It was clear that the idea of that it was not Ezekiel’s ability to speak to animals, but to speak to these birds in particular, that so interested her. Ezekiel’s ears went high again, oversized-coyote things. Hybrid as he was, it was only his mother’s blood that truly appeared in his sharp frame. Gabriel had given him weight and size; he was much larger than average coyotes, save those few oddities who outweighed him. The young man was the sum of his wholes, and subtly sought to eradicate the wolf from his family.
The ravens tilted their heads to and fro, listening and understanding only the words they recognized. Her foreign language was lost on them, as it was lost on Ezekiel, and he smiled slightly at the reassurance. Yes, death always came. Savage and cruel as the world was, that was the singular certainty. No one lived forever. “Oh yes,” he explained, looking to the birds. “Isn’t that right, you two?”
As if realizing they had been caught, the pair fluffed their feathers and hopped to and fro. It was Ibsen who spoke first, his broken voice rough as ravens always were. “You speak different,” he said to the collie, tilting his head to better look at her with one eye. “Yes, but it is nice,” Zola seconded, his voice slightly higher than his larger kin.
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