Lucan let the general's claws rake along his ribs, a line of fire splitting his side, and watched the bright bloom of his own blood with an odd sense of detachment. The general's mind-fuckery still wrapped a phantom hand around Lucan's throat, squeezing out every last reason to stay on this rotten earth. Somewhere above, Felicity screamed for him, raw and hoarse, his name, he thought, though each time it reached him the syllables turned to static and bile.
He looked up, up, and there Felicity was, small and trembling on the balcony, holding her stomach like she could stitch herself back together if she pressed hard enough. Her fox ears were flattened and shaking, her tail a pale gold question mark twisted tight against her leg.
