“No,” Sable says immediately.
He looks back at her. “I can lift a bucket one-handed and carry enough firewood to heat a barracks. I can drag one dead demon.”
“It could be poisonous.”
“It is,” I say.
Corin’s expression turns dry. “Useful detail.”
“The outer hide is caustic to untreated skin. Use iron hooks.”
He glances at Sable. “See? Teamwork.”
“This is not teamwork,” she snaps. “This is a nightmare with instructions.”
I retrieve two iron hooks from the pile of salvage near the shed and hand them to Corin. He accepts them carefully, his fingers avoiding contact with the corpse as he hooks the remains beneath the shoulders and begins dragging it toward the road. The body leaves a black smear across the stones, and the scent of scorched carrion thickens in the mist.
Sable walks beside him despite my clear disapproval.
“Stay behind the ward line,” I say.
She does not look at me. “I am behind it.”
“Barely.”
“Then barely can mind its own business.”
Corin laughs, though the sound carries strain now. “You hear that, Barely?”
“I regret your recovery,” I say.
“No, you don’t.”
He drags the corpse into the open road and positions it where anything approaching from the lower lane will see it first. Then, with a grunt, he plants one hook through the ruined chest and into the soft ground beneath, pinning the remains like a sign written in flesh and ash.
Sable looks at the warning and swallows hard.
Her bravery does not erase her disgust. It does not spare her from the smell, the sight, or the knowledge that the world beyond her door has just become narrower and more dangerous. I feel her forcing herself not to look away, and the effort moves through the tether as a hard, bright line of will.
Corin wipes his hands on a rag he will need to burn. “Message clear enough?”
“For lesser entities,” I reply.
Sable turns toward me. “And for greater ones?”
The mist thickens at the end of the lane.
Something moves beyond the immediate threshold of perception. Not a body. Not yet. A pressure, old and layered,touches the edge of the field surrounding the house. It does not cross the ward line or approach with the clumsy hunger of the lesser creature. It observes from a distance sufficient to imply both patience and power.
I know that signature.
Maltherion.
The name passes through my awareness like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. Ancient. Strategic. Hungry in ways lesser demons cannot comprehend. He would not come for curiosity alone, nor would he announce interest without intention. If he has noticed the bond, then the anomaly has already become more than rumor.
Sable watches my face too closely. “What did you sense?”
“Distance movement.”
