It was about to be dawn, the first, faint fingers of light beginning to pierce through the dense, oppressive canopy of the forest. The air was cool and damp, thick with the scent of wet earth and the lingering, metallic tang of blood. We were about to reach the village, and I was holding Lana in my arms.
Yeah, Lana was the same four-year-old girl, the one whose innocent eyes had pulled me back from the abyss. She had thrown a series of impressive, and surprisingly effective, tantrums, refusing to walk with her own mother, insisting that only her "uncle," the monster who had saved her, could carry her. And when her small legs had finally given out, when she had grown exhausted from the long, arduous journey, I had scooped her up into my arms without a second thought.
