Noctisardor Bypass Whenever all my friends ask, all I say is

He hated him. He hated him down to the scars on his ears, the smarmy expression on his face, down to every last shaft of black fur that bladed his rangy hide. Anselm could not say what authored such contempt when he thought of Amadeo. Maybe it was the first time they met - how the man had been so -- what was the word?

Prickly. As if Anselm himself didn't coin that phrase!

He stormed to Sequoia's tree, watching the puppies with detachment typical of his parenting style as of late. But a voice -- a distinctly familiar voice -- began to pass through the trees. Anselm got up with a start, fur on end as he stalked towards the edge of the river where the gardens were.

He froze as he saw the shape of the man he was not ready to see. Not yet. Bound between the urge to sink teeth into Etienne's haunches in reprisal for all the hurt he'd inspired in Anselm, and the urge to just turn away and wash his hands forever, Anselm stood in limbo.