Wheeling Gull Isle you've still got a little lightning in you

Over Doe’s shoulder, Coelacanth’s Neptune eyes distractedly scanned the horizon. Where was the black-banded Leviathan who walked so doggedly in his odd-eared mate’s wake? Mindful of the warning in Doe’s wordless murmur — it might have been a susurrus overture of welcome, but the sheepdog’s guilt complex didn’t allow her to make such assumptions — she flattened her tufted ears against her delicate skull and wriggled appealingly. Unlike the wolf who stood still and stiff-limbed beside her — who nuzzled against her trustingly — who might still, still! be the cruelest of illusions — Seelie was a creature as fluid as the water she loved and her spine went noodly and serpentine in the dusky female’s presence.

It frightened the spry little wolfdog to make any advances or take any initiative in this situation. She felt as though any forward movement from her would send Doe spiraling away, back into the arms of the sea — or worse, into the immutable past. With her heart surging upward into her throat, Seelie craned her neck to preen softly at the fur that spiked in shades of russet and steel at the spindly wolf’s nape. She wished more than ever that Komodo had not left them, even if his return might bring lost sheep back to the fold — and she longed for Stockholm’s reassurance to keep her from unraveling and to affirm that Doe was truly real.