Stolatz's office is about what one would expect from someone like him. Dull, organized, and functional. The art on the walls came with the frames, generic black and white photographs of natural scenery like mountains and trees, more for the enjoyment of others than for himself.

  He observes the two currently sitting in his banal office, their very presence a clash against the lifeless olive green walls. One, a seasoned hunter, younger but not unusually so, who wasted no time in deciding they were having a meeting rather than asking for one. The other, a potential killing machine, with a dozen good reasons to want to kill him and any researcher unlucky or stupid enough to get in its way. The hunter is quietly fearful, awaiting a diagnosis. The potential killing machine is barely staying awake. He isn't sure which one he should be more scared of telling the news to.

  He taps his foot on the leg of his swiveling chair a few times, rocking back and forth to stall giving the news. "From what you've told me, I believe this is a positive outcome for your partner. Shrike has completed its activity period, and is reentering hibernation. My advice? Let it happen."

  Martin wipes his face with his hand, poorly hiding how frustrated he is with the doctor's lack of cooperation. "I don't want your advice. I just want your research on Shrike."

  "It never entered a hibernation period under our supervision. I don't know what you expect me to tell you."

  "Damn it... Shrike, why wouldn't you return to hibernation when you were trapped here? Weren't you hibernating when you were taken?"

  "Too cold. I need to start the process with heat." Shrike answers, barely listening to the conversation.

  Martin's brow scrunches as he looks up at the ugly drop ceiling. "Right... and if you start hibernation, your memory begins to fade, so we can't just let you hibernate for a day and then thaw you out."

  Shrike's eyes start to droop. "Hibernation talk is difficult."

  Stolatz checks something on his computer, and after a few clicks turning the monitor around to face Martin, showing twenty tiny graphs neatly arranged in tiles. "We monitored KD00- Shrike's, rather- vitals for a long time. We changed air pressure, slight alternations in temperature, speed of the air vent. None seem to affect its heart rate."

  Shrike curls up in her chair, hugging her knees, physically retreating from the conversation. "I know I must meet certain prerequisites. Heat stored, light stored, secure location-"

  Martin holds a hand to slow her down. "That's not right. What was secure about being next to an active fire while we were on a hunt?"

  She blinks a few times, trying to find the answer. "I never felt in danger. It was comfortable."

  "Okay, but why?"

  She curls inward a bit tighter. "I felt extremely safe in the presence of competent people I trusted."

  Martin's eyes soften a bit, before hardening when he glances at Stolatz again. "We should find a specialist on magical beasts. And not some military hack." He flips off Stolatz as he leaves, with Shrike mimicking the action without understanding the meaning.

  As they drive, there's a short buzz from Shrike's pocket, causing her to suddenly shoot her head up. "Martin, if we do not find a method to delay my hibernation, please devise a method to message Cain in my stead. He is high maintenance."

  "Yeah, Shrike... Okay." He presses his foot a little harder on the pedal. Two reasons to prevent it, now.

  Martin stabs another address into his GPS. The professor at the Y was no help, just said that Shrike was too strange to assess. The Diné specialists usually won't talk to outsider hunters, so that leaves... damn it. There's only one actual expert on magical beast behavior left in Utah.

  Martin pulls up alongside the Beast Hunter's Lodge. It looks exactly as one would expect: made of redwood logs, or at least pretending to be, with a cobblestone foundation and a peaked roof with a large American flag jutting out from it.

  He closely takes Shrike's hand, guiding her inside while not letting her wander. Not here. They are stopped at the door by a thin man with a tablet and dark glasses, looking them both over as he stands in front of them. "IDs," he says, extending his hand, tattooed over with dozens of alchemical symbols. Martin hands over both his and Shrike's, which the tattooed guard takes, lifting his sunglasses to read clearly. His eyes move across Martin's with boredom before returning it, then halting at Shrike's and typing something into the tablet with interest.

  "Current market price for a live kynde is one point six million dollars, which I can arrange with the owner if you'd like."

