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stared upward, glazed, over with a sort of shocked look about them, like the fox couldn't
believe this was happening.
Nausea built up in my stomach, but I forced myself to keep looking. I couldn't afford to be
squeamish. I'd be killing Strigoi someday. If I couldn't handle a fox, I'd never survive major
kills.
What had happened to the fox was sick and twisted, obviously done by someone too fucked up
for words. Lissa stared at it, her face death-pale, and took a few steps toward it, hand
involuntarily reaching out. This gross act hit her hard, I knew, digging at her love of animals.
She loved them, they loved her. While on our own, she'd often begged me for a pet, but I'd
always refused and reminded her we couldn't take care of one when we might have to flee at a
moment's notice. Plus, they hated me. So she'd contented herself with helping and patching up
strays she found and making friends with other people's pets, like Oscar the cat.
She couldn't patch this fox up, though. There was no coming back for it, but I saw in her face
she wanted to help it, like she helped everything. I took her hand and steered her away,
suddenly recalling a conversation from two years ago.
"What is that? Is it a crow?”
"Too big. It's a raven.”
"Is it dead?”
"Yeah. Definitely dead. Don't touch it.”
She hadn't listened to me back then. I hoped she would now.
"It was still alive when I got back," Lissa whispered to me, clutching my arm. "Barely. Oh God,
it was twitching. It must have suffered so much.”
I felt bile rise in my throat now. Under no circumstances would I throw up. "Did you—?”
"No. I wanted to…I started to…”