Horizon Ridge iii: something wicked (m)

The boy's voice was small. The bear missed the depth and strength of bear voices—of her sister, most of all. Would killing this one bring them back? Maharet knows it is not possible yet she considers him a moment, considers his death; runs scenarios through her mind which serve to calm the urge.

He has an offering for her. Curious. Maharet's thoughts churn lazily, and the ground gathers her interest, where it is slick and unclean. She cares very little for the dog's precious stick. As her gaze steadies upon its various curves, she raises her eyebrows.

Wanlida?

She has lived through three wolf generations by now, yet this word is new to her. There comes a swine-like grunt from her. 
Keep your toys, wolf-pup.

The boy lacks fear—and she loathes that about him—but he knows not to come close, he has wisdom that others of his kind have lacked, along with reverence. She does not know what to do with reverence.

Her weight shifts, and she begins to move on.