Oath of the Hunter

12 - Suspicion

"Shit," Rowan hisses. "Shit, shit, shit."

My focus darts across the dark woods, searching for shadows that don't belong, but I can't find anything.

"What can you hear?" I ask Rowan, my gaze flitting from one tree to the next.

He's quiet for a moment, listening out, before he shakes his head. "Nothing. No one else is here except us. Whoever did this is long gone."

Without preamble, he shrugs off his jumper and I give him a lost look as I tuck my knives away, satisfied with his verdict.

"The fuck are you doing?" I wonder aloud, reaching to take his jumper before he drops it on the muddy ground.

"Shifting," he explains, already working on his jeans. "It's the fastest way to get everyone here."

As I drape the jumper over my shoulder, my gaze slides past him to the splayed, mangled wolf. Features twisting with disgust, I'm hauled back a month to the day I found a body in Crescent Valley, the Othala symbol torn into his chest. The day I realised the sanctuary I'd found was home to a werewolf rivalry. The day I decided to stay anyway.

This isn't a mere Othala proclaiming ownership. It's a slaughter.

"Rowan," I begin, approaching to crouch before the poor creature, studying its injuries. The claw marks tearing through its fur, the innards scattered across the damp grass, the broken jaw. "No hunter did this. See the claw marks?" I run my fingers through the air above the marks, imitating their destructive path.

Hesitantly, and clad in only his briefs, Rowan steps up behind me to study what I've found. "You're right. Fuck," he manages.

"A wolf did this. It's another fucking rivalry," I say, taking the jeans from his slackened hands.

When I glance back at him, Rowan's shaking his head numbly. "It can't be. Darius, he— he said there aren't any packs nearby. Rival wolves will fight to the death, but to... to tear their kill to pieces..." He swallows uncomfortably, his eyes blazing golden as his wolf presses forwards. "It's barbaric. Shameful. Something's not right."

Without another word, he retreats a few paces and begins to shift. The process is startlingly seamless— all snaps and contorts and blurs until Rowan is gone and a wolf is in his place, shaking out his fur.

His wolf throws his head back and howls— a long, lonely, melancholy sound that echoes through the woods. As a symphony of distant answering howls join his song, he breaks off and comes trotting over, ducking his head and whining at me.

Rowan's wolf is always remarkably gentle with me, despite his size and his nature. Always attuned to my reactions, always keen to make sure I'm comfortable being close to him. I'm glad of it; despite knowing he would never bite me, or hurt me, I grew up keeping wolves at arm's length, just in case. I'm still learning how to ignore those instincts, but I'm learning fast.

Sinking my fingers through his thick fur, and losing my hand in a mass of soft brown, black and grey, I run my gaze over the body once more. Rowan's wolf whines again— a broken, sorrowful sound.

It is a gruesome sight, I have to admit, and my thoughts are on fire with potential explanations. Hunters wouldn't fake a kill like this— no weapon could replicate those claw marks. Or the fury behind them.

"Could it be a rogue wolf?" I muse. I've faced a few of them in the past, but they've never been violent before. A nuisance, sure, but they were like foxes. Eager to hide and stay hidden. Whole packs of werewolves were the threat, back then— or, rather, they were the targets. Lone wolves weren't worth our time or resources.