Silver Moraine I have seen sinking ships go down with more grace than you

The sound of a meal would've drawn him either way, but he was especially interested tonight. The kid's scent was all over the place, and he was afraid to charge ahead and lose it — but not as afraid as he was of getting anyplace too late. So when coyote screamsong turned to questioning cackles, his ears pinged toward the sound and the rest of his body followed.

He was fleet-footed on their trail. These were the coyotes who called to him in the night, doing their best to entice him away from the relative safety of the pack. It was a game the coywolf knew well, and the siren song, though sweet, had never pulled him from his bed. He felt vindicated then when he reached them, and all at once, true colors were revealed.

They had not wanted him. Not for anything but sport.

"Fuck off!" he shouted at the quartet, intersecting the meeting somewhere between Foxglove and her would-be connoisseurs. His fur had puffed up all over, making him look twice as bulky as usual, and he hissed at them — he hissed and he gaped, but with the overbearing presence of a wolf rather than the slinking threat of a coyote.

The coyotes sang in a choppy staccato, excitement and nerves and indignation all at war. One of them feinted toward him as if they might entice him to play. Dusty Rose had seen a hunting dog fall for this, once or twice. He'd feasted in the aftermath along with the rest of his family.

The coywolf stood his ground.