Grey lady, he thought, testing the name on the tip of his tongue. Familiar, perhaps, but the taste was damp with wrongness. “You mean the Hudlufólk,” the Hidden Ones. Entranced, the red door loomed in his mind until he was sure it flickered behind the girl’s shoulder. Naturally, the little door perched amid the rocks for the Hidden One sang a siren song, but it was Thorn Paw’s aversive reaction that yanked his attention elsewhere. The girl snaked behind his back, but where icy seas did not disturb, her fingers trailed chills in their wake. He did not like it.
But it was her proclamation that slithered an eel of a smile to his lips, and proudly withdrew her from cowering. “Thorn Paw dislikes you,” he said, “but he will not bite.” A shadow of strong will blotted momentarily, but it was with due respect that Tristan knew Thorn Paw would hinge his jaws shut – at least while he was around.
Issue of manners settled, Tristan studied the girl closely; she was not wolf. The scents were wrong, but neither was she fated the life of more temporal beings. There was something about her that lingered. A scent he recognized coiled the nostrils and tugged the lip toward growls the longer he focused. It clawed at the mind, unhinging humanity from wolfish instinct. A hatred, ancient as the Otherworld, clung to her that not even the waters of the fjord could wash away.
But it was her proclamation that slithered an eel of a smile to his lips, and proudly withdrew her from cowering. “Thorn Paw dislikes you,” he said, “but he will not bite.” A shadow of strong will blotted momentarily, but it was with due respect that Tristan knew Thorn Paw would hinge his jaws shut – at least while he was around.
Issue of manners settled, Tristan studied the girl closely; she was not wolf. The scents were wrong, but neither was she fated the life of more temporal beings. There was something about her that lingered. A scent he recognized coiled the nostrils and tugged the lip toward growls the longer he focused. It clawed at the mind, unhinging humanity from wolfish instinct. A hatred, ancient as the Otherworld, clung to her that not even the waters of the fjord could wash away.