Vesper is by Sie!

The scarred Centurion of Inferni was in an inordinately good mood lately. Naturally, much of that mood coincided with the change in leadership, as well as an uncharacteristic optimism for how things would turn out for the fire clan. Much of it was unwarranted, though, and many times Stark had commented on it, bringing the coyote out of a daydream and remarking that even her fluffy girl-feelings couldn’t add up to such a cheery demeanor. He stated, empathically, that she was glowing, and went as far as to suggest that she had to have gotten into something fermented with Helotes. Above all, however, the raven said that such a high mood only meant she’d come crashing down sooner or later, and “that not being pretty, boy.”

Vesper ignored him, however, as she’d grown used to selectively ignoring him. It was all in good fun, however; she trusted her scouting partner and feather mentor with her life, and if he was seriously concerned, it would have shown in his tone. She knew him well enough by now for that.

She did follow his advice when he mentioned seeing a wounded grouse in the bush, not very far from where she was patrolling outside of clan territory. Giving one last suspicious sniff to a clump of foliage that butted against the edge of the borders, she spun around and gave chase to the raven’s shadow, her pale paws flattening the grass.

At last, the coywolf crouched at the edge of a wooded area where the raven alighted on a particular branch, dipping his head downward in a deliberate gesture. Blue eyes snapped to the bushes, and she began to creep forward in an arc, muscle memory taking over her quiet, catlike stalking as her mind focused on the closest and most careful path. Her stomach was tight with hunger, as she hadn’t eaten anything since the afternoon before, and she began to salivate despite herself when she caught the scent of her prey. It was keeping still, scared, and she only needed to drag herself a few more steps forward…

Vesper leaped. Her jaws snapped, but she got a mouthful of feathers and not much else. The grouse flapped upward, and Stark cawed harshly in surprise and frustration, about to swoop down to bat the prey aside so his partner could make the kill.

An arrow whizzed through the air, struck the grouse, which struck the ground.

The tawny female froze and snarled, her eyes wide with fear, her good mood evaporating instantaneously as Stark had predicted—Stark! She whirled around to find him on the ground, and she bolted toward him only for him to stand and give his head a shake. His feathers were puffed out, and he looked more startled than she’d ever seen him, but a few sniffs and nudges yielded no bad results. Shaken, all Ves could do was drag the bird against her chest with a paw and hold him there.

Only his quiet croak made her return to the present. She found the body of the grouse instantly, staring at the arrow jutting out of its eye. She didn’t recognize the fletching.

Vesper turned around again quickly at the sound of footsteps, confident and meandering. Her ear flattened and her lips wrinkled back in an ugly snarl, one that was sure to crinkle each of her scars and make a mess of her angular face. Stark had, as per her silent wishes, flown up into a tree and made himself scarce, although she’d no doubt he was watching closely.

A tall—or what she felt was tall, especially compared to her lupus form—luperci shape manifested between a couple of trees. Her eyes found the markings of a dog, although a bit more feral agouti than the clean-cut black-and-white of the domestic breed. In one white hand was a bow, while a strap across the mutt’s thin body held a quiver at his back.

The youngish stranger looked down at her, almost puzzled, and smiled. Sorry, doll, did I nail your target for you?

Being called “doll” was the final straw for the tense hybrid, and with a guttural snarl she might’ve been proud of working up in another situation, she lunged forward. It was merely a feint, intended to intimidate and test this doggish luperci, and she didn’t know whether to be pleased or frustrated that he backed quickly away and adopted a less cocky air.

You could have killed more than the grouse, kid, Vesper growled. Objectively she could see that he wasn’t that much younger than her—maybe a few months younger, landing him at about two and a half years old to her nearly three. But it felt right to give him the name; his formerly arrogant and cheery smile reminded her of kids she knew. Most of said kids were probably dead—including the old her, more or less.

While the mutt had been somewhat conceding in the face of her lunge, his pointy tricolor face attained a defensive look. I wouldn’t have, he growled, furry ears falling back into messy black hair. He gestured toward the dead grouse and his clean shot. I’m a master at aim. His eyes were amber, she noticed, an amber more wild and true than her own eye color.

The coywolf snorted, taking a seat after a moment. She felt exhausted, mostly from the terror of thinking she’d lost Stark and the effort of pushing that terror aside for later analysis. Right now, she focused on those amber eyes and scowled. What are you? she demanded, forgetting how stupid she found the question when it was directed at her.

Half a collie and half a coyote, the young man boasted back, and one hundred percent Thompson—well, whatever the hell that means anymore.

Seeing this kid deflate evoked a strange feeling in her, one that she recognized and immediately groaned at. No one could say that Vesper had maternal instincts, but her fraternal ones were in high gear, and she had the stupid urge to cuff the man-boy on the ear and tell him to buck up or shut up. She wondered if Stark would think she was being stupid.

After a moment, he piped up: What are you, doll?

She lunged at him again, and with a rather undignified bark, he fell backwards and landed on his plume of a tail. The tan points on his brows accentuated his surprised look, and it had to make her laugh—a harsh sound, more cruel than amused. I know what I’m not, she snapped, and stepped closer to him, feeling ridiculous and angry and smug. I’m not a doll.

The coydog held his hands up to concede the point. He grabbed his bow and ran his fingers over the wood and the string to check for breakages or splinters then looked back at her. To her supreme shock, he smiled at her brightly.

Am I that much of a failure of acting like a cold-hearted killer-bitch, Vesper wondered, furrowing her brow and stepping backwards, or is he retarded?

The young man’s smile grew into a Cheshire grin, and he gave his head a shake that sent his wavy dark hair flapping around his face. My name’s Asher, he announced, holding a hand out. She stared at his paw with disbelief, and he withdrew it, rubbing it on his dark-specked white chest casually. I’m sorry for almost killing you or whatever you were too scared to realize was a purposeful shot that was not going to kill you. He blinked in acknowledgement of that awkward sentence then gestured to the grouse. You can have it if you want! His tongue lolled, his amber eyes lighting up eagerly, and however much coyote he was, his expression was very much dog.

She detested dogs. And cute things.

Your kill, Vesper said, shrugging a shoulder and giving as little of a shit as she could possibly give. His grin broadened, his tongue lolling harder, and his stupid tail thumped the ground. She flattened her ear and shuffled over to the dead bird, deciding to humor him, deciding that she was getting too soft. She pulled the arrow out with some difficulty then grabbed its neck, her ear still low, glancing at him awkwardly and wondering if she was really free to head back. She said, Bye.

Asher said, Maybe we’ll see each other again!

She frowned and left, agreeing with Stark’s sentiment that she was really in too good of a goddamn mood.