A chill overcame my body as I ran my fingers over the small tooth that hung from my neck. The molar was hers. She had spit it at me in all her fiery magnificence in the blood room. I had pocketed it without thinking. Then later, arguably still not thinking, I had it made into a souvenir to wear always. A memento from this enchantress to remember long after she was dead. She could not live, but already I feared I would not draw breath without a part of her near.
