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Most of his time was spent alone—unless he was in the company of his mare. Larkspur took a great deal of time to ensure his horse remained in top physical condition, and cared for her appearance more then his own. His hair was tangled and messy, unkempt and frazzled. He cared so little for his own image, despite Misery’s warning. Haku had known and given him shelter. Though Conor had yet to confront him, Larkspur did not believe that his current alpha would know what to make of him. Certainly, there was a darkness within the D’Angelo. It was more ancient and more powerful then Haku’s, but it did not seek the same destruction.
At least, not yet.
The boy’s approach had been loud and sloppy, and Larkspur’s ears turned towards him long before his eyes opened. He was caught in that dark place, caught between the voice of the can tah and the ini (though those were both the voice of Tak). It took him a long time to break away, for it was an upward swim in a pit. When he finally breached, both of his Jack-o-Lantern eyes opened. He turned towards the now familiar scent and found the boy standing there. Sharp lines, dark features. Had he been born with his mother’s coat Larkspur would have rejected him instantly.
Yet here he was, perhaps summoned by the voice that Larkspur and his aunt-mother alone heard. This he knew because all of the others—all of the ones born with black fur—were dead. Though there was no answer, a wordless whisper carried itself from his throat to his ears. They twitched once, as if bothered by a fly, and then settled as he fixated himself on the child. He had smelt him for days. Though uneducated and lacking most skills, Larkspur could track and hunt better then even he believed. Had he not been able to do this he certainly would have died years ago.
“Makin’ a habit of chasing ghosts?” He asked, voice gruff but without malice. Larkspur did not hate the child, but he knew what had to be done.
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