When it came to fights, size and physical strength mattered if you knew how to use it- or if your opponent didn't know how to use theirs. Jorge smashed snout-first into the undergrowth, a small pony assaulted by a much smaller, but fiercer and per pound more muscular and experienced fighter. The cat had hooked its claws into the meat of his flesh, hanging on as jaws capable of crushing a tortoise shell slashed at the back of his skull. Yelping wildly the wolf managed to lift himself onto his feet, careening headlong into thorns and the thick trunk of a maple. The jaguar hung on, unable to grip his throat or the life-ending target of spinal column. It bit into his shoulders, struck a nerve and sent the two together tumbling down a short slope into the fog-laden moss of the forest.

Momentum wrenched the cat free of his back. But before Jorge could recover, get his feet beneath him and orient himself to the new terrain, it sprang across the forest floor and with a fluid strike of lightning wrapped its claws around his neck. The weight pulled the wolf's head down, and as fangs sunk into his throat he could do little more than wobble upright, unable to bite, unable to retaliate or defend as pain paralyzed the already frightened animal. Without letting up its suffocating bite the cat re-positioned its haunches, trying to bring down the game, succeeding inch by slow inch as Jorge's head sunk down down down and his breathing grew strained.

The cat would not let go, refused to let go of its prey despite seeing the flash of darkness that was the charging wolf. Its eye rolled back toward Caelan, but still it clung on. It was only when the dire wolf's fangs drew level with its torso that it released. In a spurt of blood the cat detached from Jorge's throat, twisting away as Caelan's jaws sank into its belly. The cat screamed, thrashed down in the roots and stone, the cold strategy of its hunt reduced now to sheer survival. 

With the cat's skin in his teeth, the wolf jerked his head in a sharp tearing motion, single-minded in his obsession to destroy the spotted, hissing thing that had hurt his kin. The taste of heated blood magic burned going down his throat. But it was his kin that stopped the assault, standing upright, swaying, and collapsing against Caelan's hindquarters. The wolf lost his grip as he spun around to snap at the presence attacking his flank, withdrew his teeth an inch from Jorge's downturned ear and could do nothing more than watch as the jaguar pushed itself underneath a log and out to freedom, guts drizzling dark blood.

It seemed about to race back uphill, but at the last second it leaped into the branches of a nearby tree and clambered with labored breath high into the air and out of reach. Like a ghost in the growing fog, the first cat leaped into the boughs from a shadowed pocket of undergrowth. Caelan's teeth clicked empty on the air as it too reached heights unattainable by even the largest of wolves.

Jorge, meanwhile, let out a pleading moan, crawling on his belly to take shelter underneath his boss's gore-splattered chest. Caelan snapped at him, a ungentle warning, then the skin rolled over his fangs and he stepped daintily aside. The younger male lay stiff but panting, rich brown eyes seared by pain. He allowed the older wolf to sniff the wounds, press his black snout into the gouges (one of the two of wolves always keep an eye on the tree) and push him onto his side to rest.

Understanding passed between the pair, and Caelaen leaned over and licked the side of his charge's face as if to say, "you'll be okay."

With that, the sheriff's amber eyes narrowed onto the sleek feline shadows.

The pair of cats hissed and spat, eyes shining copper pennies between branches. They bumped together, a twining shadow of spots and snarls, the grace of the gesture lost with the injury to the forefoot in for the former and something more internalized in the latter. Still, they came together as only cats can, a pair of perfectly tuned clocks, heads ticked left and right, left and right, following the wolf's pacing.

He wanted up there. He didn't bother leaping because other than hanging off a limb like a dumb dog and maybe if he was lucky spooking them, there was no possibility of reaching the cats so high. And they could only climb higher or scramble to another tree, with claws and toes designed for this.

It was times like these he wished his bloodline was diluted- that he was some impressive strain of monster with hands. Wolf feet were great, as long as you were doing activities designed for wolf feet- like running, or digging holes and swiping at Marcy's door to be let in. But after spending time as a human, he really appreciate what opposable thumbs could do.

He shook his head.

Something was definitely wrong; and the more he thought the more he felt. Dark fur. More reckless. Always having his thoughts turn right back onto her.

He jogged around the tree, looking up, looking down, skirting the dark low boughs for something to give him an advantage. At this point, it'd be easier hunting down a cushy spot to wait the cats out- and he might've done so if they didn't reek of magic and if Jorge wasn't in recovery. Instead, the wolf continued to pace, stopping to check on Jorge now and then, but always wary of taking his eyes off the tree too long.

A single branch cracked in the distance. Deer, he thought immediately, but when a second branch broke his attention was forced to keep the jaguars in periphery to stare into the grey tree line. A breeze was blowing, rattling through the grasses and down into the flatland where the wolves waited.

Jorge lifted his head off the ground with a whimpered strain. His just-panting tongue was tucked neatly away in his jaws, but his fangs had caught the side of his lip with a funny little bulge that wasn't going intimidate a flea let alone the incoming stranger. Caelan's paw reached out to bop the wolf's head. Jorge looked up, startled, and fixed his lip.

In the shadows of pines, a shape began to emerge. Humanoid. Taller than a man, muscled legs but not too proportionally different. It was the muscle piled onto hunched shoulders, and the furry arms and thick, disproportionate skull that distinguished the creature as a Were.

Not Marcy.

