Blackfoot Forest come be the new string on my broken guitar

A candle snuffed out, the screams of despair halt. Hathor, too, freezes. At first, she’d been sure the wails were nothing more than a fox in heat, screeching akin to her own species—how much they confuse the two-legged ones with their haunting screams; they expect a murder scene.
Dread pulses through the forest, a thicker eerie aroma washes over. The blood drains from her body, figurative compared to the marred fox that lay at the feet of it’s captor.  None of which the lioness sees, none of which she knows. Only the scent, the cease of screams, and the sense of paranoia growing.
She hesitates for a moment, before continuing on her way.