SSWM - 558
Their scent was all around. But it was the fear the radiated from them that made Heath power forward with speed and strength that surprised even the owner. He was small in his wolf shape; his coyote blood taking hold and making him look thin and light. But it allowed for speed. Paws pushed through the snow, his body rising to be carried over it and his eyes honing in on the one prize he hoped to take. The others ran with them, the herd traumatized by his presence and yet still hoping to stick with the others, none wishing to be separated from the small group. The coy-wolf continued to run, paw steps growing weak at one moment and then with determination sounding through his form another burst of speed brought him closer.
Had he known that a silent hunter stood in the shadow, waiting for the very prize he fought for, Heath might have simply waited. In time the arrow would pierce the deer’s neck or heart and there might be a small free meal to be taken. But his mind was very heavily distracted by the scene at hand. He could not wander where his mount had roamed off to, or how much meat would be drawn from the oddly shaped deer. Heath could only see the flanks of the creature that careened through the banks of snow with an elegance that was not diminished by the obstacle.
Such grace made the falter in the beast’s step all the more noticeable. It hit, shaking the deer’s haunch, but neither brought the beast to the ground or slowed it in the instant it struck. Gold eyes looked to find the feathered stick perturbing out from the beast’s back end. It was deep, sinking into the muscle easily, piercing the solid mass. The pair continued, running as if there had not been anything to interrupt their chase. It was taking its toll on the hybrid, and his breath was drawn and expelled harshly. The cold hit his chest as his breath weakened, and just as he felt the need to slow, giving in to the prey that was faster, more agile and better at the distance run, the hoofed animal faltered in its own step.
Heath could not miss the weakness that was now made obvious by the wound the arrow had created. Who might have shot the beast could not be questioned at the moment, and the predator allowed the instincts of old to wash over him. With a burst of speed that had to be drawn from a primal place inside the male he descended on the animal. Paws carried the screaming muscles, the ones that complained that they had been pushed too far too quickly. The travel, the wear of the ride, the change from one form to another. It had taken its toll and the male felt it now. But he pushed still, gaining speed as the prey slowed. The distance shrunk, and the fear could be tasted on his tongue. Blood from its wound had begun to weep, and the scent of it filled the air that streamed behind the beast. It pushed him further and in mere instants he was beside the creature. His fangs sought the neck of the beast, sought the blood and the metallic pure taste of it.