One shoulder struck with all of the inertia of the young coyote’s rush. He rebounded from the force, his feet dancing over still-cold earth to bring him back several inches. Ezekiel’s head lowered as his uncle rolled back onto his feet. The display of aggression from the older man brought a warped snarl-grin onto the scarred Hydra’s face. Did his uncle even remember him? If he didn’t, he certainly would after this.
“Shut up and fight,” Ezekiel demanded. He lowered his body and rushed forward again, ears flat against his skull, lips pulled away from his teeth in a grimace. Someone needed to understand his frustration, and he’d take it out on his uncle if that was what was needed. The Hydra feigned right and then snapped at the thick scruff of neck-fur that protected the jugular. There would be no need for death here, but Ezekiel wanted blood. He wanted to feel again.
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