He held the severed leg by the ankle and thumped it occasionally against the caked gore. In the corner of the room, Manny cowered and whined, his snout buried in his forepaws. “Shut up,” Dave/Hank said and thumped the leg again. On the bed beside the body was the sword, which jumped a little with every whack of the dead leg. Dried blood had dirtied the blade, but parts of it still glimmered. Dave/Hank smacked the bed again, trying to build up some momentum, and the sword flashed light at him. His eyes drooped. His muscles were half stiff as rock and half wobbly as jelly. The claw marks on his face, the bruise on his shin, and the stab wound in his chest all throbbed. If the bed hadn’t been covered with Mr. Boots’s remains, the soft mattress and the puffy pillows would have tempted him, made him unable to resist the urge to lie down for a short nap. Part of him was tempted anyway. Except he couldn’t take a nap. He had to take care of the body, had to put it where it belonged while he still had the time.
