Malks

I followed him, light in hand. On the wet stone floor were a few tufts of grayish hair. I chewed my lip and lifted the light to examine the wall. There were long scratches in the stone—not much wider than a thumbnail, but they were deep. You couldn't easily see the bottom of the scratch marks.
Gard came up and peered over my shoulder. Amidst the scents of lime and mildew, her perfume, something floral I didn't recognize, was a pleasant distraction. "Something sharp made those," she murmured.
"Yeah," I said, collecting the hairs. "Hold up your ax."
She did. I touched the hairs to the edge of the blade. They curled away from it as they touched it, blackening and shriveling, adding the scent of burnt hair to the mix.
"Wonderful," I sighed.
Gard lifted her eyebrows and glanced at me. "Faeries?"
I nodded. "Malks, almost certainly."
"Malks?"
"Winterfae," I said. "Felines. About the size of a bobcat."
"Nothing steel can't handle, then," she said, rising briskly.
"Yeah," I said. "You could probably handle half a dozen."
She nodded once, brandished the ax, and turned to continue down the tunnel.
"Which is why they tend to run in packs of twenty," I added, a couple of steps later.
Gard stopped and gave me a glare.
"That's called sharing information," I said. I gestured at the wall. "These are territorial markings for the local pack. Malks are stronger than natural animals, quick, almost invisible when they want to be, and their claws are sharper and harder than surgical steel. I once saw a malk shred an aluminum baseball bat to slivers. And if that wasn't enough, they're sentient. Smarter than some people I know."

Side Jobs, Heorot, Page 129