Until he had fought the demon crow-wolf, Ezekiel had not been like this. It was as if some of the taint from that shadow creature had found its way into his soul, through the eye he had scarred. Aggression became a permanent fixture of the de le Poer. He fought strangers, clansmen, anyone—he desired that true communication, desired the sensation of body against body, desired to say what words could not—and he fought simply because he felt like it.
In many ways, this was no different. He was fighting because he had provoked the fight. They might have talked. Maybe he would have made peace with the brute who came for his sister, as he had made peace with Haven. Somehow, though, he doubted this. Peace could not be made with the enemy. Talitha would have expected no less, not when she had stood on her pedestal and waved a dead boy in his face. Wolves were the enemy. Wolves had no place in their world. This stranger had no place in their world, no place in his sister’s world. Only Ezekiel could exist there.
He drew blood and spun in time to catch the clawed paw across his bicep. It was a grazing wound, but with the size of his opponent’s hand, those claws cut deep. The coyote snarled once more, saw red, and threw a fist into the burly wolf-dog’s face. As he recoiled, his other hand shot out, claws extended.
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