In his mind, the ones that were not wolves—dogs, jackals and the like—were slightly elevated above the cousin species with whom he shared blood. His father was a wolf posing as a coyote, and his grandmother had loved wolves before, and in some way Ezekiel had as well. His love had begun to fade when Corvus scarred his face, and it had blossomed afterwards, while he traveled the wilderness. Ezekiel compared them to wolverines (the familiarity of the name was not lost on him) and he had known those beasts to be savages. Wolves were no different. He supposed this was why his clan had become so defensive when faced with them.
“It’s not your fault,” he said lowly, knowing that a weaker man would have blamed her, knowing he might have done so himself. One of his hands dropped to grab the nape of the dead wolf’s neck, standing abruptly. He couldn’t stand to be around this place, around his sister. Not now, while the air reeked of blood. “Take him away from here,” came the order, low and rough. Unceremoniously the Aquila began to drag the body towards the border, slowing once only as a familiar black-bird swooped low. The coyote spoke to him quietly, and the bird returned to the air—within minutes more of the ravens arrived, ready and waiting for their meal.
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