Scenes From Buffalo Part Four

The air smelled of frost, and cold, and pine sap, and prey. Sasha ran with his mouth open, tongue lolling, diving and plunging through the heavy drifts gathered at the edge of the forest. He felt ice crystals digging at his toe pads; felt the wind in his face, sharp and wild. When he caught the scent of a rabbit, he gave a high, excited whine; changed course and plunged past the tree line, hot on the trail. He could sense and hear the other two wolves behind him; the musk of their fur, the bristling of their own excitement. It was almost like having a real four-legged pack again. 

The rabbit was near; his path recent. Sasha lowered his head and let the smell of warm fur and hot blood fill his nostrils as he raced along. Between tree trunks, and over snow-buried rocks. He scrambled down an embankment, leapt a frozen creek – a glimmering ribbon in the sunlight – and, there, spotted it. 

Prey, prey, prey.

It stood on its hind legs, testing the air with its wriggling nose. Spotted Sasha, and bolted. Little kicked-up puffs of snow. Flash of a white tail.

Run, the joyous cry of all his muscles and sinews. Run. Prey, chase, pack, run!

He leapt; he landed. Soft fur, hot flesh, coppery blood. He broke a tiny back with one shake of his head, and felt the heartbeat fade slowly against his tongue as he waited for the others to catch up.

Fulk and Anna came over the last low rise, between two pine trees. One black wolf, one mottled gray, high-stepping through the snow, pink tongues lolling.

Fulk shifted, and braced a hand against the tree trunk beside him, chest heaving as he gulped down air. His hair had come unbraided, wild black waves loose down his shoulders, his jeans and wool coat dusted with snow, face starkly pale save the pink roses of exertion on his cheeks.

Sasha stepped forward, and set the rabbit down on the snow. Nudged it with his nose. Here, friend, I will share with you.

Fulk’s response landed somewhere between a helplessly amused smile, and a sneer. “I’m not eating that.”

Sasha sat down, and cocked his head.

“Not when there’s perfectly good toast and tea just back that way.” He waved toward the compound, at least three miles back, now.

Annabel shifted to two legs, in a pink puffer coat and matching hat with a white pom-pom on top. She rolled her eyes. “He’s just so civilized, you know.”

Fulk turned to regard his wife, the smile winning out, going almost coy. “You act as if this is new information.”

Sasha shifted, still seated in the snow, only now without the fur to keep him from getting wet. He slung the rabbit over his shoulder and got to his feet, dusting cold dampness off the seat of his pants. “Well, it’s no fun flossing afterward, definitely,” he said, grinning at them both.

It was Fulk’s turn to roll his eyes, but Sasha thought it seemed fond.

He’d thought they’d go back to the family compound on four legs – the snow made for far easier going as a wolf. But Fulk turned away, and headed back on two legs, so Sasha followed behind, not complaining.

He couldn’t hold back his curiosity, though. “Why don’t you like being in your wolf skin?”

Fulk didn’t pause, kept taking long strides through the snow, but his shoulders stiffened. “I find it best to keep my wits about me. My human wits.”

Sasha frowned to himself, and adjusted the rabbit when it tried to slip off his shoulder. “I usually trust my instincts more than anything. The wolf knows things I don’t – that I can’t.”

Fulk did pause, this time, and turned to face him, black brows low and furrowed, mouth a tight, pale slash against his paler face. “That’s well and good for you,” he said, tone frosty. “But pardon me if I don’t relish the thought of picking raw rabbit tendon out of my back teeth later.” He whirled, hair settling against his back like a cloak, and marched forward.

“Sorry,” Sasha said, softly, breath pluming white. He tried always to be friendly, but the baron was prickly as a cactus – prickly in a different way from Nik. With Nik, Sasha could burrow under his chin until he got a laugh and a hug and Nik’s tension started to melt. His was a tension born of anxiety.

He suspected the same was true of Fulk, but he didn’t understand the root of it.

They walked perhaps a half mile without speaking, snow creaking and slurping wetly at their boots; birds trilled overhead, and a deer crept lightly through a hollow, and the forest breathed all the usual sighs and whispers of a forest under a blanket of snow.

Then Annabel picked up Fulk’s hand, squeezed it once, and dropped back to walk with Sasha.

“He’s not angry with you,” she confided in an undertone. Fulk’s head tipped fractionally to the side; he could hear them – a wolf couldn’t help but hear this close – but he wasn’t going to stop her from talking. That was something, Sasha thought.

“He doesn’t like to stay four-legged too long,” she continued, shoving her hands in her pockets, gaze trained on her mate’s narrow back. She looked sad. Even softer: “He likes it too much.”

Fulk halted again, so they did, too. But this wasn’t the sharp about-face of before. He stood, hesitant, swaying forward as if reluctant. The wind dragged his hair over his shoulder, and he reached up to take hold of it. Raked it into a tidy bundle, and his long fingers separated it out fast, an expert, if loose braid taking shape with movements that spoke of long practice. Quietly, he said, “The dividing line between wolf and man is very, very thin, sometimes. I don’t like forgetting that.”

He reached the end of the braid, and tied it off with an elastic from his wrist. Then started walking again.

Sasha whined softly. “His first bound master was terrible, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” Anna said, gaze drawing inward, hardening. “He was.”