  Shrike turns her head to Martin. "That appears to be advantageous to you. I would not be offen-" Martin flicks Shrike on the forehead, making her flinch. More importantly to Martin, it makes her stop talking.

  The security guard snorts. "Go on in. I'll let him know you're here."

  Martin creeps inside, half-pulling Shrike along with him. The lodge is full of strange beast skins and mounted heads, some a little too close to looking human for comfort. Eight or nine people mill around in it, drinking, sharing stories, and bragging.

  One of them, a blonde girl who's hanging alone in a corner, has a wolf-sized creature on a leash, the collar a perfect circle of iron and cedar engraved with a faintly glowing branch symbol. Faint gray smoke ascends from it, fading to nothing before it climbs to head height. The beast itself is smooth, taut grey flesh, vaguely canine-shaped, with a boney proboscis twitching in and out of its conical head like a wasp's stinger. Its eyes swim around its head, pulling the skin with them as they move. Six spindly legs seem to hazily move even when standing still; blurry like a waxwing's feathers. Blue-gray ichor drips from its proboscis, falling to the floor before evaporating into nothing. A Hoar Hound, the premier moon-rank partner for a hunter. Hard to handle, harder to keep fed. Upon seeing Shrike, the smoke drifting off of it seems to thicken, and it politely pulls on its leash. The owner gives a command, and it stops immediately, though its proboscis seems agitated.

  Shrike eyes the creature with trepidation. She doesn't know what it is, but she knows to be afraid of it. Something ingrained deep within her.

  Peccary descends the wooden staircase, lightly holding on to the banister. He looks mildly surprised to see Martin here.

  "Martin! I'm glad you've come to your senses. Two million." He says, loudly enough to get the other hunters' attention.

  Shrike starts to turn her head to Martin, until she senses his finger about to flick her again.

  "Even your beast accepts it. Such a shame you don't. Now, what can I do for someone like you?" He leans against the railing, standing above them both on the second step.

  "It's a private matter." Martin says, glancing at the other hunters. He gets the feeling that they may not all be licensed...

  "Bah. We as hunters should share information freely, to enhance the art of the kill." He toothily smiles again. "Now speak."

  "Shrike... needs an expert opinion. She enters periods of hibernation, and we're looking for a way to extend the time she stays active."

  "A kynde that hibernates, hmm? How long are these periods?"

  Shrike answers for Martin. "Typically ranging between several decades and several centuries."

  "Fascinating. That would certainly remove Shrike as an eligible hunting partner, and therefore free game. So tell me, what can you possibly offer me that's better than a freely available kynde?"

  "How about I don't have her burn this place down? How's that?" He asks, Shrike's eyes closed behinf the blindfold.

  "That reminds me..." He fishes in his pocket for a small knit symbol made of hair. Shrike's hair, knitted into the sigil for 'disgust'. Upon displaying it and Peccary whispering a word, Shrike takes a half step back. Then two, then backpedals out the door, slipping on a rug and scrambling backwards until she reaches the door. She, panicked, yanks at the door handle until she's free, and skitters off to the parking lot, shaking from something other than cold.

  "That seems conclusive, huh guys?" He laughs loudly, a few of the other hunters awkwardly joining in. "I figured since the kynde has an approximation of human emotion, I could use a sigil for disgust. Seems like it worked." He laughs again.

  "That's... that's anti-human warding! Are you insane?!" Martin shouts. The other hunters fall silent, turning away.

  "No, it only shares the same process. Kyndes aren't human, or have you forgotten? They're magical beasts. Animals that mimic people, like a snapping turtle waggling its tongue to lure in a fish looking for a worm. Although... I do have a task for you, if you wanted to make a little trade. Your kynde seems ideal for warm conditions. How'd you like to visit Goblin Valley for me?" He chuckles. "I figure your creature would enjoy the weather."

  The hunter with the Hoar Hound reluctantly turns around to face the man on the stairs. "That's low, Peccary."

  Peccary ignores her. "Well, Martin?"

  Shrike's partner glances at the door, the kynde long since having left. "What's the quarry?"

