[M] i smell a massacre.

Larkspur D'Angelo · 10-23-2010, 11:42 AM

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There was no need for Larkspur to try and fool himself about his place in the world. Conor did not trust him—he believed this as certainly as he believed the boy was weak. Younger wolves outranked him, wolves who had sworn to die by his side. Larkspur could not. He had not even promised that much to Haku. He had shed blood for him, but he would never have died for him. There was one living being whom he owed his life to, and he would go on living until she called upon him to do so.

The magic she believed she saw—the magic he believed he had—was of a much older god who came from the earth. His power lay in his followers, and they were cast out by those arrogant sister’s Larkspur had come to hate. Now it no longer mattered if he was cleansed, if he ever turned into a prophet. If he was to follow the dark god for the rest of his life he would do so willingly. He had been gifted with life, with strength, and with the power to hear and see things he should not. The prophecy on his arms itched, as if it was eager to be fulfilled.

“Things ain’t like that here,” he offered, knowing only what he had experienced. “That leader of yours might hate us, but he ain’t gonna kill his own.” He had seen that made clear when the fire tore through Dahlia. Larkspur had heard the retreat called. He understood that Gabriel intended to burn the whole of Dahlia to the ground and spare his coyotes the bloodshed. “Where I come from,” he added, a cruelty slipping into his voice. “They’d have burnt you alive.”

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