Free Silver-White (The Great North Woods Pack #1) by Shawn Underhill

and her tingling scruff. And best of all,
she found she could execute these small celebrations without a trace of
self-consciousness. Like a child—an ecstatic child the size of a show pony.
    The pack’s noise increased. With each
sound from the wolves, a new thought entered Evie’s mind. Fast and choppy, these
thoughts were at first difficult to discern, even harder to follow amid the
ruckus of so many at once. But as she listened, tuning her delicate new ears
carefully, she began to perceive their meaning, and soon began recognizing their
voices. One-by-one she linked their sounds with the word-thoughts forming in
her mind and traced those voices back to the wolves that made them. In so doing
she discovered the distinct relative within each shaggy body crowding her.
    With a tremor of elation Evie reached
full understanding. Their noises were not noise at all. They were meaningful
expressions—words of greeting and congratulation, admiration and unrestrained
affection inexpressible by clumsy human languages. From every side compliments
streamed into her ears. Words such as, “Lovely, beautiful, elegant, graceful,”
poured from the females. And the males agreed, adding, “Sleek, speedy, agile, spirited,
a natural.” If the realization of their beautifully simple language wasn’t enough
to stagger Evie’s senses, the love they expressed with it surely was—it nearly
broke her heart.
    Her response to their outpouring began
as a feeling—a jumpy delight deep inside of her. While her body whirled back
and forth, struggling to face so many other faces at once, in a matter of seconds
the feeling swelled until it felt her chest would burst with emotion. From her
chest it climbed to her throat, and almost before she knew what was happening,
she was speaking a new language through a flurry of reciprocated whines and yelps.
It was a wild, ancient language spilling from her muzzle—one lived rather than
learned, basic yet proficient, flowing effortlessly as a softly-hummed song. No
fumbling or searching for the right words obstructed her. As her feelings
formed into precise thoughts, she simply willed which ones to set free. And out her messages flew.
    She could hardly believe it. Even
talking as the wolf was better.

 
 
    By now the pack was a mass of writhing exuberance,
excitable like puppies, only much, much larger. Evie’s quick understanding and subsequent responses had excited them
further, and on all sides of her now she saw many splendidly-muscled bodies
shaking themselves, beginning from the great heads and ending with fanning twists
of their fluffy tails. These seemingly harmless tails lashed other wolves as
well as nearby trees, sounding as dog tails knocking happily against walls or
doors. Small, low-hanging branches stood no chance against the restless movements
of their heavy bodies, while ferns and small underbrush beneath their feet were
quickly trampled to nothingness. But though they shook and celebrated without
restraint, still their crests bristled atop their backs with the tingle of
excitement that they could not shake off. And their collective sounds took on a
heightened pitch, rising in tone in harmony with their elevating mood.
    All but one, the greatest, took part in
this play. All but one, the youngest at its center—the belle of the ball—understood
that such play was only the preliminary welcoming. The night was still young, the
prior singing had been simply calls of searching and gathering, and the short chase
had been only at partial speed—mere encouragement for the youngest, a precursor
to the actual race to come, the end of which would mark the beginning of the
true celebration.
    Then all at once the noise dulled to a
low grumbling of many breaths; their talk ceased. The white wolf had stepped
forward, barking a loud command, and under his authority the pack had fallen
into relative, momentary order. Then to Evie he said with a voice deep and
clear, “Run, swift silver! Show us your