The stone floor was cold, the straw even dirtier than before. The cages were fuller, the shadows within whimpering and stirring restlessly. Dirt-crusted fingernails scrabbled at the metal bars. Blood and dark urine ran into a drain in the middle of the floor. The room reeked of fear and desperation.
Hettie…
A wail pierced the air, and Hettie opened her eyes. Slowly, the real world came into focus, the tang of wood smoke replacing the stench of old blood. A coyote’s forlorn howl sent chills down her spine.
Her back was hot, her chest cold. She seemed to be staring at a wall of black beyond the ring of tall dry grass. She heard a short whine, then warm, foul wetness bathed her face. She pushed Cymon off and groaned as every muscle in her body screamed with pins and needles.
“She lives.”
