with all of you polite and professional, which is why I fangirl with such large and complicated words, but know that behind this sophisticated speech, there is much blubbering and absurd words.

POLL: So, Penryn's dad's voice pills. Thoughts?

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh