Luta's arrogant smile severed his face like a knife. Sun glinted behind his head, outlining the spikes of his hair in a halo of light. McKay fastened her eyes on the livid white scar zig-zagging its way across Luta's cheek. Peccary teeth, Tikitu had said, mark of the vicious peccary. Luta's totem. His flinty eyes lingered on the fist she held to her breast. Gritting her teeth, McKay held the feather tighter still. She'd never give up this feather to Luta. No, she'd rather die at the hands of the beast than loose the game to him. Straddling her, Luta released his death-grip on her neck, his breaths still coming fast and hard. McKay wriggled free of his grasp for an instant, flipping over to her stomach before Luta leaned into her again, imprisoning her with his weight and his powerful hands. She uncurled her stiff, cramped fingers, and, as if blowing a kiss goodbye, puffed the red feather into the air. It floated for a moment as Luta swiped at the breeze, missing once, then twice, then three times. McKay felt time itself pause to watch as the feather swirled upward, then came to rest on the rock in the clearing. Victory hers at last, McKay's laughter chimed through the wooded land.