Caelan bristled. He'd been hoping it was her- always was, when Zakar was involved, but this did not smell like any wendigo he'd ever had the misfortune of encountering. The stench surrounding the wendigo was that associated with death- dried blood, rotting flesh and dirt disturbed. Marcy as a wendigo smelled like she'd bathed in a waterlogged grave. Zakar in the form of that cursed little Eyra carried no more a scent than an expired candle in a maelstrom. Just a hint of smoke, and only if you were really searching for it and even then it might be said to be imagination.

Fresh blood, gleaming bright and carrying whiffs of human, covered the chest and forearms of this Were. It was naked, male. Bronzed skin shadowed with a strong patterning of rosettes that faded along the chest and inner thighs to pale white. Feathers laced its long black hair which had been pulled into a high pony tail. An intricate pattern of turquoise and pearl beaded the pectoral necklace collaring its wide throat. Blood and thicker viscera had covered half the design; making it difficult to judge what it displayed. On its forearms, several gold bangles and cuffs cut the dim light of the stars.  As the Were approached, crossing the first steps toward the tree, the jaguars above purred and leaned as if to rub their heads against him. But Caelan's voice rose in volume and with flat ears they stayed put.

At the base of the tree, when the wolves snarls maxed out in volume, the Were came to a halt. It raised one clawed hand, showing off the thick pads of its fingers and the gleaming hook of its talons, and scored a mark down the truck. Bark flew. The rough scrape quieted snarling animals feline and canine alike.

It spoke, deep and cold as water sitting at the bottom of an abandoned well, trickling through the mind in a way that made Caelan want to throw himself onto his haunches and itch his ears. Beside him, Jorge was not too discreetly rubbing his ear against the sheriff's side.

Whatever was being said wasn't English, had hints of something well south of the border while lacking the familiar cadence of the languages he knew. It gave the impression of tremendous age despite looking no worse than its late thirties or early forties.

The thing waited, dark eyes gleaming, jaguars leering through the fog over its hunched back. Caelan tilted his head like a quizzical hound- people understood dogs. There was a certain kinship there that made communication between man and beast easier. And the head tilt was a fine example.

As Caelan's head made its dogged twist, so too did the Were's. It took another few paces forward. The low intonation of its next words ended on a distinct question.

Caelan's head turned the other way. Compared to other wolves, his ears were short and small, but they curved up with curiosity like any other's- come again?

The Were kept walking, now with its front hands lifted as if in surrender- from this distance the thin, winding tail it carried jumped into view with a soft flick of the tip, winnowing in and out of the thickening fog. Behind it, the wounded jaguars were vigilant but motionless- and growing steadily more difficult to detect as through swirls of grey. The world itself smelled more floral, more damp and earthy with a disticnt musk- as if he'd caught the trail of a serpent winding its way through the jungle.

Jorge, alarm straining through his vocal chords, started up. A quick tug on his ear from sharp teeth sent the younger wolf flat on his side once more. His heartbeat was wild, the white of the one eye looking up at the sheriff large and exposed. If he panic took him any further, he'd pass out, and that would distract Caelan and leave them both vulnerable to attack. So Caelan stood over him, the line of his body tensed despite a more relaxed, inquiring expression.

The Were thing tried again, extending the back of one large hand forward to the mercy of the wolf's snout, but when it stepped too near Caelan let him know with a warning reverberation that lengthened the space between them once more.

His features were very much lost to the ugly rift where animals and humans weren't meant to blend- fur over a wide, flat human nose and fangs that made the jaw primitive and words near unmanageable. Perhaps that was why each foreign word seemed to ring in the skull. Perhaps some relation to Zakar was why it smelled of wild tropics and carried a link to cats.

"Not . . .," the Were began in a tone that seemed to surprise even himself. 

Caelan's head tipped down just slightly. Yes. This language.

"Not . . .," it started again with renewed confidence. "Threat."

Another nod. Continue.

"You are . . . wolf who bring death to many kind?"

Caelan did not sit, but his snout bobbed down again and the fur along his spine relaxed. He could still taste the hot blood of the jaguar, but there was no having more if the Were wanted to proceed in a civil fashion. The Were pointed one claw at Jorge.

"Who that then?"

Jorge, pancaked flat on his side, craned his neck off the ground with a pained noise and snarled.

Caelan bodied himself forward to draw attention from the smaller wolf and flashed his fangs once more. Not important, his canine posture explained. Not going to tell you.

The Were's hand moved to its chin, stroking the soft fur to a ruddy shine. "You turn man. We speak?"

Not one molecule of Caelan's being wanted to be human right now. He stood his ground, feet light against the soil, muscles ready to spring.

"I have woman," the Were continued. "Say she know you. Sharp teeth. Dead. Say I need this wolf, this . . . sheriff. Say you mean of the fang. I believe. Almost kill pets." One long finger wagged. Behind it, the jaguars' tails thrashed and their eyes glowed bright with malice. "Not nice."

Caelan offered nothing in the way of sympathy or regrets. His tail lashed quietly toward his fallen friend, and it was the other Were's turn to nod.

"Yes," it said. "No time for having partner with the weak."

With flared nostrils the thing stopped talking, turned its head as if something were about to sneak up on it- and dissolved into the fog. The trees above were empty, and the fog itself receded as quickly as it had set in. Caelan let out a deep breath and nudged Jorge. The young wolf wasn't ready to walk yet. So he sat on his haunches so that his back would touch Jorge's side, and stared out into the evening. He thought, and it was difficult to tell from this distance in the dark with the wind blowing in from the south, but he thought he heard the rustle of tiny cat's feet.