"Young fool," Accalon snapped, stalking a circle about Teague. He snorted fire, clacked his teeth. Tiny flames crackled along his black hide, and his inspection of the other puca was, if not anxious, at least disturbed.

"Breathe," the Brucolac said to Paloma, and bent to pick her up off her feet, slinging an arm beneath her knees. Carrying her just as she had been carrying the elven corpse. She reeked of burnt flesh and blood, and was very light in his arms. "We will talk about their fear once you're closer to whole." He stepped into shadow, and made for his chambers at the top of the spire, trusting to the darkness to keep them both unseen.

His rooms were dark, large but plain. He laid her down on the bed, ignoring how blood seeped into the sheets. The golem which had overtaken them studied the movement and then carefully re-enacted it with its own burden, laying the elf down on the floor. The Brucolac was too preoccupied with hunting through a great dark wooden cabinet to notice his shadow-servant's awkward mimicry.

A hiss of fire starting in the grate. A clang of metal. The Brucolac flitted from shadow to shadow, deft and worried-seeming, until finally he alighted by Paloma. "Can you drink? Will that help?"