Sleepy Fox Hollow Down the road

The figure that split from the canvas of green was no Emmerich. Anselm’s blood ran cold as he saw the supine slink of broad shoulder, the insolent smolder of a jungle cat. 

Fuck.

He felt Donnie pressed against his leg, which now scarcely seemed capable of propping him up. Anselm’s head pounded as the scent of cat permeated the air— how had he not picked it up before?

Instinct told him to run, but Anselm was loathe to turn his back to a cat twice his size. There was little time; Anselm threw back his head in an alarm call for all of Paleo before he turned to Donnie and attempted to seize him and run.