i live for the taste of his blood on my lips

Wayne McCoy · 04-19-2012, 08:30 AM

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but our hearts will need us to be steady and strong

so we can stand and face the fire

burning higher and higher

Word Count → 582 :: This shall be interesting!

Wayne McCoy had found his attitude shifting these days, and not particularly for the better. While his promotion had given him no other responsibilities other than the privilege of accepting members into the pack, the season had brought additional stress. He was anxious about the mares and the time that they would foal, anxious about the construction projects going up, anxious about spending time with the woman he loved. He wanted to be ready for the next step of their relationship, to finally ask her properly to be his mate, but the few times they were together always seemed the wrong time.

All of these factors made for a very grouchy cowboy, and he had found himself growing short-tempered and mean toward some of his pack mates when they crossed him. Ever since finally accepting his place in the pack months ago, he hadn’t wanted to be seen as the distant southerner, the mutt who cared for horses more than canines. He’d wanted to be a part of Casa, but now all he wanted to do was leave it all behind.

He took Fern out to ride; the chestnut mare was gentle and sweet as ever. She seemed to understand his mood and went tentatively, offering little noises here and there to soothe him like she’d soothe her colt. He rode bareback, enjoying the connection with the horse rather than guiding her through twists and tugs of the reins. He’d always been old-fashioned about that, using the skills his parents taught him, but it was just as relaxing using his legs to guide her through the woodlands, his callused hands knotted in her flaxen mane.

The large mare navigated clumsily around some of the tighter corners, but they found an old game track to trot along. The sounds of birds in the trees and the scent of prey made the wolf within him feel at ease. He recognized the spring as a time of bounty, safe after the famine of winter. Almost centaur in his grace, he adjusted to the movements of the horse stepping down slopes and jumping over a dead tree. They splashed through a stream with a little reluctance on the horse’s part, but finally he patted her neck and just let her walk on her own, traveling where she wanted to.

Fern, of course, adjusted course only to attack the leaves for which she had been named, nibbling greedily at them. As she browsed, he smirked and turned his head to look at their surroundings. His hat shifted with the prick of his half-flopped ears when he heard footsteps—slow, now fast, now frantic, crashing through the undergrowth. The mare heard them as well, and pulled back with a nervous nicker.

It wasn’t long before the cries of some dying animal confirmed that the sound had been a hunt, but still the faintly-timber-streaked yellowy-grey fur refused to lay flat on his spine. He squeezed his heels into Fern’s flanks and led her up a slope in the direction of the sounds. He wanted to make sure the predator was another luperci as opposed to a mountain cat or bear; he’d have to hightail it back home in that case.

A howl made the horse pull up short once they reached the crest of a long slope; below, a black beast whirled around with bloodstained teeth. Her golden eyes flew to them, and Wayne’s right hand curled tightly in the horse’s mane as he stared back at her, expressionless.

Wayne McCoy

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