“Kincaid rounded the far corner. He was dressed in his customary black clothing again, fatigue pants, and a hunting jacket over body armor, and he had enough guns strapped to his body to outfit a terrorist cell, or a Texan nuclear family.”

“He looked like he’d poured his muscular body into a pair of faded Levi jeans with holes in the knees. Fine black hairs curled enticingly in the deep V of his light blue T-shirt, and a black leather jacket set off the sexy ensemble. Eight ball, corner pocket. Stop that, you wacko!”

“He had lost control over his own body, he realized dully.”

“Fireheart tensed, waiting for whatever had hunted down these apprentices to emerge from the trees and attack, but nothing stirred. Feeling as if his legs hardly belonged to him, he sprang down and stumbled across to Swiftpaw.The apprentice lay on his side, his legs splayed out. His black-and-white fur was torn, and his body was covered with dreadful wounds, ripped by teeth far bigger than any cat's. His jaws still snarled and his eyes glared. He was dead, and Fireheart could see that he had died fighting.”

“He was dressed anonymously and had the posture of someone who doesn't know how to occupy the space of his own body.”

“Prior to her reading of the poem, light tears washed over him. He seemed to be leaking out moments that were, as far as he could tell, stored in physical parts of his body – in his shoulders, his back, his stomach. His body remembered things that his brain ignored.”