Hart and Hunter

Chapter 28

Ch. 28: Dane

After two days as a Wolf, my mind is sharp, clear, and almost devoid of human thought. As I run, my heart beats wild and free in my breast, my breath flows cool and then hot over my tongue, and my muscles burn with the warmth of exertion.

Freya matches me stride for stride, her long legs and lean form letting her keep up with ease. Of all my siblings, she's always been the most my equal, the most like me, and I'm grateful to have her at my side.

We arrive at the crest of the ridge and come to a halt. I circle the small, flat clearing of stone a few times, orienting myself and absorbing the world through my Wolf's senses, before joining Freya at the edge. Side by side, we sit and admire the lay of the land below.

My land—my territory, my home.

A fierce joy burns through my veins, and I release the pent-up energy with a few loud barks of delight.

The moon is bright, and the sky is clear. It's a good night for a hunt.

Tilting my head back, I let my voice lift from my throat on a long ribbon of Song. Freya's howl joins mine, and together we praise the Wild in our blood, and in the earth on which we stand.

A tone of light, like the thrum of golden strings, goes through my heart as I sense my Mate's approach. He hears me, and although he cannot answer as a Wolf, I sense his reply.

Another Wolf answers as well, and I hear the eager excitement in my younger sister's voice.

I wish all my brothers and sisters could be here to witness me Ascend; wish my parents could be here to look on with pride; but an alpha's ascendence is, by and large, a solitary thing. Except for his witness, he bears the load alone.

As the hour nears, the enormity of it weighs on me—the sense of responsibility growing heavier with each breath, as if I'm absorbing Alpha power from the air itself. It's not a bad feeling, though, and as my heart swells with certainty, I know from the depths of my soul to the tips of my fur that I'm ready.

At my side, Freya's form stiffens, her ears pricking forward as her tail lifts. A warning growl rumbles in her throat. Distracted from my simple appreciation of the night, I follow the point of her snout and turn my attention to the valley below.

Ingrid's cheerful, excited barks have changed, growing sharper and more urgent, signaling not joy but alarm.

Something's wrong.

As the barks grow increasingly frantic and then cut off with an abrupt yelp, my heart leaps with fear and launches me into action.

The way Freya and I had come was the fastest way to ascend the ridge, but the fastest way down is over the cliff's edge. It's not a straight drop—more like a tumbled stone wall leaning on its side—and by jumping from the top of one boulder to the next, we can reach the valley floor in minutes.

At the bottom we pause, breath misting in the moonlight filtering through the ragged boughs of pine and fir, and scan the shadows with hunt-lit eyes.

Freya points her nose east and signals she's picked something up with a low growl. I haven't yet detected anything, but my sister is the best tracker I've ever known, and I trust her instincts. She starts off at a cautious lope and I fall in at her side, but after only a few dozen paces, she slows to a stop.

She raises her head and sniffs the air, then lowers her snout to the ground and runs in a quick, wide circle, as if attempting to pick up a lost scent. It works, and with a soft, breathy bark, she takes off through the trees in a different direction.

As I dash after her, a strange scent tickles my nose, and I draw up short and huff a soft growl. Freya glances back at me and retraces her steps, ears pricked forward with wary curiosity. I lick her face in reassurance and sniff the air, indicating I'd found something. She does the same, then snorts and shakes her head.