There was an obvious advantage in Max’s pelt at this time of year. Winter was his season and would be such—he had been born in winter and struggled through it as wild things do. Summer had shown him hardship and nearly killed him, and was no friend of his. February was, with its howling gales and biting frost, and the Malamute-cross reveled in it. To live was to struggle, and winter brought out the best of this.
Taking Myrika’s cue, the big hybrid slipped off. With his pelt and size he was an obvious choice for the striker, and this would allow him to take the kill. Snow banks hid him well enough, and if not for the dark splash of his nose or the gleaming yellow of his eyes, he might have belonged to the earth. Still, his confidence was based only on the fact he had done this with others before—Ezekiel often favored his Optime form, of course, and this changed things, but Max was best suited for his four legs.
Tension rippled through his body and focused all of his senses ahead. The group would choose the target, and he would respond accordingly.
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