The mountain lion snarled, baring yellowed fangs. It should be running for the high country, not switching its tail at him.
Swallowing back his growing dread, Scott eased two big knives from their holsters on his pant legs. “Get out while you can, kitty. I seriously don’t want to do this.”
Kitty wasn’t getting the message. The animal’s shoulders bunched.
Fear rose in Scott’s throat. He edged closer to a red fir next to the cabin, knowing how nature intended these issues to resolve. Nature, however, didn’t figure on his particular madness. The source of his twisting guts had nothing to do with the cougar. It was already dead. He reached into that part of himself a legion of psychologists failed to lock down. The imaginary fishbowl in his head. Scott shoved the lid back with a shudder.
His personal demon stirred much like a snake rising from a lethargic torpor. Snakes didn’t sing, though. Nor did they look like a murderous sea angel rendered in crystal, fins rippling with bioluminescent menace.
Why do you wake me, thief? Her reply was a melodic vibration through his skull, serrated with venomous undertones.
“Something for you to kill.”