Chapter seven
Of the absence of blood and furNo other man in two worlds could have done it. Of that I am perfectly sure.
Seg’s bow snugged in his hand, where he had been polishing up the shaft as we talked. Now the bow snapped up, the arrow slashed from the quiver, the shaft was nocked, the bow bent, all in so smooth and wondrous a fashion as to amaze any young coy newly recruited into an archer regiment — as to amaze me, by Vox!
Seg loosed.
The werewolf, clearly visible by the fuzzy pink moonlight of The Maiden with the Many Smiles, leaped for the corner. The girl dangling from his jaws flopped about as the ganchark bounded on. The lethal gray form, spikey with menace, angular in motion and yet flowing with evil grace, rounded the corner and vanished.
Seg said: “I don’t believe it.”
