Isidor pulled Maren’s journal from his pack, handing it to him. Isidor had already finished it. Isidor went and got her plate, setting it with the others to wash, sitting again, staring into the fire. Winter sat and read for awhile, feeling more and more like he had a rock sitting in his lower gut. In Maren’s account, she was just a child. Sweet. A handful, playful and curious as Maren described her. Quiet. A little odd, yes. More than a little at times. But hardly a mindless flesh-eating hunter.
It was possible she’d been fooling Maren for twenty years, that she was trying to fool them now, a siren’s trick, but it seemed like a long time to wait for a meal. And there were other things in Maren’s journal that didn’t match up with that idea at all. He handed the journal back and Isidor put