  Martin steps outside to find Shrike huddled beneath a pile of blankets in the back seat. She isn't groggy anymore, her sense of security upended enough to completely eliminate her hibernation instinct. She's shivering, but not from cold, eyes locked on the front door of the lodge. Martin grits his teeth, moving to the driver's seat, until a voice calls out from behind him. The hunter with her canid partner runs after them, waving a hand. Martin flashes the gun on his hip. "Don't try it. I've fought worse."

  The woman slowly raises her hands fully. "Easy, easy. It's not like that. Look, I know this seems like a normal job, but trust me when I say you're being set up."

  "Yeah. Obviously. Still gotta do it."

  The woman sighs, extending a hand. "Possum Q. This is my partner, Opossum Q. I just call him 'Opie' though. Opie, speak!"

  A strange hissing noise emits from the hound, like a can of compressed air in slow motion, until a call of "Stop!" makes the sinewy creature stop.

  Possum herself is a bit strange, too, with eyes that match the shifting blue-grey of the ichor Opie drips. Her movements all seem precise, her hands oddly still when at rest. Some kind of sorcerer, maybe?

  Martin hesitantly shakes Possum's hand. "Hoar Hound, huh?"

  "Yep. Cute, isn't he?" Possum gently rubs Opie's eyeball, which twitches in delight.

  "May I?" Martin asks before petting him.

  "Sure. Once he knows your taste, he will remember it forever." Possum notes.

  Martin gently rubs under Opie's chin. It feels like soggy deli ham, but Opie seems to enjoy the feeling.

  Possum checks behind her. "Look, you're being sent off on a suicide mission. Trust me when I say you're gonna want me and Opie along. Opie's favorite foods are, in ascending order: laundry detergent, the gas inside fluorescent lights, and finally, whatever gas, liquid, or plasma he can find in magical beasts. And Opie doesn't get any more lightbulbs for a while since he broke into an office supply store last week when I forgot to redo his collar enchantment."

  Martin glances at the Jeep, seeing his partner's eyes watching through the window. "Okay, if you can promise Opie's not gonna try and eat Shrike. What did you want in exchange?"

  "The target is big, and Peccary only wants the hide and bones. Opie will eat everything else. Fair trade."

  Martin hesitates. He was going to try and get Ferret and Moth to come, but a Hoar Hound and a sorcerer seem like they'd give better odds. Plus, he'd never forgive himself if they got hurt on his account. "Okay. Yeah, let's do it."

  "Perfect. We can leave tonight, and get it going in the morning."

  "Mhmm..." There are so many ways this can end badly. Maybe Stolatz and Shrike were right. He knows he's being selfish, asking Shrike to do this on his behalf... but he can't shake the feeling letting her hibernate would put her right back in a cell somewhere, that imagine of her curled away in a corner on her file happening again. He can't let that happen.

  Shrike closely watches the disturbing magical beast half-climb, half-phase into the seat next to her. Opie's sharp proboscis pokes at the blankets, until Shrike cautiously lifts her head out. Opie's eyes stare directly forward at her, making the dog-like animal smoke more than usual. Shrike looks at Martin and Possum in confusion. "What is this creature attempting to do?"

  Possums turns around. "Hey, I'm Possum. He's Opossum, but I call him Opie. He, uhh... thinks you smell good. And probably taste good. Don't worry, though, Opie won't do anything to you."

  Shrike's eyes turn to Martin, who nods once. 'Martin is reliable and trustworthy' axiom.

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  "Okay." Shrike immediately relaxes, no longer worried about the magical beast predator sitting a foot away. "I am unsure why we are in the vehicle together."

  Martin sighs. "Look... Shrike. The only way I can get Peccary to help is if you help remove... a Nemean Lion." He says it with a grandeur and respect he hasn't used before. Some kind of cultural symbol, or simply trying to impart fear?

  "Then this is no different than any other hunt." Shrike looks at the Hoar Hound curiously. "How old is Opie?"

