Sequoia Coast I got a taste for a life of dining alone

Ephraim hadn't got as far as he had alone by not taking heed of his surroundings.

Before Zola even made a sound, the coywolf turned, panning his ears to the sides and fixing her with a narrow look. Nothing about her struck him as familiar, but his breath still caught in his throat when he first saw her. He remembered the wolf whose fur was purely russet red, whose scent curled strong in the wind, whose time imprisoned in Drageda had marked the beginning of his own end there. His heart clenched, then released; this was not Rosalyn.

You from this group? he asked, more brusquely than intended. Ephraim always experienced nerves when he came back to this place, even when confirmed that it was empty. Sometimes he thought he might find Heda's ghost here, or Caiaphas' in the grotto down below. He never did. Somehow, knowing that the wolves who stormed Drageda were now living here was worse, and if Zola was one of them, it was in his best interest to make himself scarce.

And yet, and yet, the familiar scent of one called to him.