Wheeling Gull Isle I pray for the wicked on the weekend

Coelacanth stretched her forelimbs and flexed her toes with a yawn and a wriggle for good measure, pleased with the way things seemed to be turning out. Their visit with the wolves of Ironsea had gone as well as she’d hoped, and she felt certain that seeing Titmouse, Constantine, and Durnehviir again would be a joyous occasion — well worth waiting for. For now, she and the other seawolves would relax and reacquaint themselves with the island that had remained uninhabited for the duration of their absence. It seemed to Seelie that the isle had been waiting.

“See that?” exclaimed Hemlock’s son, and the sheepdog bounded to her paws with unfeigned interest, tufted ears sweeping forward upon her skull. She followed the young wolf to the water’s edge, her Neptune eyes falling upon the fins that sliced through the surface, but kept a close eye on him. “Care,” she bade him in a soft whisper, before recalling that the word she sought was, “careful.” Gently, she made to nose at his cheek. The water was deceptively calm right now, but all it took was one good riptide to drown a puppy — even one as near to adulthood as Droman was.