  "Uhh... Opie doesn't really use 'time' in a linear sense. Sorry."

  As they approach Goblin Valley, Martin pulls off the side of the road, avoiding a motel on the basis of Opie appearing to be a nightmarish creature of death and probably causing a panic. After about two miles into the desert, the four of them exit the Jeep to go over some basics.

  "So!" Possum scratches Opie's neck. "Opie is a Hoar Hound. That's H-O-A-R, by the way. He's a natural predator of magical beasts. Six legs, the middle pair for sharp turns and manipulating objects. Eyes that not only work independently, but can rotate around the skull to avoid any blind spots. The proboscis is his most obvious feature. The ichor is a toxin that only affects magical creatures, but it denatures upon contact with any liquid or solid that isn't magical. Opie's snout works more like a syringe than a mosquito beak. Its extremely durable, and has very strong suction force. The smoke around him is a defensive measure, and when excited, it starts to cloak his movements. To add to the effect, Opie is not fully grounded in time or space, his actual location and visible location are slightly offset, and change randomly. That's the basics."

  Martin lets himself feel a little more confident. Natural predator of magical beasts against a magical beast sounds good to him. "Shrike, you next?"

  "Yes," she replies, "I am capable of storing and utilizing light and heat energy to creature projections. Typically, I use simple spikes. I can create them anywhere I can sense. If blinded, I have limited heat sensing of around fifteen or twenty feet. Further, I can create simple defensive shields. I know you carry a weapon, Possum. Is it magical in nature?"

  "My gun? Nope. Just a gun for dealing with things Opie can't."

  "Please shoot me."

  "...what?"

  Martin smiles and crosses his arms, remembering the gas station. "Do it."

  "If you say so." Possum draws her gun.

  "Uhh, that's a .44. You good, Shrike?"

  "Yes." She doesn't know what a 44 is, and is too tired to care.

  Possum fires the shot. It, with minor effort from Shrike, is held in place before falling harmlessly to the ground.

  Possum raises an eyebrow. "We're about... 50/50 odds against the lion, huh?"

  Shrike looks at the strange rocks in front of her on the trail. They're shaped like mushrooms, a heavy roundish rock seemingly balanced atop a short spire. "What is a goblin?"

  Possum bites on her tongue to avoid the obvious joke. Martin explains that the rock formations are called hoodoos, or "goblins" by the locals.

  As they advance into the valley, Martin clears his throat. "So, Nemean Lion. Shrike, for reference, it was famously the first labor of Hercules to kill one. It has golden fur that repels any and all cuts and piercing, magical or otherwise. Hercules supposedly beat it to death with a club and strangulation, but that's not going to happen for us. What the legend got right was the skinning. The beasts's own claws are the only thing that can pierce its hide effectively. But, the hide and claws lose their magic upon the creatures death, so... either you find a way past the armor, or you somehow make it slash itself."

  Possum nods, tying her hair back. "Theoretically, Opie could pierce it with enough toxin, but it would take a while. So either we immobilize it, or you get it to cut itself."

  Shrike pauses for a moment, looking at the hoodoos that fill the landscape like trees in a forest. "Why is it here? Greece is not close."

  Martin grimaces. "Ignoring how you know Hercules is a Greek myth, you can blame humans for that. We accidentally introduce all kinds of things everywhere. Escapes from private collections, accidental transport, forced migrations... It's a mess. Most of what we hunters do is focus on the invasive. Snallygasters are a pain for ranchers, but they're part of the ecosystem regardless."

  "I understand. Will I be able injure the lion?" Shrike asks.

  "I have no idea, but I doubt you can do it directly." He wipes some sweat from his forehead, shaking it off his hand. Already 75° out here. Damn, barely half a week into May.

  "I do have several methods of attack left. I am able to enhance my physical abilities with moderate expenditure, and I additionally have the tree."

  "The... tree?" Martin slows his pace to pay closer attention to Shrike.

  "I know I have always referred to it as the tree, in the language of the time. The name will make sense once viewed." In truth, she doesn't really remember what it is, beyond an ingrained memory of the process.

