“Just give me the bag, Fisher.” If he fought me on this, oooh gods, I would raise the worst kinds of hell. Luckily, the bastard just sighed and went back into the barn. He returned a moment later with my bag. “The second that rodent becomes an issue, I’m skinning it,” he said, hoisting the bag up to me. “He’s not a rodent. If anything, he’s a dog.” I pulled open the mouth of the bag, making sure Kingfisher hadn’t replaced Onyx with a rock or particularly dense loaf of bread or something, but the little fox poked his head out of the hole, ears swiveling as he took in our surroundings, his pink
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