It took Jo an extra second to realize she'd nodded an affirmative without saying it. She should get up. It's biting at the back of her neck. She should push herself off this ground and get up. But Geralt isn't moving; hadn't castigated her for keeping him here, falling apart, being utterly useless in the last few minutes.

"Yeah."

The stinging in her leg is a riot of ants, but she's leaning into it. It's real, or as real as anything is going to be here. Pain means she's alive. It's bent, but she almost wants to press down harder on all those cuts. Want a wall of red to cut the fog sharp in her head. Let the pain ride her like a coat and get her nerves all firing into one fine razor point she'll drive into whoever made her go through all of this.

"They're called Hellhounds."

"It's all really there, right on the tin."

Demon dogs from hell. Plus, invisible. Obviously.