Allissa

Finn flicked a fleck of black off his cheek and considered the carcass. “Well,” he said. “We just killed dinner.”

Ivan, still a bear, swung his head around and made a low, unhappy sound.

“Fire salamander,” Finn went on, cheerful now, as if the smell were not trying to climb down all our throats. “Good eating, if you boil it three times over, throw out the first two pots, and you do not mind that the third still tastes like a chimney swept it.” He looked it over one more ...