Jesse was beside her, a dark blur in the underbrush, the long hem of his cloak caught on thorns and ferns. He was faster in wolf form, they all were, but none of them had shifted yet. The Hunt, after all, was tradition before instinct, masks on, run two-legged until the first howl was heard. Only then could the primal part of them take over.
They moved in tandem, weaving through the trees. Around them, others splintered off into smaller packs nobles with their favorites, guards with their squads. Somewhere ahead, Julius's laughter echoed, too bright in the dark.
Bella's mask itched, carved bone tight against her skin. Her fingers brushed her belt. It was faintly warm.
"Stay close," Jesse murmured, barely audible over the rush of wind and leaves.
"I am," she answered.
