Bearclaw Valley By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes,

Laughter, laughter, all around— Fraser struck and tasted blood, and it made his stomach churn to find it on his tongue, his lips. The laughter stopped and the assault ceased; the deerhound found himself staring at the demon, mouth agape at the request that came.

M-my legs? he asked meekly. He had no idea what that could possibly mean. A crude way to say, Run, fool? Something else entirely? He was at the whim of the bleeding boy, those flashing eyes.

Baffled, Fraser began to rise to his paws again, extending his long limbs and tottering upward like a newborn foal. His knees were trembling, sides heaving. He cleaned the crimson from his teeth, salmon tongue moving furtively, nervously. He looked at the devil with a guileless gaze, ears swiveling in uncertainty.

He moved in place, pressing his forepaws upon the ground, one and then the other, a stationary jogger. Move—my legs? Fraser queried again, utterly flummoxed.