Trained, I said. I threw both hands up, and I cut him. At a different graveside for a historical society, the secretary of said society had jumped me and tried to save the chicken. Again, that trace of bitterness.
He thrust against the back of my body, with his hands trapping mine against the chair, and his body curved over me. Blood flew in a little arc, sparkling in the lights, but Jason stood his ground. I thought that the hunger was the beast. I took a handful of salt, and I'd used the wrong hand and gotten blood in the white crystals.
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