In the Maathinold Carala had felt only terror and confusion and shame. By the shores of Lake Baithe she had felt hunger and rage at the unfairness of what had befallen her. But now, with the lights of Vilais behid her and the pale moonlit forest all around, for the first time Carala felt pleasure in her shape; in the senses that flooded her brain like a liquor hotter than even the strongest Aznian spirit.

Had she been thinking clearly, she might have felt unease. This was exactly what Ammas had described to her as being the true peril in a werewolf's condition: the gradual acceptance and eventual delight in indulging the wolfish side of one's self. But Carala was not thinking clearly. All her thoughts and sensations were draped in the veil of the wolfish eyes and ears through which she perceived the world. In this moment, with the forest floor under her paws and the night air ruffling the inky blackness of her pelt, it was impossible to know where Carala ended and the she-wolf began. There was no bright line between the two anymore, and whether her truest nature was human or wolfish was not a question she would ever be able to answer.

Above her danced the airy spirit, watching and following her, keeping pace with her with an ease its master could never summon. Sometimes, in a spirit of mischief she had certainly not imagined possible when the wolf gripped her those first two times, she would leap up and snap at the glowing ball of light. It easily darted out of her reach.

The distraction slowed her considerably, which might well have been one of Ammas's reasons for sending the spirit after her. But he need not have bothered. However she might have been adjusting to her new nature, Carala knew well that the single biggest difference between her transformation tonight and those she had experienced before was Ammas's presence -- not just the physical presence that roamed hundreds of yards behind her, but his presence in her life at all. If not for the airy spirit, she would have paused and paced and waited for him every time she ventured beyond the range of his scent.

With the human side of herself buried under wolfish instinct and clean, feral sensation, the conflicted feelings that had surged through her of late where Ammas was concerned were less ambivalent. A certain amount of resentment burned deep inside her -- no wolf liked being bound and stripped and humiliated as he had done, all for the supposed purpose of proving what should have been obvious from her scent -- but his behavior since then had been been most pleasing to her. He had fought for her, killed for her, had imposed his will on the others to show his strength, and possessed a wisdom any wolf ought to admire. If the memory of what had passed between them in the Munazyri tunnels raised in Ammas feelings that he had long since thought withered, it was nothing compared to what ravenous eagerness that encounter had ignited in the she-wolf for him.

But now, as she plunged deeper into the woods, the jaunty ball of light hovering above her and the cursewright's scent not too far behind her, something far more enticing caught her attention. Atop her head her ears pricked forward, swiveling toward the whisper of leaves and crumbs of dirt being crushed under the weight of a delicate hoof. Nostrils flared and a shocking pink tongue lathed against midnight-hued fur, white fangs gleaming in the forest-shrouded moonlight. Somewhere ahead, a full grown buck ambled through the wood, unaware of what had just caught its scent and sound, wholly ignorant that it was now prey.

Crouching low to the ground she crept forward, almost slithering as a serpent on its belly might. Amber eyes glittered hungrily as she stalked toward those subtle night-sounds, their owner's scent betraying no fear nor anxiety. Even the vague skittishness almost all deer possessed was not to be found here. The Heptarch's preserve was so tame the animals that roamed here could sometimes be hand-fed. Occasional wild animals came up from the Taskwood Canyons to hunt, but on this side of the forest, closer to the city walls, such an occurrence was as unlikely as an attack by dragons in flight. A werewolf stalking the night was just as unimaginable.

But maybe some lingering ember of primeval instinct remained in that fat, tamed buck, for in the midst of its slow, aimless stride it abruptly raised its nose, oildrop eyes glittering feverishly, its nostrils flaring. Carala-the-wolf froze, an amber-eyed shadow clinging to the forest floor as if it feared taking flight should its paws let go. Whatever her talents for stealth -- the Swiftfoot wolves were deeply envious of that midnight fur, and if she knew their usual hunting methods she would understand that envy perfectly -- the buck was not fooled, and it sped off, leaping over a fallen log and vanishing into the night. Snarling, a bittersweet mixture of anxiety at possibly losing her quarry and delight at indulging her new body's physical gifts flooding her veins, Carala-the-wolf darted after the buck, chasing it on all fours, moving far more speedily than she had ever run on two legs in her life.

The airy spirit flickered and pulsed, keeping pace with her, flashing what it saw back to its master, waiting for a signal if it should do more than simply watch.

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