Serpent Lake go for the throat

the slip of her tongue across her jowls does not go unnoticed by scarab but though he takes note of it he does not capitalize upon it. he has no reason to assume that it was for anything else other than the mention of vulture. birds weren't his go-to meal but as a begger he wasn't in much of a position to be choosy about what his next meal would be. famine, like survival, was far from kind. her words of not catching whatever plagues him and the slow shake of her head in a gesture he recognizes as 'no' is enough to cause a near-hysterical bubble of laughter to rise in his throat.

she was already exposed and though scarab couldn't be sure he was willing to bet his next meal that he was still contagious. yet, she sounded so sure of herself that in a fever addled moment of foggy uncertainty he couldn't help but wonder what if she's right? what if this wasn't just an illness, he suddenly frets, what if it was a sign? what's happening to me? he demands of her suddenly, uncurling like a cat and making a weak attempt to stand. was it witch magic? was it connected to the phantom in his dreams? if you can't catch it then ...what? he asks, shivering again. what is it? scarab asks in a fevered rapid-fire, never once stopping to consider that she had meant she was immune in lieu of it being specific to him.

nanowrimo: 257