[No time to feel satisfaction, faint as it might have been, had there been a chance for it. Just before the bite sinks in the hunter finally grasps one of those bolts with his free hand and, on some very old but not forgotten instinct, the shade's hand - or what passes for it - darts out to intercept. He doesn't expect the bolt to catch in him, but it does. The shadow of his hand is next to the wolf's face, the bolt is stuck in it, and it sizzles, somehow. The hand is connected, now, to the rest of the shade's body, which was drawn out from the shadows somehow and flickers there in the torchlight, wind whipping around it and around the beast it's just saved, too, wind that whistles around the edges of the buildings around them in a way that almost sounds pained.]
no subject