  "Right. Okay, I'm looking forward to it. Maybe we lead with it?"

  "I am unsure. Once I see how the lion reacts to the situation, I will make my move." Shrike notes. "It is not something I fully remember the effects of."

  Possum slides in between them. "You both know I'm a sorcerer, right? I can attune with a magical beast, like I do with Opie. If I get close enough, I can attune to the lion, enough to get it to freeze for a few seconds. Hopefully that will let one of us get that decisive first cut we need."

  Martin nods. "My bullets aren't inherently magical, but they are designed to kill magical creatures. I'll see if it can get though something not covered by its hide. Mouth, eye, even ass if that's what it takes. Actually, I bet if you have it frozen for a bit, Opie can weaken it enough for me to punch through."

  Possum claps her hands together. "Then we have a plan." She looks at a pair of gawking tourists watching the three hunters discuss. "You two want to pet Opie? Opie, say hi!"

  The hound makes a sound that can only be described as friendly thunder, low and rumbling. The tourists quickly move away.

  "So... probably best we get started. The lion's already taken out a pair of three star hunters. And try not to break the hoodoos. The park rangers hate that." Possum seems like she's speaking from experience.

  It doesn't take long to find the lion. While they're exceptionally rare, Nemean Lions are so difficult to kill that there has always been ample time to study their behavior. Lazy, preferring shade, caves are a favorite sleeping spot. While there are few actual spacious caves, there are plenty of shaded areas. Off the trail, by a large overhang, is the beast. Its golden fur was not an exaggeration. It genuinely gleams as gold does, reflective and harsh in the midday Utah sun.

  The plan starts with Martin pulling out his gun, and firing. The bullet deflects off the lion, startling it awake to keep it off balance from the start. Possum slowly creeps over to it, crouched, gently speaking in a hypnotically rhythmic voice. The Nemean Lion takes a defensive stance, growling like hail on a tin roof, but not attacking her.

  Opie is next, sprinting past it, diverting its attention and exposing its snapping jaws. Martin capitalizes on it, delivering a bullet to the lion's mouth. The massive bullet hits its lower jaw, cracking it and sending a few teeth flying. The lion, enraged, pounces at the nearest target: Possum. A hexagonal shield intercepts the lion's path, causing the monster to crash against it tumble to the ground. Possum calls Opie, willing him to tackle it, as the lion tries to slash at it with its scythe-shaped claws. Opie parries each slash with his six legs, waiting for Possum to give him an opening. Possum's heart rate plummets, her eyes turn from blue-gray to gold, and the lion momentarily freezes. Opie stabs his beak on the lion, blue venom starting to peel away at the lion's armor, but very slowly. Too slowly. Possum's hold breaks, and the lion's claws tear at Opie, ripping into his side and spewing smoke and blue ichor outward. Opie scuttles back, dripping the ichor along the ground. The claws went deep, their marks a full foot deep into Opie's belly and side. Three shots ring from Martin's revolver, two bouncing off harmlessly as the third punches into the area Opie has weakened, tearing a very small hole. Perfect.

  Shrike sees the opportunity, running directly at the lion. It matches the charge, charging straight for her. She summons a spike horizontal in front of it, tripping in, putting it in the perfect position: weak point to the sky. The puncture wound is too small and mobile to accurately target from a distance. This requires finesse. Possum, sweating heavily, once again manages a brief hold on the distracted beast. Shrike puts her hand on the weakened point. It's over.

  The lion's skin bulges outward in a dozen different places, as Shrike summons dozens of brilliant thorns to rip through the beast. Once she sees a spike tear through the lion's eye, she withdraws her hand, shaking it. Her hand is hurting. Was the monster's hide sharp?

  She looks down at her hand, grimacing. Opie's venom was unable to fully penetrate the lion, but remained caustic. Shrike watches the skin on her hand melt away at the edges, the venom already having eaten into the muscle near her palm. There is no blood, any vessels being cauterized as they melt away. She holds it palm-down, shaking in pain. It's a pain unlike any she has experienced before, the ichor clinging to her nerves as it continues to greedily eat through her. Her vision starts to go dark as her heart pounds.

