“It depends on the prey they are hunting.” When her father did not follow up that statement with a diatribe about how the Faol hunted the Éan, Una was both confused and surprised.
The fifth day showed no more sign of the men’s return than the first. She returned to her home in the trees quite late, hoping if she stayed in the village with her parents, she might be there when the men returned from their hunt.
But her mother sent her home after the sun had set, saying she and her father were old people and needed their rest.
Una barely noted her father’s umbrage at once again being called old, and flew up to her home in the treetops, determined to seek out her prince the next day and ask him the whereabouts of the two soldiers.
Surely it was his responsibility to know, as he was beholden for their behavior while among the Éan.
She readied herself for bed, brushing out her hair with desultory movements, holding little hope that tonight would see her on another sojourn to the spirit realm.
A sound like claws scratching on the floor came from the other room and Una froze in her movements. While the noise could not possibly be what her senses were telling her it was, it was definitively not the sound of branches rustling in the wind, either.
She knew each nuance of that music with great mastery, as she’d spent her entire life hearing it.
The candle beside her bed cast the room in which she slept in dim golden light, but there was no mistaking the shape of the shadow in the doorway.
Wolf.
She dropped the brush in shock . . . but not fear. She’d been so certain if she ever saw his other form, she’d be terrified out of her mind.
But in that moment, Una realized it was not the wolf that she feared. It was the evil in men’s hearts that would allow them to do to her what the ones who had caught her had done.
He whined at her, like asking for permission to enter.
She took a deep breath and letting it out, patted the spot on the furs beside her. “They were not wolves when they hurt me.”
She knew she sounded like she’d just made that realization, but then again . . . she had. All this time, she’d been so afraid. Of the Faol that hunted her people. Of the warriors in her own tribe. Of men.
But she had no reason to fear the wolf.
She knew it in her deepest being.
He crept forward slowly, as if not to scare her. She waited with held breath for him to come closer.
He settled on the furs beside her and she let the breath out in a long sigh. “My eagle is certain you are my protector.”
He nodded his canine head and then nuzzled into her lap.
She reached down with tentative fingers and brushed them through the soft wolf’s pelt. “You are a beautiful creature.”
They had no need for words, for she could see the satisfaction her words gave Bryant and his wolf.
“I was afraid to see you like this, but nothing about your wolf frightens me.”
He made a chuffing noise and nuzzled her again, more forcefully, nearly knocking her backward.
She found herself giggling, a sound she hadn’t heard from herself in so long, it momentarily stunned her into immobility.
He shifted so his head rubbed into her neck and she giggled again. Stars above.
But she was ticklish.
“I forgot,” she whispered into his ruff.
He made a whining sound of question.
“That I am ticklish.”