It was not out of disrespect that Ezekiel spoke so, but merely frustration. His uncle was skilled, of this he had no doubt, but he lacked the depth that the boy had come to expect. Fighting him was like fighting the wolverine—it was ferocious and hostile but lacked meaning in its combat. He doubted that he would ever find someone capable of understanding what it was he sought, for so many of the old beliefs he had been taught vanished in the wilderness. Even here, the world was full of pretenders.
Silently, Ezekiel watched as his uncle spat and snarled. The boy’s eyes remained raptor-like, his ears high as he listened and tried to make sense of the babble. It occurred to him that the Hydra was not all right, despite his argument of sanity, and this brought a peculiar smile to his face. How appropriate, to find that the only living connection to the Massacre bloodline was a crazed coyote. “Fair enough,” he offered, pulling his head back. “You want me to go now?”
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