Carole Cummings



She follows an upward drift, current through quill and pinion and down. The pulse from the Wrong Sky mutters through her, shimmies in her chest, and she banks, shying a moment, before she catches the bump of resonance thrumming along the gulley-arc of the membranous threshold. She compacts, dart-shaped, then punches on through.

The Change is not absolute. Her equilibrium remains and her eyes are just as sharp here in the Darker World. But her body lengthens, strengthens, instincts sparking brighter, and she hones in on the first hostile rival she sees.

Her Boy wishes it. So she dives. Hunts.






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