Woman stepped forward, but made herself small. Lifted chin. Showed throat. Deference. Smart shaman-thing. Wise. Curious eyes, full of gold. “. . . you’re Jane, aren’t you?”

I looked at woman, thinking. You hear my thoughts? I asked at her. She nodded. I ate, feeding hunger. Its claws, buried in stomach, tearing, began to release. More than five bites later, I thought at her, Not Jane. Not big-cat. Better than Jane. Better than big-cat. Am Beast. I swallowed. Beast is good hunter.

“No shit.”

I chuffed and ate. Many more than five bites later, I showed her my back and walked off of prey, down to dirt, lithe and lissome, Jane’s words for me. Belly was bulging, satisfied. I sat and cleaned blood from claws and muzzle with rough tongue. Spoke to her like to kit. You may eat.

“Y’know, I thought I was starving, but not so much now. It’s all yours.”

I looked at not-witch woman. She had gathered up Jane’s clothes, where I had pushed them, into the light, folding them like laundry. Her sword was gone. Magic sword? Comes and goes like Beast’s claws?

Not-witch woman grinned. “Yeah, kind of. I keep it under my bed at home. In reserve, you know? Kind of like Jane . . .” She stopped. Looked hard at Beast. Scent changed: scent of caution. Smart shaman-thing didn’t want to offend good-hunter Beast. “Kind of like you and Jane work together, maybe. I bet most people don’t know she’s got a Beast inside. You’re a secret. A sharp dangerous secret. So’s my sword.”

I chuffed. Looked back at still-hot stinky meat. Flipped dirt over it: done. Trash. Defeated.

Not-witch woman smiled again. “You said it, sister.”

There’s nothing to take the wind out of a girl’s sails like a ginormous lion coming along and ripping the head off the demon she was about to fight. I stood there agape while Jane—it had to be Jane—went positively medieval, if medieval people had mountain lions to do their dirty work, on the velociprator’s rainbowy ass.