Barrow Fields crows lie, strewn their eyes are

The moment Sam mentioned taking, Anselm’s face fell. It had never occurred to him that the nightmarish shadow that descended upon him had visited others — a chill plunged through his stomach as another thought pulled into port. 

What if the same darkness had taken Etienne?

Anselm couldn’t explain any of it: one moment he’d been hunting. A broad, noisy thing approached, its wingbeats so loud it shook the trees below it. 

He remembered running, and that was it. When he woke up he was nowhere familiar, his mouth dry, right forelimb peculiarity stripped of fur in a straight line, and throat sore.

He thumbed at the collar absentmindedly, frowning. 

It took me. Anselm admitted at length, giving the collar a decidedly firm kick before sitting up straight. Vhat’s your name?