Blackfeather Woods Like summer storms, the skies as grey as leaves.

He did not hear the drum-beat of her steps until she was practically upon him, and the sound was as trapped among the dark crevasses as he was; spinning, electrified, snapping his teeth at shadows — but she was faster, and perhaps did not hold the intent to harm that Mesa anticipated. He missed with his teeth.

Between fight or flight he'd already chosen maim and failed, so he hurried his limbs in to a churning canter.