The boy watched him like a child that knew too much—eyes like his sister, who had watched and said nothing as he was beaten and nearly destroyed. He did not hate her, for he understood the way of the Khalif. If she had so much as offered him sympathy, she too would be cast out or killed. Very few made it out of those mountains alive, and not without price. Misery had done it and become holy. Larkspur could only hope to follow in her footsteps. Yet even now, even with her blessings, he felt that most powerful darkness calling for him and understood he had been chosen. Behind his eyes a secret fire flickered and twisted, and around his neck a great power pulsed.
Then the boy spoke, and his voice woke the can tah and turned the pulse into a heartbeat. That heartbeat blossomed the whispers into a staggering scream, one that sought to deafen him. For an instant it was as if every star in the universe had flashed behind his eyes before dying, turning them remarkably hollow. Everything was muted, and the world had shrunk to their two bodies. Darkness radiated from deep within Larkspur’s body, causing him to move without being aware of it; he left the horse and touched asphalt. From there the darkness snaked through his shadow, climbed until it just barely touched the boy, then and there Larkspur understood that his purpose was much greater then he had originally believed.
He did not move, and one hand remained fixed to the leather throngs that served to guide the horse. Scarred arms spoke of prophecy, but the boy did not understand their meaning or his own purpose. In time, perhaps he would. The elder wolf, with his peculiar white markings, was no longer a being of his own consciousness. Something else had woken, something that had been stirring and as of yet, unaware. It had smelt blood. It had called.
Larkspur obeyed. “No yer not,” he began to explain. “There ain’t been a real D’Angelo in these parts fer years.” There was no question, but a challenge.
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