It was midnight, and a monstrous mass of storm clouds had eaten the waning moon and the flickering stars so that a deep and uneasy darkness stretched over the earth. Distant rumbles shook the sky. The only light that kissed the land was found in the faint, quick flickering of violet heat lighting; it danced in the atmosphere and flitted over the swelled river like flashes from an old camera, occasionally etching out the lurking shape of a night-black wolf. He blended perfectly into the world of shadows around him. In that unearthly dark, with electricity in his fur and the running water to mask the sound of his pawsteps, the young male might have been a phantom stalking the grounds where he had died . . .

Except he wasn’t. Not-at-fricken’-all. He was just an easygoing gentleman that was very much alive and just wanted a late-night snack. He didn’t navigate the tempest-laid darkness because he was a demon from hell: he travelled comfortably because he was freaking blind, and darkness was no stranger to him. Not his fault he was out here marching around like some ghoul. Blame his unruly stomach. The cat-eyed soldier would have much preferred hiding out in a den somewhere waiting for the oncoming storm to pass—but alas, he was kinda starving. Being blind drastically cut Danger’s chances of bringing down prey alone; we’re talking about half the success rate of a seeing wolf, and those blessed with vision already had enough problems feeding themselves.

“Here fishy, fishy, fishy . . .” Danger muttered to himself, ears straining to catch the differences in current that betrayed a trout’s path. Ironically enough, Danger was quite the fisherman; while some would attribute his triumphs to sheer dumb luck, Danger liked to think it was because he could so keenly perceive the method in which fish used the current to their advantage for escaping—into his jaws. He’d listen for the swish of them swimming and then slam his paw into their wriggling bodies. It was genius. Only one problem with this technique: as talented as Danger was a pinning fish, he was not nearly as good at gauging depth. “Come and say hello to the nice wolfie . . .” Another barrage of rolling thunder assaulted the ink-painted bandit’s sensitive ears—but then he heard it, the minute flitting of fishies as they darted toward the surface to feed.

A snapshot of lightning briefly illuminated Danger as he halted, body quivering and ears erect. He judged the feeding school to be about a leap away. He’d have to get wet, but compared to the possibility of chowing down on some meat, it was a necessary evil. He would just jump in, snatch his dinner, and swim back to shore. Easy. Danger gave absolutely no thought to how deep the part of the river he was aiming for might be; depth was irrelevant. It would be fine. Of course it would.

The black wolf crouched—tensed his muscles—and jumped.

He landed precisely where he thought he would. The fish were precisely where he thought they’d be. The river was much deeper than Danger would have suspected—his toes had to stretch ridiculously just to skim the bottom—but he was already kicking his legs, a trout clenched in his maw, paddling toward shore . . .

And that’s when the storm hit. Bizarre, really, how these events played out.

Danger heard an almighty hiss as rain and wind suddenly slammed the earth, pouring a curtain of water over the entire landscape. Raindrops hit the river like bullets. With slight concern, Danger noticed that the current was becoming very, very unruly very, very fast. With a determined grimace, the soaked brute tried to paddle faster—only to be swept off course by an abrupt swell. His acute ears heard the river moving around a clump of stones too late; he thumped into a large boulder and yelped in surprise, losing his meal in the process.

“Shit,” Danger barked in disappointment. A situation that would have had anybody else shrieking in terror and cursing the gods only got him mildly irritated. He tried to position his forepaws on the slick, moss-covered side of the rock in order to support his upper body and keep his head above the increasingly furious waves; it certainly wasn’t a picnic, but it would have to do for now. If Danger attempted to immediately shoot back into the path of the raging, rain-gorged river, his chances of drowning would significantly increase. Danger preferred not drowning. It wasn’t fun.

The faraway sound of pebbles clattering in mud had Danger craning his head over his shoulder toward the bank. He couldn’t see them, but he sensed another wolf had come to visit the river. They probably hadn’t seen his shadow-painted frame in the river; he’d need to capture their attention if he was to have any hope of easily avoiding a fate wherein he ended up seriously injured or dead. He coughed up a spout of water. “A little help over here?”