“Not being good idea,” the raven chided as the coyote slipped through the vegetation, padding down the mountainside toward the clear, sparkling river in the distance. A forest rose up around her, deciduous and coniferous trees mingling heedless of species; the carpet under small, scarred paws was made of grass and dirt and leaves and needles from the previous year. Despite the season, the breeze coasting through the northern section of the mountain range was cool, blowing off the peaks and finding shade under the muddled green canopy.
It was beautiful scenery, more beautiful than she often gave it credit for, but the nagging agreement that this was a bad idea permeated her awe and gave it a bitter edge. She swiveled her head, straining to take in as much auditory information as she could with only one good ear, and her steps were cautious. Each step took her further away from the blood-and-ash ruins of the enemy, but she was headed away from Inferni, and she was headed toward wolves.
There was bile at the back of her throat, an acid sensation that burned harshly but was no stronger than the churning of her stomach. “I’m afraid, Stark,” she admitted quietly to the bird flapping above her. It was a confession that no luperci would ever hear, not her sister or her warrior friend or the woman who’d overtaken most of her thoughts these long days. But she had no problem telling the raven that saw her as his child; it was like climbing into a parent’s nest and murmuring about nightmares. And she was fully aware that she’d never told her mother about nightmares, either.
“Wolf soldiers being gone, boy,” Stark croaked gently down to her, swooping in close. It was tough flying, but the narrowing proximity gave her some comfort as she leaped over a fallen tree, skidding down the side of a slope before breaking out into a trot again.
“I know,” she said. “They’re gone, and the war is over. But that’s not it.” Her blue eyes betrayed her age as she peered up at him. “You know that’s not it. Just because the battle’s over doesn’t mean…”
He understood. She could see it in his beady eyes as he glanced briefly down at her, but then he flapped up and disappeared into the canopy of a tree. He did not reappear until she was leaping out on rock dotted with bushes, the river coming closer and closer to her left. The Pictou was strong from the spring showers, and it led right into her destination; there was no getting lost on this journey she had made but once before.
“Coyotes and wolves,” Stark began awkwardly, “fighting always. Not changing that, boy. Knowing that, too.” She nodded, troubled, and he continued. “So why traveling here? Why being scared?”
His words were punctuated with a question mark, but the moment was punctuated by something a lot less ambiguous. She was taken aback by the sheer strength of the odor, the mingled marks of many wolves. She could pick out the most dominant of them, but the rest were so numerous and blurred since her last time at the borders. Her tail dropped, and she blinked as she scanned the border, lush with vegetation here and there rather than the barren sight it’d been in winter.
“I want to know that it wasn’t them,” Vesper confessed. “I want to make sure they weren’t part of it, that the wolves didn’t…didn’t talk to them, didn’t convince them to join their side. There’s no bad blood between Zalen and I, but these others I don’t know. I want to make sure that it stays peaceful.” She looked at him, her winged guardian, a source of strength so many miles from her territory.
But there was nothing he could say; he only alighted on a nearby branch, high enough so that he could somewhat see into a pack territory, and gave her an encouraging nod. Reminding herself that she was the subleader of a great clan, Vesper took a deep breath and let out a howl as hybrid as she was, seeking a meeting with the wolves.
Image courtesy of ChainBound
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