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Warning or calling. I tilt my head slightly so the lantern shifts and catches a stripe of moonlight. Your kind follows light. Easier than dragging by the throat.

His mouth twitches, and there’s that dry spark again. “Good to know I was one practical decision away from gettin’ physically dragged.”

Could have, I say. It is in my nature to take what is mine.

His eyes widen, then narrow. “See, now that sounds vaguely threatenin’.”

Not threat. Fact.

“That’s not as comfortin’ as you think it is, Demon Deer.”

The words make no sense.

Demon, I know. Humans have used that one before, usually while smelling of smoke, iron, piss, and bad decisions.

Deer, I know too, though I am no deer. Deer are soft-eyed things with quick hearts and fragile legs, good at listening to the forest until fear makes them stupid. I am not a deer. I have eaten creatures that eat deer. Together, the words are ridiculous.

I let the bond carry my confusion. I am not deer.

Little Ember’s mouth twitches harder. He is trying not to smile now, which I have learned means I have pleased him by accident. His body still holds caution, but it sits beside something warmer—a spark under the smell of fear. “That’s the part you’re objectin’ to?”

Demon is also wrong.

“Is it?”

I lower my head slightly, letting the lantern sway above us from the antler tine. Yes.

He looks at the skull fused over my face, the black antlers, the claws loose at my sides, then lets his gaze travel down over the rest of me with careful stubbornness. The bond gives me a brief flicker of something that is not fear. Heat quickly buried under embarrassment. He clears his throat and looks back up too fast.

“Riiight,” he says, voice a little rougher than before, that softened country edge showing up under the city polish. “Sure. You’re very approachable.”

I tilt my head. You approached.

His eyes narrow again. “That is not the same thing as you bein’ approachable.”

You came closer.

“I was investigatin’.”

You crossed into my path.

“I was followin’ evidence.”

You followed my light.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, which pleases me. Humans often become angry when the truth catches them. Little Ember becomes irritated, and his irritation tastes bright, like a flint struck in cold air.

“Okay,” he says, pointing one finger at me. “First of all, I don’t appreciate the tone.”

I send him the shape of the word back, testing it. Tone.

“Yes. Tone.”

I have no mouth-speech in this face. No tone.

His eyebrows lift. “Oh, no. You absolutely have a tone. You have the tone of someone who’s winnin’ an argument and knows it.”

I consider this. Good.