  She faintly hears a command of "Drink!" as she tries not to scream in agony, and risk upsetting the already rattled Martin. She curses in shaky breaths, words in languages she's forgotten spilling out like a garden hose as she feels a suction on her hand, ripping away not just the venom, but any contaminated tissue. Blood now flows freely from her hand, and a command of "Back!" makes Opie retreat. No more burning, but the damage has been done. She doesn't want to imagine the state of her hand, instead letting the voices nearby discuss it for her, as she feels something soft wrap around her injured hand repeatedly. A bandage? Maybe. It's impossible to think through the blinding pain. She senses a blackout coming. With the lion dead, no point in fighting it. Her last thought before she drops is of embarrassment for this happening twice.

  Martin carefully drags her away from the shaded area she tumbled into, and places her into the path of the burning sun's light. "Damn it," he curses under his breath. An absurdly careless mistake for the ever-cautious kynde. The torpor caused by lack of hibernation is clearly affecting her more than she's let on. He hopes the bandage helps and doesn't just impede her natural healing, but he can't imaging losing that much blood to be worth the risk of leaving it uncovered. It took a day for her to heal from that blast. How long for this? There's no ambulances for magical beasts. Even if there was, how could he explain it? No, he just has to camp out here in the sun and be patient.

  After an hour, long since Possum had collected the pelts and now dried bones. Martin feels fresh blue venom on his arm, which quickly evaporates. He pets Opie's eye, watching Possum as she investigates Shrike's hand. Her furrowed brow says it all.

  "How bad?" He asks Possum, knowing the answer.

  "Bad."

  Martin shakily calms himself. It's not anyone's fault but Shrike's, he reminds himself, as the Hoar Hound's venom harmlessly evaporate once making contact with his skin. Opie and Possum did exactly what they were supposed to, Opie attacking and Possum attuning to...

  "Can you attune to her?" He blurts out. It's a long shot, but maybe?

  Possum shifts in the dirt uncomfortably. "Yeah, technically. But that would be... invasive. Attuning means pooling minds, which is really weird with sapient beasts. I'd see the world as Shrike does. Memories, thoughts, emotions..."

  "But would it help? We're past the point for sparing her feelings."

  Possum thinks it over for a moment. "Yeah. I can direct the healing process, hopefully kick start it a bit. I do it with Opie, and Opie's a lot less... biological, I guess, than Shrike."

  "Then do it."

  When Possum attunes to Shrike, her first realization is how incredibly tired Shrike is. Possum forces herself to stay kneeling, slapping her thigh a few times, fighting against sleep through the somewhat distanced connection. She can't imagine how exhausted Shrike must be, if the muted sensation she feels is this strong. Fortunately, at least, the first thing Possum learned as a sorcerer was not sharing pain with whatever she bonded with.

  Possum starts to carefully direct the bizarre energy in Shrike. It's not a river like humans, or a stagnant pool like Opie. It's a trillion little fireflies, each one following their own unique route through her body. As expected, Opie's venom cut off her magical healing ability, the billions of fireflies hovering around the site without moving in, like a crowd gathering around a car accident. Possum reopens the first of many pathways to Shrike's hand, allowing her healing properties to slowly start working again, the fireflies slowly filtering in.

  And then, Shrike wakes up. Sensation. Analysis. Intuition. Interrogative. Analysis. Conclusion. Shrike's mind is a web of complex strings of thought, far more carefully laid out than the jumbled pathways human brains take, a panic response. At least, it is at first. Shrike's eyes turn to Martin, her pupils dilating. And then, her mind shifts into a process at least somewhat similar to a human's, pondering and reactive. 'Why is he still here?' 'Will he avoid me after this?' 'Is he considering me a liability?' 'How is my hand?'

