I followed Andre blindly, hearing him shout his father’s name and other words in Russian that made no sense to me. I must admit that I also followed a bit of the blood trail until he finally found the wolf-boy again.
There were tufts of fur everywhere, stained red and swirling softly in a light breeze. It was the scene of a fight I had not managed to witness in its entirety, but there was no doubt about what had happened. The claw marks on the tarps and on the fallen boards, smeared with blood, were patent proof of it. And the inert body of the lion, lying face down on the ground, arms twisted behind his back, tied with a thick rope stained red and with motor oil.
The damn bastard was still breathing, I realized. Still alive—badly wounded and probably unconscious—but still breathing.
A
