Swiftcurrent Creek your heart [m]

“”

Lecter did not respond to her posturing as she moved to his side, though his daughter's words swept him from his reverie, and he focused the infamous icewater glare upon her. And yet, he did not speak, for to say a word would be to shatter the illusion of peace they had wound about themselves. A flick of one scarred ear and the rolling shift of his balance urged her toward the trees; lip lifted and hackles threatened to spike along his shoulders if she did not obey.

Clarice was not his to truly command, but somehow he fancied that she would heed him, at least at the times of her choosing. The shaman thrust his shoulders and head into the earthy darkness cast by the close-clustered branches; he chuffed in approval before entering. The threat of snow was in the air, or rain — he did not know this land, or he did not remember — and he cast his glance heavenward to the unsealed canopy.

Feast,” he muttered, tasting the foreignness of the word. It had been some time since his belly had bulged from the gorging of flesh, and the primality of his species asserted itself with a rumbling growl. Settling his gaze on the gossamer girl, Lecter felt his lips curve in a decidedly unfamiliar bow; these days, only she had the power to bring amusement to him, or a rusted chuckle to his throat.

Sos clawed suddenly at his mind, seeking entry; the madman's breath caught in his chest and he coughed, choking on the claws of the Dark Bear. Eat. Consume, came the snarled whisper of the Black God, and while Lecter bent his head in pleased service to his deity, his cold gaze found and beheld Clarice.

Lynx had whispered sundry things to him, and Lecter found himself in silent awe of Her words, Her whim. Nares flared and he reached to lip the fur of her cheek, as if assuring himself that she was indeed existent. The shaman's tail flagged at his heels; he let out his breath in a wounded fashion, and he turned from her, from Lynx.