  Shrike looks at her hand again, frowning. 'How much will this impact my ability?' 'Will Martin consider me reckless and unreliable now?' 'Will he take the opportunity to capitalize on clear weakness?' 'Why do I sense a foreign thought process?'

  Shrike slowly pushes herself to a sitting position with her good hand, looking at Possum curiously. "Are you mentally linked with me?"

  Possum nods.

  Shrike's mind returns to default pathways, switching in an instant. Conjecture. Dismissal of conjecture. Analysis of Martin's reaction shows no response. 'Possum is here to help?' Conjecture. 'Not dead' axiomatic law.

  "I'll stop you from overthinking it. I just need to finish redirecting your energy pathways back to your hand. Nothing too interesting."

  Shrike looks to Martin again. Positive proof as he tersely smiles in agreement. 'Martin is reliable and trustworthy' axiomatic law. Conclusion: 'Possum is doing as she says.'

  Possum makes a mental note of that specific line of thought for later, before severing the attunement as she repairs the last pathway.

  Within another two hours, her hand is largely healed. An notable acid scar now sits in the center of her palm, which Shrike is unbothered by due to not causing pain or restricting mobility. Martin, meanwhile, seems very bothered by the idea of her having a large permanent scar, pacing back and forth as they wait a few more minutes to make sure Shrike is okay.

  As the four of them return to the Jeep, loading it with the hide and bones, Possum grabs Martin's backpack as he tries to get inside. She pulls Martin away a few yards, making sure Shrike is out of earshot.

  Martin is unamused by being pulled away, leering at Possum. "What?"

  "I was inside Shrike's mind. You should know something."

  Martin scoffs. "I'm not going to listen to what you were snooping around in there for. Her thoughts are her's."

  Possum takes a deep breath. It's a sensitive matter, and she should treat it with the proper respect. "It's not a specific thing. It's more of a general... understanding of her mind, that explains her behavior in the lodge, recommending you give her up for the money. Opie's mind is a fog that coalesces around stimuli, for example. I just want to explain Shrike's."

  Martin crosses his arms. Learning how Shrike thinks can't be a breach of trust, right? Now that he thinks about it, there's no reason to keep this a secret from Shrike in the first place. He'll tell her later. "Okay, fine. Go ahead."

  "Shrike is very, very... let's call it 'analytic'. She's constantly taking in stimuli, postulating, working with whatever knowledge she has, and coming to a conclusion that she files away as a memory. In fact, she deliberately switches her thought processes depending on the situation. She has one for combat and high stress situations, one for investigation, one for analysis, that kind of thing. She has one for talking with other people, too. Her interactions with people are a massive web of connections that are colored by what she can provide, what she can gain, and weighted by the strength of the connection to each specific person. To her, the maximum net benefit of you being wealthy outweighs her having to murder Peccary or even being injured herself. Finally, there's a filter of axioms. Gravity exists, the sun is hot, she's alive, that kind of thing. If a thought doesn't pass the filters, it is rejected. One of those obvious intrinsic truths, nestled just between 'ice is cold' and 'cold showers are unenjoyable,' is that you are honest and dependable. It means she trusts you to an absurd degree, as much as she trusts ice to be cold. If you told her to jump off a bridge, she'd assume there was a reason for it. Look, if you wanted to close the communication gap between you two, just tell her specifically what you value and to what degree. Don't leave it up to subtext or wait for her to come to you." Possum crosses her arms, as if this was something Martin should have figured out by now regardless.

  Martin thinks over what she just said. It makes sense. Shrike isn't human, and wouldn't have human thought processes. It's a bizarre way to think, but its at least something he can understand... still, knowing he's being treated as infallible is more than a little worrying.

  "Thanks, Possum. That... makes a lot of things make sense."

  Possum winks. "It's my job.

  The four of them return to the lodge, the long drive spent in comfortable silence. When they return, the security guard immediately radios for Peccary, who comes outside personally, a smug miasma radiating out from his shattered smile.

  "Couldn't hack it, huh? Not to worry, I still get something I needed. And I'm surprised you brought the girl and her dog."

