She turned to him, blood-splattered and eye’s blazing, and Ezekiel steadied himself for the tidal wave that followed. Talitha screamed her curses, blamed the wolves, and he said nothing. As she sought the body of the boy, he went to the intruders. While obviously wolfish in their blood, they shared something with coyote in them. The tawny coat of the one his sister had destroyed even after his arrow struck was far too familiar. He yanked the arrow from its body and went to the other. He was much darker, but a well-trained eye could see the sharpness in his face. They hadn’t been wolves; they were hybrids.
Another yank freed his arrow. Ezekiel cleaned the tip in the grass, kneeling as he did so. “What happened?" For all of her fury, all of her raving, he could not so blindly make a decision. Yet the image of the males on his russet sister filled him with an unfathomable rage. Even now his fur stood all on end, betraying the depth of his anger. He rose and one foot turned the hybrid over, knowing what tradition wished them to do with the dead.
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