The wind turned and with it came the scent of coyotes. Larkspur’s body language immediately changed. His hackles rose from the base of his spine to his skull, legs splaying to a fighting stance. Deep and low in his throat a growl rose. He hated coyotes as much as he hated white wolves, and the idea that his daughter had wound up in their midst infuriated him. There would be no mercy from the Infernians. He had been there the night Dahlia burned. It had filled him with a terrible fear and driven him to flee his home during its hour of need.
Again, it was Eris’ voice that pulled him back. The despair in her voice shattered his fury and focused his concern back on her. He did not wish to cause her more stress, especially given the fact that they were trying so desperately to conceive again. Raising his head he returned to the side of the horse, craning his long neck to nudge her foot with his nose. “I’ll find ‘er,” he promised, eyes burning. “There ain’t much we can do now, ‘n I don’t want Sal and Pan t’worry.” Their coyote servant could care for them, but they needed their parents—and to be kept in the dark as long as possible.
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