The first pinch did not hold.
The quartz shard was coated in thick, slippery saliva, and the moment the brass claws pressed against the crystal, a bead of spit ran down the groove of the metal and hissed, turning the bright yellow brass dull green and raising a thread of sour vapor that made Chaska’s eyes water. The notched tips skidded a quarter-inch along the wet facet without budging the point buried in the inner lip.
Underneath Pip’s hovering shell, the young predator’s throat muscles contracted at the tug. Its hind feet scraped the slate to thrash.
Pip did not flinch or pull away. Watching the tiny ripples along its shell-filaments, it let out a measured pulse of warmth just behind the creature’s shoulder-blades—like a hand laid briefly on a frightened horse’s withers—and then cooled the plate again before the snout could turn. The young beast’s hind legs settled back onto the stone.
“Good,” Chaska whispered through her teeth. Her fingers inside the waxed cord wrapping were cramping from squeezing the stiff brass strips together against their spring, and the sour fumes rising from the green-stained metal burned the inside of her nose. “One more try before the spit eats my knife-notches flat.”
