John frowned, watching Stiles hop the ditch and scramble over the low tumble of rocks to disappear into the woods with not only grace but familiarity - he followed anyway, hand resting on his holstered gun by habit. He opened his mouth to call out to Stiles - he'd stopped not to trail after his son but because he'd seen Stiles's Jeep suddenly pull over in the middle of nowhere and been concerned - but was thrown by the lack of . . . any sign anyone had passed this way.

He stiffened, alarmed, as an echoing, mournful wolf's howl echoed through the woods from far off.