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September 18, 2011
The girl was small, wide-eyed and bloody-handed. Yes, she had killed her share of men--she had eaten their hearts without remorse--but she was new to the killing. Young. Fragile. The people called her Lynx, the pet with claws.

She had found a target and followed like the tiniest of shadows. The stoop of his shoulders was familiar. The crunch of his feet on the leaves sounded, if not the same as his, then similar enough.

There. He turned. She caught the color of his eyes and sighed. It wasn't him.

Wasn't the creature who'd made her.