The shift was palpable. It was as clear to him as if Max had drawn a sword. Ezekiel rose to his feet from where he had been sitting, flicked ash from the cigarette, and studied the taller coyote as if he was a stranger. Hostility bled from his stiff-legged movements and his crinkled muzzle. “I am here,” he snapped, and his black tipped tail flicked behind him like a cat’s.
“I’ve been here long enough,” he went on. “To know what this clan needs. We feed on this.” A savage smile cut across his face, showing his teeth. They were yellowing with age, betraying four years of toil and sacrifice. It felt like an eon. “Inferni lives on blood, Max. We mount heads on pikes. You mounted a head,” the Aquila went on, and paced towards the young warrior. “This clan is capable of surviving if I leave it for a day.”
These were not answers. He could not answer. No one would understand why he needed to fight as he did, why the only man he trusted (if this was the word, and it did not feel right) was a madman King that would just as soon rip his throat out.
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