Snarler had run straight into the still-steaming mire where Truda had destroyed the blackberry bushes, and his feet were on fire. Several other dogs skidded after him, and their howls mixed with his in a cacophony of agony. Together they limped back to their master, and the smile was wiped from Buckleup’s face. He lurched toward them, staring angrily. “What’s this?” Even by moonlight the large blisters and boils that had sprung up on Snarler’s paws could be seen to have a purplish glow, and Buckleup’s mean little eyes blinked. “By my grandmother’s bunions,” he muttered to himself, and took a quick step backward. “I’ve not seen the likes of that since Deep Magic was banned — but Deep Magic is what that is, sure as hens are chickens.” Far up above, at the top of the tree, Loobly’s eyes filled with tears. “Poorly doggies,” she whispered. “Bad badness . . . no hurt doggies. Please be good to doggies.” Down on the ground, Truda had no intention whatsoever of being good to anyone, human or animal.