  "Christ, you're an ass." Possum says.

  "Whatever. Pretty funny that two people and two dogs wasn't enough."

  Shrike looks at Peccary widely. "We did as requested and gathered both the target's bones and skin with only mild injury."

  Peccary's face falls, his smugness being swatted like a fly. "Bullshit."

  Martin goes back to the Jeep, retrieving a plastic tub containing the requested parts and dropping it unceremoniously into the dust. "See for yourself."

  Peccary examines them for a few seconds, and begrudgingly has his security guard take them inside. "I'm a man of my word. I just need to borrow the kynde for an hour to examine it. You can watch if you keep your mouth shut."

  Test after test after test. Response to light. Response to cold. Response to threats. Response to danger. Response to voice. Response to water. Response to pain. Response to music. Response to time passing. Each one followed by a full page of notes. He's a bastard, but a thorough one.

  By the end, he has a small checklist compiled. "Mhmm. Yeah. I got something for the critter."

  Martin stands in the corner, eyes watching Peccary since he and Shrike entered his office three hours ago. "What's that?"

  "The bitch needs-"

  "Don't call her that. I don't care if its a technical term."

  Peccary rolls his eyes. "The critter needs five things to feel comfortable enough to hibernate. Heat stored, light stored, a sense of security, a sense of stability, and no personal qualms."

  "...personal qualms?" Martin asks, leaning against an expensive painting.

  "Yeah. Maybe hypnotize her into thinking hibernation would kill everyone. You know, something like that."

  "Come on, Shrike. We're done here." He takes her hand as usual, pulling her out the door.

  Peccary calls after them. "Let me know if you change your mind! I promise to only take most of her skin."

  Martin sits across from Shrike on the floor of the living room, Shrike's back close to the roaring fire. Martin is deep in thought, before hesitantly speaking. "Shrike."

  "Yes." She replies, eyes studying him. He made a large show of sitting her down, so this is likely whatever method he has devised to put off hibernation.

  He sighs, trying to hide his growing embarrassment at the situation. Just be honest. Don't hide things from someone who isn't hiding things from you.

  "Shrike. I highly value you as a person. I highly value you as someone who I enjoy being around regardless of your combat ability. Given a choice, I would prefer you without magical abilities over another kynde with magical abilities and an identical temperament and compatibility. You are important to me."

  Shrike stays impassive, taking in the information.

  "Shrike. You are family to me."

  She nods once. "I understand." Her mind races, splitting into a dozen threads of logic that tangle together and refuse to be resolved or discarded. She doesn't understand, not fully, but she accepts it. Martin would not lie about it.

  "What's more... I need a partner. Someone to watch my back in the field."

  "Moth and Ferret are highly capable, as are Possum and Opossum." She presents the alternative to his understanding.

  "Yeah, but they have their own jobs. I need you, Shrike. Anyone else I partner with is a dangerous gamble." It's true, he thinks, just not as important to him as she'll think it is.

  She nods again, slowly. He has expertise in this field, he would appraise the situation best. "I understand." She does, for that part. She had been neglecting his needs in favor of her incorrect perception of human wants. There's more at work than exchange of value, physical ot emotional. "This conversation has brought immense clarity."

  "I hope so. What do you think, though? Do you want to stay with me? Don't feel obligated. I'll do my best to find a way without you."

  She mulls it over in her mind. He is a fascinating puzzle, one who is also a valuable source of knowledge. He needs someone capable, and sees her as capable. He has provided for her wants and needs, and even understands her attempts at humor. Very compatible. Very reliable. Family, to the extent she understands the term. Slowly, her desire to sleep starts to melt away, replaced with a new goal.

  "I do wish to stay. You are important to my understanding of others, and of my own wants. It seems Peccary, as loathsome an individual as he is, was correct. The yearning instinct to hibernate is now outweighed by the need to accompany you, for both of our collective gain."

  Martin closes the distance, hugging her tightly. She awkwardly returns it, squeezing a bit too high and too hard, not fully understanding hugs. Martin doesn't seem to care.