The night was young, and as it was born she was summoned by Them. Helpless, Their obedient servant, Byll rose and moved after them. There was no time to alert Buffalo of this, but then she never had need to; he seemed to know, always, when she was possessed, when she was herself and when she was not. The definition was fluid. Who was Byll? When was she herself, and when was she Them?

When They took her, they did so in the meadows where the foxes played that eve. The violence They provoked in her was mindless and savage; they ran, and she slaughtered, because it was asked of her for a sacrifice. They were not dead when she piled them upon one another, but they were broken. Perhaps they died when she rolled upon them. She felt their nipping fangs, the needle-like pinching prick of them, but they did not break skin. Their blood upon her, and their last breath, too, maybe. She did not know when they died; she did not care. She had done what she had been asked, and the sweet, delectable scent of berries was detected.

She drifted from the murder scene, stopping only when she was before the wildberries, and then sampling one that looked particularly sweet.