wake

time, creeping through the house in order to find the prey.
Instead—
She was there! Sleeping in the bed!
It made sense, of course. Even the dim mind of the monster could understand that much. A girl with such coppery hair—such a coppery, splendid soul—
Hungry!
—would want to wake to the sunrise. Feel the coppery rays bathing her in a new day.
A new day which would never come again. Soft laughter ­began to gurgle up in the monster’s thick throat. But it forced the sound under. Just a moment more of silence, and it would—feed.
A claw reached up for the latch. The monster knew, for a certainty, that the door would be unlocked. Such an innocent soul . . . it gathered its haunches.
Hungry!

The vise that clamped down on its head struck like a god’s hammer. It vaguely remembered such a hammer. . . .
But there was no time to think of ancient weapons. The monster writhed like a lizard, caught by a hawk, its limbs thrashing and flailing.
Thrashing and flailing in—nothing. Talons smote thin air; a tail lashed in emptiness. Everything was dark, a darkness not even the monster’s eye could penetrate. Dimly, stunned, it ­realized that its head was in a giant maw. Realized—dimly, stunned—that it was being carried through the air. Like a lizard, caught by a hawk.
The monster’s thrashing grew frenzied. Something smote its back. Almost—not quite—breaking the spine. But the blow was enough to paralyze the monster.

Not even his fear of Chernobog could have kept the shaman from fleeing in terror, now. The spirit that had passed over him had seemed like a golden avalanche of fury and destruction.
As it happened, the shaman was quite safe. He was beneath the Lion’s contempt. Nor did he have to fear Chernobog’s