There’s a wolf on the hillside. Not one of theirs, he knows this, but a wolf all the same. He wonders who it is, who it was, if it was anyone at all, or if he’s just some idiot standing at the edge of the woods staring up at an animal. Sometimes a wolf is just a wolf. His right hand inches across his stomach unbidden to rest at his left side, right where a wolf sank its jaws into him so long ago. It itches, still, sometimes, when it gets cold. Not enough to be some sort of an omen, but still. It’s not itching now, but he scratches it anyway, idly and unconsciously. When will it happen? He asks himself, the thoughts barely forming in his brain, more feeling than conscious words. Will I know beforehand? Leon tries to think back to the year before, to the moment when he shed his human skin in favor of the wolf pelt, but the memory is fuzzy and vague and gray around the edges. He thinks Will would know how to tell when it’s coming on, but she’s not around for him to ask. His brain tries to put feelings to it, tries to rationalize it. Maybe it’ll be like a migraine coming on. Maybe I’ll see auras. Maybe I’ll taste copper in my mouth. He reaches into his jacket for a cigarette, thumbing one out of the battered pack and lighting it up without ever breaking eye contact with the wolf. After a deep inhale, he draws the cigarette from his mouth and exhales smoke. If the wolf were closer, he’d offer it a drag. The thought makes him smile, despite himself, and Leon shuffles his feet a bit, trying to create enough motion to warm his bones. Maybe if I keep moving long enough, I’ll never get cold again. What a childish, hopeful thought. The crunch of boots falls flat on his ears; too enraptured by this wolf that may or may not be a person, Leon doesn’t notice until the person behind him is close enough for him to feel their body heat. Startled, he jumps a bit, breaking eye contact with the wolf to glance behind him. “Son of a bitch tit shit fu—” he hisses, arms flailing slightly, nearly dropping his cigarette. He jams the thing back between his teeth grumpily. “Sorry, you– you scared me,” he explains. “I was just—” He looks back to the hill. The wolf is, of course, gone. He has a built in excuse with the cigarette. He knows this. Still, his brain seizes the first thing he can think of. “…Pissing.” What the fuck is wrong with you?
He laughs – the sound ringing out in a quiet, pleasant baritone – because what the fuck else could he do in the face of the worst excuse he’s heard in half a decade? Pissing. He’ll live on that one for a long time. “Sorry,” Declan says, and it’s both for scaring the stranger and for laughing at his momentary brain-lapse.
The wolf is gone, just another ghost lost between the trees, but the image is seared into him. Blackrock’s not quite like other towns, he knows this, but it still catches him by surprise, time and again.
His own breath clouds the air, wisps of heat trailing into the dark – not unlike the smoke from the red-lit cherry of the man’s cigarette. How much do you know, he finds himself wondering. Will you be out there? But Declan knows better than asking.
“… They’re big, aren’t they,” he says, and his gaze points to where the wolf stood, nothing left of it but its trail through the snow. “Sorry for scaring you.”
