Chapter 24
The Hound
Ididn’t get much sleep. I never do. I doubt I ever will again.
The sliver of sunlight bleeding through the crack in the curtain beams straight into my eyes, forcing me out of the bed I tossed and turned in. It takes minutes to gather my things, and by the time that beam of light has moved across the unmade bed, I’m dressed and ready at the door.
Wrapping the tattered green fabric around my neck, I step out into the hall and make my way to the lobby.
Elspeth’s shift has ended, and a thin, squirrelly boy has taken her place. I can’t tell if it’s me or the coffee he’s finishing off that’s making him fidget like that, but my appearance is far more acceptable now. Honestly, it’s a real shame Elspeth isn’t here to see it.
“Good morning, sir,” the boy rushes out, far too cheery for whatever time it is. “Checking out?”
I nod, adjusting the bag on my shoulder to slide the key across the counter.
“Just one night?” he asks, scribbling something down in the guest book, and when I don’t reply, he looks up at me. “Are you just passing through?”
“Yup.”
He perks up at my response, and I instantly regret giving him one. “Oh! Where to next?”
None of your fucking business.
“Wherever the wind takes me,” I tell him, pulling the tattered fabric up and around my nose. The scent overwhelms me, as faded as it is, just as taunting as it was yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that…
“Well,” he grins, clapping his hands together, “hopefully the wind brings you back to Roara!”
I snort, taking a peek at his name tag. “Oh, you don’t want me here, Dylan. Trust me.”
Dylan’s face falls, and…yup. There it is. Pungent as ever. A healthy dose of fear.
Dipping my chin, I turn towards the door, and crisp morning air jolts my immortal bones awake as soon as I step outside.
Magic stirs within me, a sad measly fraction of what I’d been forged with. After fifty years without it, I should be grateful for any at all, but it only serves as a reminder of what I don’t have. Of what Alaric is still keeping from me.
Rolling out my shoulders, I crack the stiffness out of my spine and run my hand across a row of motorbikes parked out front.
It isn’t in my nature to steal, but I don’t have time to hike across this continent, and I’m certainly not going to exert what little is left of my magic to Snare through Griseo.
My hand stops on a black leather seat. It’s cold, likely having sat outside for a day or two. I bend at the waist, observing the silver frame and thick tires. Good enough, I decide.
It takes me all of five minutes to get it started, the low purr of the engine vibrating the seat beneath me. Taking a quick inventory of my surroundings, I sit back and close my eyes, inhaling deeply. I focus on her scent, studying every note of it, then I remove the fabric.
And wait.
I breathe in the wind, taking note of what lingers in the breeze. Cinnamon, freshly baked bread, damp stone, rotted wood, and—
My eyes burst open.
It’s subtle and very faded, but it’s a match.
I knew there was a reason I picked this port city over the others. The girl might not be here, but a trace of her is. Like maybe she’s been here at some point? And if that’s the case, then someone here knows where she went.
Twisting the throttle and releasing the clutch, I take off in the direction of it, chasing the scent down cobblestone streets and narrow alleyways.
Roara isn’t that big of a town, and it only takes a few minutes to get to the other end of it.
I pull up to a tall building and stop the bike. The Ivory Channel stretches wide on my left, but her scent is coming from somewhere behind the crumbling stone wall to my right.
Swinging my leg over the bike, I pull the tattered fabric down and start in the direction of the wall.
My footsteps are loud in the silent morning, boots heavy as I cross the stone pathway, turning the corner into what looks like an old garage workshop.
It’s empty, save for a long table against the back wall, an assortment of random items strewn across the surface, and a decent-sized car in the middle, covered by a dark green tarp.
I sniff once, confirming without a doubt that this is where her scent leads. Moving around the room, I double-check that there’s no one else here, dust collecting on the pad of my finger as I run it over a nearby shelf. I breathe in the air around me one more time.
And my attention snaps to the tarp.
Crossing the space in one long stride, I reach for the edge of the cover, dust pluming into the air as I rip it away and toss it aside with a frown.
It’s a navy blue car, of a make I’ve not seen before, and it’s empty from what I can tell. The roof is pulled back, windows still cranked down, and her scent is all over the worn leather seats.
I’d say it’s fresh as of a few months ago. Maybe less.
Moving around the car, I make my way to the passenger seat, confirming with a nod that she’s been here. I’m sure of it.
Leaning forward, I peer in through the open window, and as soon as I inhale, I freeze.
Someone else's scent has joined the room.
“Can I help you?”
I straighten, snapping my attention to the male standing on the opposite side of the car.
He’s young, certainly human, with blonde hair and blue eyes.
There’s a twinge of concern in the pinch of his brows, and he smells of anger and curiosity—which makes it difficult to gauge how I should treat this situation.
“What kind of car is this?” I ask, making a show of walking around the hood, pretending to be more interested in the model than the scent I’ve been tracking for two weeks, being all over the passenger seat.
I feel him watching me, probably trying to decide what kind of threat I pose. The male hesitates, a strain of skepticism in his voice as he answers, “A jeep.”
“It’s yours?”
“It’s my wife’s.”
I look up at him, then glance to the door he walked out of. “Is she here?”
His whole demeanor shifts at the question, his expression hardening and his scent shifting into one of dominance and distrust. Wrong question.
“Who are you?” he demands, positioning himself in front of the door.
I silently stare back at him.
If his wife really is the person I’m looking for, then he’d smell like her, too. Assuming they married out of love, her scent would be all over him. All over everything. And it isn’t.
“Get out,” he snaps when I don’t answer fast enough, taking a bold step forward. He’s entirely unbothered by the fact that I’ve got at least a foot on him. Probably more. But I don’t think that would stop him from trying to drag me out of here himself.
Holding my hands up in surrender, I do my best to look as least threatening as possible. It’s quite the task. “I’m looking for someone,” I explain, gesturing to the car, “and I have reason to believe that she—”
I snap my head to the swaying trees outside when the breeze moves through them, filling the air with…
Her.
My entire body goes rigid.
It’s like she’s been kept in a jar, hidden from the world, and someone just popped the lid and tipped it over. Her scent pours out like a river through the wind. Rosemary and vanilla, but there’s so much more to it now.
Amber. A scent I attribute to elegant things. Rich, and clean, and timeless. It’s a mature vanilla—she isn’t a little girl anymore. The rosemary has changed too. It’s become an evergreen forest, lively and sweet. And then there’s—
Gods.
Fire. Crackling wood. And smoke. Lots of smoke.
I turn from the male mid-sentence, keeping my attention north as I cross the distance to my bike.
The start of the engine smothers anything else he might have said, but all I care about is this.
I couldn’t ask for a better trail to follow.
I might even reach her by sunset if the wind keeps blowing her towards me.
The narrow streets pass in a blur, and for the first time in over fifty years, I feel it festering inside me. The call of the very thing I was born to do. The sole purpose of my existence.
The hunt.