The fox took the neck of his clothing in its jaws with the careful precision of something that understood the difference between the neck of clothing and the neck beneath it, the grip finding the fabric rather than what was inside it.
And pulled.
The movement was not gentle and was not rough — it was fast, the specific quality of something that had assessed the situation and determined that the variable of speed was the most relevant one and was applying it. The fox's legs drove against the plainfield's soil, the grip on Damien's clothing holding, his unconscious form lifting slightly at the shoulders and dragging across the soil at a pace that made the distance between the altar and the forest's tree line decrease rapidly.
Lin ran.
