Bearclaw Valley you will never get to heaven.

merrick slept, and dreamed of marrow, of white cracking beneath the pierce of teeth, dissolving into burgundy. the rich taste of fat and blood. the consummation of death was to dismantle one's lambs.
he had not done it for the boy, nor his father, nor indra. he did not think he could have done it for her; in the end, merrick had snapped the vultures away from her body and dashed snow across the fall-flare of her coat 
he blinked awake, boyking stirring with hunger. longing for wolfbone innards, and stealing away half-muzzy to discover them.
blood slowed, ticked to ice within his veins. the single eye roved wildly over the gaping jaws that had sprouted from the tomb like an unholy flower.
merrick stared, daring not to breathe nor challengr the apparition clawing up from the grave he had put them in; coywolf, failed cryptkeeper sweating along his collarbones and thrilling down to his loins.