“—the mountain, if possible.”
“Michael,” she said again as loud as she dared. “Something is coming. Two somethings. Predators of some kind. I’m not sure what they are.”
“The moon isn’t out,” said Michael, reigning in his horse and swinging its head around to face Andromeda.
“It’s not werewolves. They’re two different species. I’m not sure if they’re dangerous. They seem to be docile. I don’t sense any anger or hunger from them.”
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