I hate stories with a twist. I especially hate stories where you can see the twist coming three words in, and this looked like it was going to be one of those stories.
“But he’s cute!” Sandy was right, the puppy was cute, but normal dogs don’t have magical auras that spark and fizzle in chaotic rainbows. I flattened my ears and rowled my opinion of of the demonic fluffball.
“Words!” She chided.
“I think this is a very bad idea.” I glared at the puppy who looked up at me with misplaced adoration. “There’s something wrong with it.”
“Wrong how?” To her credit, she did ratchet up her shields, if only a smidgen. Thankfully the pup seemed oblivious to the changes.
“It tastes of young magic,” the wild unpredictable sort that had popped up since the war. “I don’t think we found it.”
“You think it found us.” Sandy was the youngest of the company, both in terms of years in service and years alive, but she learned significantly faster than most of the older recruits. Still, she hadn’t actually put the puppy down yet. “So,” there was a pause, “so if it found us doesn’t that mean if I put it down it will just find us again?”
I hate these sorts of stories.