There was only a thin line between intelligence and madness. A long time ago Samael had dropped away all pretenses of composure. The sickness that had washed across the packs so long ago had afflicted him, draining him, driving him away while sending him spiraling downward into a weakened, delirious state. Perhaps he’d never truly recovered. Perhaps that was why he constantly faltered, drifting back into irrationality. At other times he could be painfully lucid. Already possessing a predisposition towards madness from either side of his family, the sickness that had long since fled his body had left a lasting impact on the coyote.
“I’m fine,” he said, almost frustrated that she’d ignored what he’d said twice now. Lack of concern for his well-being, coupled with the life of a loner and nearly constant travel for the past few months now—along with the current season, leaving the terrain barren—had thinned him to nothing more than skin and bone. Easily, he could be replenished, but such work would take an internal desire that he did not possess for the time being. His pet provided for him at his command when laziness such as this consumed. From here to Mexico and back, he was tired. But he’d had to go. He’d had to find out, and see with his own eyes.
“What’s your name?” he asked.