Elvira was poisoned, right from the beginning. She’d been born cursed, of foul, tainted blood. She was less than an animal—less than instinct. She was a feral creature of nightmare alone, harming without purpose save personal amusement. She was far more wicked than the cat murdering solely through driven instinct, pawing the bird from the sky on whim and leaving it broken on the sidewalk.
The creature become irritated with her demeanor—with her answer. Yellow eyes trained on the woman’s, staring back without fear, without allowing herself to feel cowed or remorseful. She scoffed, contorting her expression into something distasteful. Each hair seemed to alight with some subtle electricity, feeling the fire rise at the slightest hint of provocation.
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