Bearclaw Valley spirits of the dead

the little runt. she smells him on the air, faintly, even cloaked as he was by herbs. she knew he was there; he had been there since her return, and perhaps even before. his brother is long gone—dead, she hopes, for there was no use for orphan weaklings here. but Karst still remained.

she should not be tempted. her mind should be on the hunt. and yet. . . hers and Aventus' cruel pursuit of the younger children was a kind of hunt, and the game was afoot.

Avicus winds 'round trees: sinuous, wormlike. her nostrils flare as she changes course, his aroma growing still stronger. was he. . .would he come out, would he face her? perhaps he would meet the same fate as the previous healer; but he doesn't deserve it. Evien had been many-fold the man the runt would ever be. the bear had taken Evien's head and perhaps, perhaps, this boy's head belonged to her.

her tongue runs along her teeth. come, she calls out, close enough to the den that perhaps she can trap him inside. each step brings her nearer; her shadow will block out the light—

come out, she says, and it might have been teasing in any other voice but hers is flat and cold.