The Werewolf Camp

The Mouth, Present Time

The walk along the riverbank required them to go in single file, and Niarthen took the lead. They followed the meandering paths that animals coming and going from the river to drink had left behind, circling the trees and thick clusters of scrub, and teetering along the lip of the bank. It was slow going, with Niarthen picking his way carefully in bare feet, and due to the way the tracks wove and sometimes disappeared, leaving them facing an apparently impassable clump of weed.

At least the view was good, Lyric told herself. She could almost forget that she was hungry, thirsty, and exhausted by watching the flow of Niarthen’s hair as he walked, the clench of his tight arse within the bulky cargo pants, and the flex of his shoulders and biceps as he moved things out of the way for her.

“Hmm,” Niarthen stopped suddenly.

“What is it?” She had almost walked into him, her mind zoned out in order to push through her body’s fatigue.

He frowned down at a clump of river