Chapter 7

At just over six feet, Canis’s build was solid and fit, with long legs and a reach to match. With his artist’s eye, Logan guessed his weight at a hundred and eighty to ninety-five pounds. When he’d leaned down to inspect the revolver Logan had brought, Logan had glanced down on the instructor’s head and wondered who, if anyone, had styled the man’s hair. It was short and untamed, running every which way. Periodically, Canis would run his fingers through it, as if to bring about order that never happened. Logan was sure this was an unconscious act.

Wiry, with shades of gray, hints of black, and a touch of reddish brown, the hair was white at the temples.

Logan’s hair hadn’t been cut since birth, and it was easy to brush it and let it fall free, tuck it behind his ears, braid, or fasten it in back. Yet he couldn’t imagine this man letting his hair grow much longer. It wouldn’t suit him the way the untamed look did.