Aggression seeped through the very pores of the boy, and Ezekiel’s body readied to meet it. Muscles tightened along his bones, drawing the skin tight along his spine. He saw fear, too—the boy’s ears fell back in a display of such a thing. Foolish. Weak-hearted. The Aquila’s toes spread along the cold ground, ready and willing to both take and launch an attack. Black lips pulled away from twin rows of savage, ivory colored teeth. They were flawless; a far cry from the scars that graced the sun-colored body of the coyote.
“Gabriel is gone,” he hissed, whiskers curling. “Now run your sorry ass out of here or wind up like the rest.” Without moving, he spoke of the skulls that even now bordered his land. The Aquila had no concern about morality when it came to people like this—wolves who were too daft and too ignorant to consider themselves forced to bow. While Inferni did not demand such strict submission, he would not allow anyone—especially some brat from Anathema—to demand anything of him. Behind him, his black and red tipped tail flicked once, like a cat. The muscles of his arm tightened, turning his fingers into talons and exposing the ferociously sharp claws hidden within.
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