“A shape blurred from the shadows across the bridge, striking from behind the wheellock line. The lioness moved among the riflemen quick as lies, ripping bellies and throats to tatters. She’d struck so fast, four were dead before the screaming began. The remainder tried to recover, but it’s hard to bring a longarm to bear at close range, harder still to reload when those golden eyes fall on you and that roar shakes your bones and she charges across the blood-soaked snow, quick as the shot you missed her with. “But she didn’t miss. “Phoebe never missed.
