300+

The boy had shown potential, but there was still much to do. Larkspur had to return to the forest because it was where he had found it. It was not a true ini, but there was power there none the less. It radiated up from the blue-green water and called to him through the can tah, which whispered and often spoke through his dreams. Somewhere between the storms and the nightmares he had lost the dreamcatcher. Supplies would need to be gathered, and he had been doing so gradually. Animal bones and sinew, willow branches and feathers—all of these would be needed.

But his need to create was split between the need of the can tah. Nearly every day, he came to this lake. Today was no different, though he was still more then a mile away. Larkspur walked two-legged, as was becoming the standard for him, long hair semi-pulled back and messy. It was always messy. He looked as if he might have gotten into a tumble, or been trying for dreadlocks and failed, but his hair was starting to look as wild as he felt. Black as it was, the tell tale signs of bleach and age showed. It was streaked with gold and white, just as his face was turning. Misery had not led him astray, and neither had Tak. If the way to enlightenment was through the being of darkness, so be it.

A scent, one that came slowly at first, drew his attention. There was a woman walking on the same path, not that far from him. Her coat aside, there was a pungent scent that clung to her—one that he recognized almost instantly. Orange eyes flashed, pupils shrinking to pin-pricks, and he sucked in the air greedily. Oh yes, he knew that scent. It was not her’s, but of a man who believed he was a devil. Perhaps he was. Larkspur believed that these things were far more real then most. The proof was carved into his arms and burnt into his eyes. The dark man did not slow his pace, and did not speak. He trailed the girl, white feet stained the no-color of dust and rain, waiting.

Larkspur D’Angelo was patient, above all else.

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The stink on her was overwhelming. She smelled like sex and blood and dirt. She smelled like false magic and prophecy, but it was one that she had no part of. Larkspur sensed that she was not a beast whose blood belonged to the darker parts of the world. Perhaps she fancied herself chosen, perhaps not. For him, she was just like the boy. She was young and stupid and carrying only potential.

But someone else had seen that and taken it for him. Haku Soul’s scent had been emblazoned on Larkspur’s memory—the man had shown him kinship first, and granted him sanctuary without question. Though they were not blood, and not friends, Lark believed the two were kin in some way. There was never a time that had made him consider Haku at all worthy to understand the Khalif, to understand Tak. All they had understood from each other was their collective path; full of dark shadows and the smell of blood. His upper lip curled, tongue tasting her scent on the air. There was no malice on his face. Instead, he looked almost as if he was smiling (if you could call that thing a smile).

Orange eyes narrowed at the question. She did not recognize him as Haku had, or as the boy had. Maybe his blue-eyed brother had been wrong. “Why’d he pick you?” The deep voice rumbled from his chest. It was a question, but one that could have been a demand.

There it was. She stared back at him with that arrogance, with that knowledge that she was a destined child and one who had nothing to lose. It was as if she was blind to the world around her. That was until she spoke, showing him her fault, destroying any doubt in him as to whether or not she was worthy. She was not as wise to the world as Haku’s other woman had been—the black one with the blue eyes, who had been as harsh and cold as a winter storm. She was not a vessel, like the younger girl who had carried his child. Had Larkspur understood her lineage, understood his former-leader’s past better, he would have known. He would have laughed.

Then the girl approached, and Larkspur stood still. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and she lithe, feminine. That scent was overwhelming, made up of dried blood and stale sex. It was repulsive. His muzzle crinkled and pulled back, somewhere between a grimace and a smile. “Consider yerself lucky,” he grunted, orange eyes burning wickedly. “There ain’t many who live to speak of it.” Did he know this? As certainly as he knew where the bone yards came from or who had sought to bring the world to ruin. Haku was a monster. All monsters killed.

There were a great many number of ancient forces in the world. Most had names; others had names so ancient they were forgotten. Even the spiral on her arm told him that she knew of some truth. Despite the Khalif’s backwards knowledge and arcane truth, universal symbols spoke volumes. He saw that she was young, and believed she had only been taught recently—how else would the tattered shadows cling to her? They were new, fresh. They did not yet understand what he believed in. Haku had begun something with her, and Larkspur sought to see what this was.

A white tooth broke apart his peppered face, grinning. “Y’think yer the first, girl?” He barked out a laugh, a crackling thing that rubbed against his throat like electricity. “Naw, there’s been plenty before you. Be plenty after. But yer different then the last one,” he cocked his head, studying the lines in her face, the spiral around her neck. Oh yes, she was different. “Y’ain’t from here.” Not a question. He knew. He could smell it on her.

Pride was a sin that Larkspur did not understand. He had been broken down long before he had learned what was wrong with him—his coat, his chosen god. Tak, lord of all things dark and terrible. Was that not his destiny, to follow suit and destroy everything he had ever cared for. They did that first, the stone eagle whispered. They’re the reason you were supposed to die. He had not forgotten that. The Khalif would have ended him if they had not been given strangers for four years. He was lucky. He was incredibly lucky.

Her voice was high, a squawk, and his eyes burned merrily. Larkspur had seen a desert once; a desert made by man’s toxins. Passing through the Midwest had revealed the extent of farming and how it had ruined the earth. Dust where crops had been. It was not a true desert, but it was close. “Maybe y’did,” he echoed, and felt the ground pulse under his feet. “Is that where you were marked?” He asked, motioning to her scar.

There was certainty in him that her scar meant something. It had been made by tools, made with precision and with purpose. She didn’t seem to want to admit such a thing, and he found this interesting. Could she not sense it? There was so much in the world that the girl did not know. Yet Haku had picked her for something. Larkspur found this worth his time because he valued Haku as a similar soul, a kin mate, a brother of shadow and blood. He was not chosen by Tak, but something great had laid its hand across the chocolate wolf.

Clean. She knew nothing of the word. His eyes darkened. “To speak the language of the dead,” he answered honestly. Misery had branded him and opened his mind. Larkspur believed he was being reborn. How else could he talk in the language of god? “It’ll do y’wise,” he added, flicking one ear distractedly. “, t’clean yerself. Haku ain’t got many friends round these parts. Specially those coyotes up north.” This time, he smiled, tilting his head to eye her. She looked familiar. She might have looked like Misery if not for her build, or the doubt in her face.

She was ignorant to the ways of the mountain. Ignorant to the older gods of her desert (for Tak lived there, in the snake and the scorpion and the eagle at high noon) and the fact she was not yet worthy of her blood. Perhaps she had been cleansed, but he doubted this. So few could be exhumed. The girl started when he mentioned the dead and he did not overlook this. At least, the can tah did not overlook it. He heard the whispering voice raise up and cause him to take notice, to study her sharp features and cat-green eyes. Her question made his face break into that peculiar smile, ivory teeth flashing.

“Come back here,” he said, neither asking nor demanding. “Come back when the moon is half. I’ll tell you if you can show me what you learned from him.” Orange eyes burned, and he let out a harsh laugh, turning from her. One hand rose in a farewell wave, scars shining against dark fur. Without another word the broad-shouldered wolf walked back the way he had come, listening to nothing but the ever present voice of the stone eagle around his throat.