There was not enough coyote in Gabriel to make him look the part. He might have been a wolf if not for his coat, if not for the sharpness in his face, if not for his absolute and bitter hatred for the breed. He tasted blood and was glad for it—first blood always was the sweetest. Gabriel rushed by his opponent and spun, seeing and welcoming the confusion on the wolf’s face. Good. The brute probably didn’t know the tactics, like the idiot wolves of Scintilla. This would be no different than that.
He remained still, muscles tensed, watching. It did not take long before the wolf settled on charging. Gabriel’s hind legs coiled like steel springs and as the wolf struck at him he moved with the blow, rushing away. It took him a moment to regain control, and he did so by rushing at the wolf again, feigning for his side before snapping at a haunch. The tactic would not last long, once the stranger had realized was he was doing. Still, that was the beauty of living in a clan of warriors—Gabriel’s tactics were many.
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