Wolves don't cry--the soulless have nothing to mourn. "Where did you come from?" I ask, laughing. At times like these, I often pretend to be Rosie, though I've never told her. I may be the better hunter, but there's no question that she's the better bait. I look at the man's nails--not claws, but then, bits of greasy Fenris fur cling to the leg of his pants. "I somehow lost the trail I was on," the man says, all grins and boyish charm. "Thought I'd be stuck out in the middle of the woods for the rest of my life." "You'd have missed all the apple festivities," I answer brightly. He nods hungrily, crescent-shaped blue eyes sparkling. He must be a Fenris--I'm clearly just misreading the evidence of tears in his eyes. "I know, which would have been a bummer. I got turned around because I was actually following this fawn in the woods that I think might be lost," he says, nodding back toward the forest. You've got to be kidding me. The baby-animal route? Wow. It's hard not to sigh. "A fawn?" Rosie squeals, though I detect a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
