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The watering hole stank of mud, hot animal flesh, and old death, which was enough to make Joxer decide he liked the place. He moved along its bank at an easy prowl, massive paws sinking into the damp earth while his eyes picked apart every ripple, every trail pressed into the muck, every nervous beast lingering too long at the water’s edge. Something large shifted beneath the dark surface once, vanishing before he could make out more than the suggestion of a scaled back, and Joxer snorted beneath his breath; alligators, apparently, though he had no intention of testing whether the stories about things disappearing into the depths were true. Not today, anyway. Fairytale was pregnant, and that meant she needed to eat—properly, as far as he was concerned—and the thought narrowed his attention toward the herds gathering farther downshore. He wanted something fat. Young enough to be tender, large enough to be worth dragging home, and stupid enough to separate from the others. A smile pulled faintly at his mouth as he lowered his body into the grass and began to stalk, patience settling over him with the familiar ease of an old profession. His wife was carrying his children. The least he could do was bring her something warm for supper.

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