The large black cat appeared from nowhere. It rubbed itself against Degerlund’s body. Licked his motionless hand. Meowed and cried mournfully. It lay down beside the corpse, cuddling up against its side. And looked at the Witcher with its wide-open golden eyes. “I had to,” said the Witcher. “It was necessary. If anyone, you ought to understand.” The cat narrowed its eyes. To indicate it did.
