Swiftcurrent Creek once, there was a way to get back home

All she wanted was to fling herself into Akavir's embrace in childish abandon, sob into his chest and mourn the fates of those poor, sick wolves. Of those children, scattered to the winds as orphans.

Of her own destiny to die, empty-eyed and foaming at the mouth.

As it was, she took several quick steps backward, shirking his touch and shaking her head. No, Papa, Lilitu said, though her voice broke on both words. You—you can't touch me. No one can. And you definitely can't have anyone touch that wound.

She summoned a long, shuddering inhale and then went on, meeting his eyes with her own.

There was a couple up in the taiga—they were sick, really sick, and she died first. They were crazy, Papa—it was as if they had no brain left and only acted on instincts. Foaming at the mouth. . .

Lilitu shut her one eye, then opened it again; the images in the dark were worse than facing the light.

The man survived her, but not for very long, she continued. They had kids—I tried to help get them away from him, but he bit me. She twisted her muzzle in illustration, pointing to her shoulder.

That's how it spreads, she whispered. If it were possible for her face to go pale, it would be bone-white by now. Their touch; their bite. And the old witch told me that it's. . .fatal.

Fatal. Two syllables, dropped between them like a curtain, forever separating her from those she loved.