Prickles. Prickles in his fur, like he'd walked the wrong way through a burr-bush--soothing the right way, when they combed the dirt from his coat, but irritating the wrong. The lion half growled, half whined, backing deeper into the shadows of the tree.

There was something there. Not prey. Not a predator. But a hunter. Someone to be feared.

He trembled up against the tree, and when Michael's presence brushed by the lion's mind, it was like touching static. The lion yowled and shot off into the brush, less a sprint and more a mad, panicked rush away.