She looked down to the fire and up to him as though the sun were over his shoulders.
"We have enough to help us in any way needed. But money means nothing here. Cook. Eat as much as you can. Blade I want every bag cleaned out of uncooked, cooked, salted and unsalted meat. Winter, Hawk, Brook fill our water. Ashley make sure every bag is in good condition. Ferry get wood, as much as you can, we'll be making a commotion, quite a good one. Hydra, Sheila, Sabre stand watch, two at a time. We may already be discovered and not know it."
She barked, and everyone moved.
Fury opened a bottle of Jale-Jale, a unique[2] alcoholic spirit made with the fruit of prickly pears. She drank letting the sharpness burn her tonsils before staring at the filthy brown bottle for a while. She had one day of safety, one. And it was almost done. She'd killed the beast; she was a hero. He was too smart to try kill her right then.
She drank to calm her nerves; it was like the front of her skull was being scrubbed but drank just a little more before sleep washed over her.
She dreamt of death; of Ferry stepping over her rotten corpse while the rest watched; of his massive hands covering her mouth, she couldn't scream or bite. She dreamt of him tearing her clothes off and pinning her to the ground with his fangs on her throat before he took off his own. She struggled but moved too slow, too passively, and now her legs were being pried open.
She wept.
It had been coming for a while, she was in heat and now he'd impregnate her, she'd lose everything. He'd rob her blind. She screamed into his palm.
Fury blinked.
She was sitting up next to the fire which had grown large. The bags were in a line around the fire while most of the group lay sleeping further away. She stood, walking towards them, her spear cleaver, Gazilam in her left.
Ferry lay between the girls. By the looks of it Hydra, Sheila and Sabre were watching for trouble. That meant they'd be looking out the camp, not in.
Essentially, she was the only one there.
She stood over him with Gazilam held tight. Killing him wouldn't take much, the opportunity was right before her. He was thinking it too; she had no doubt. But even as she stood there, she knew she wouldn't, that was why he could sleep easy. The group's opinion mattered.
Her mother's words from days long past haunted her. ′When you have a hammer all the world's problems start to look like nails.′ Her mother, who'd been blessed enough to have black fur and white skin while hers were grey and caramel. Her father too was blessed, only with white fur and black skin. By falling for each other they'd sealed her fate.
She clenched Gazilam tighter to goad herself into it. Instead she opened his bag and pulled out his leather flask.
With a needle from her sewing tools she punctured holes all over his flask, just enough for only a few drops to come out at a time and in enough places so the bottle would feel as though it were simply sweating. Fury smiled, satisfaction swelling up in her chest, building up from her diaphragm.
She lay down next to her own bags, her hand underneath, Gazilam held.