It's careful work, moving the body she wants: the claws of one hand disappearing, the other held close in order to light what looks to her like the aftermath of some kind of explosion. The body itself is firm, but not like the stiffening that happens soon after death; this is something else, something that feels almost lighter than it should.

"They feel wrong," she shouts, and that, too, feels wrong. Marks on this one's hands are visible now, though, her clothing discoloured at the chest as well. "Not like corpses."