Cortman had recieved the message that Yolinde’s body had been found and identified days after its discovery, and after it had mysteriously vanished.
Dead bodies, especially frozen corpses, didn’t often walk away on their own. He had been going to bury the man at sea, but now Yolinde was probably going to end up eaten, sold to ‘science’, or worse: buried in the dirt.
And his killer was walking about freely, able to kill more of his men and make another attempt on Cortman’s own life. His scars still hurt from his own brief encounter with the cat last month.
What galled him the most was that he had never thought much of him. Always whining about something or another. He hadn’t been able to see the thing was a feral monster with a killer instinct, he had hidden it very well behind fine clothes and pretending to be pathetic, even friendly. But Boeman had gone missing last night, and if he couldn’t get the militia to do anything then he would take matters into his own hands.
Cat, Cortman and the Unicorn too!
Be careful what you wish for Skinny.
And what am I–chopped liver?
Such
is the nature of the grieving and deprived. They must fix what is
wrong with the world, no one else is qualified. Do not underestimate
their passion, or what they can achieve in crisis, as their care for
their own lives is foregone. We are bombarded by stories of bereaved tearing
down phalanxes to achieve revenge and cast the object of their fascination down to ruin. There is, perhaps, nothing more dangerous in the world!
Great care must be taken. Attention! Attention must be paid!