A pair of eyes that belonged to his father watched the dark-coated stranger with curiosity and mild anger. What gave the lot of them the right to abandon home? Why had it taken him, of all people, to hold together a legacy of brutality and savagery? Ezekiel was not cut out for the job. Someone else should have taken this place. He was not his father’s son—he belonged to the forest and the beasts and the dark-winged birds.
Samael was a plague forgotten by Ezekiel, who had not seen him since before he abandoned his post for the final time. His lips pulled away from his teeth in a smile-snarl and curled his whiskers up to his nose. A wolf lived in him still. “It’s a vicious circle,” he explained plainly. “It’s not this place—it’s the fact that when we’re with our family we turn cannibal. I think I knew that, before,” the young coyote added, his voice trailing off.
The smile-snarl faded, and hurt and all those unwelcomed feelings he identified as weak burned in his chest. Ezekiel’s ears turned back. “What’s your name?” He asked again, suddenly desperate to know.
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