Hunter woke suddenly. A noise.
It was a noise unlike anything he’d ever heard before. Close! Very close.
Like it was on him. Like it was . . .
Just in one ear.
He twisted his head. It was full night. Black as black in the woods far from the starlight.
He couldn’t see anything.
But with his hands he could feel. The thing on his shoulder.
His ear . . . gone!
A terrible fear wrung a cry of horror from Hunter.
He couldn’t feel it, his ear, or his shoulder, couldn’t feel with anything but his fingers and he felt, reached beneath his shirt, felt the flesh of his belly pulse and heave.
Like something inside him.
No, no, no, it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair!
He was Hunter. The hunter. He was doing his best.
He cried. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
Who would bring meat for all the kids?
It wasn’t fair.
The sound of munching, crunching started again. Just in one ear.
Hunter had only one weapon: the heat-causing power in his hands. He had used it many, many times to take the life of prey.
He had fed the kids with that power. And in a moment of fear and rage he had accidentally taken the life of his friend, Harry.
Maybe he could kill the thing that was eating his ear.
But it was too late for that to help.
Could he kill himself?
He saw Old Lion’s head, eyes closed, hanging where he’d hung him for skinning. If Old Lion could die, so could Hunter.
Maybe they would meet again, up in the sky.
Hunter pressed both palms against his head.

Michael Grant