Seasons of Wither (The Great North Woods Pack Book 3) by Underhill Shawn

Author:Underhill, Shawn [Underhill, Shawn]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2013-10-29T04:00:00+00:00

~9~

Abel lifted his head from his outstretched forelegs. Blinking his eyes lazily as he looked over at the young wolf, he considered her plight. A few yards from him she lay curled up, resting her eyes but hardly sleeping. She does well on little rest, he thought. She keeps up well and says little of her discomfort, though I will not yet let her know that just yet.

Lifting his eyes to the sky, the old one took note of the constellations and the setting moon; first light was not far. I have not been to the eastern shore in nearly a moon, he thought. I’ve not smelled the sea nor seen the moon hovering over her, shimmering over her surface; nor the sun rising over her at the start of a day.

For a moment he took deeply of the cool air, as if hoping to find the scent of that place now occupying his mind. Then, lowering his head and eyeing the youngster again, he considered her further. Slowly, he let the idea of proceeding to that far-off place pass out and away from his conscience.

She has adapted quickly, he reminded himself. For that I will reward her before tasking her again. She is hungry, no doubt; hungrier than ever before in her life. In all that surrounds her there is no familiarity, no set territory to miss, apart from that small place she’s grown up in. She is lost in her newness, unsteady and working hard to hide that fact from me.

As he watched her, she opened her eyes halfway, just enough to see him and know that she was being watched, studied.

“Is it morning?” she asked.

The old wolf gave no reply. He blinked lazily, looked away and thought, Eager. Above all else, that’s what she is. Patience she has none of, nor even the control to appear otherwise. She is bold though. I believe she’s most anxious to learn to hunt, to stalk, to kill. I would encourage her openly, if not for her sensitivity to men. She desired to kill those hunters; I know that with certainty, though she performed with perfection when the time came. First I must teach her the art of control, the art of discretion. She is sensible enough, in my company, to refrain from following her instinctual desires. For now she will follow, watch, and learn with little resistance. She is soft clay at this point. But only because she does not yet comprehend how hard she will become. That is good. This is a hard world. The hard do well in it.

The old wolf stood, stretching as he arose, then turned to face the younger one. “Yes, it is morning,” he said. “You have lounged about long enough.”

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