Page 6 of Bite Sized Bride
I don’t pause. I don’t look back. I push myself to my feet and run, plunging into the churning darkness of the forest. The shouts from the wall are already fading, swallowed by the roar of the storm. Rain and tears stream down my face, but I do not slow. I run, my lungs burning, my legs pumping, my only thought a frantic prayer to a god I don’t believe in.
And beneath the thunder, I can almost hear it. The distant, enraged roar of the hound, unleashed at last.
4
KAEL
The howl of the storm is a welcome song. It is a rage that matches the one inside me, a wild, uncontrolled chaos that speaks to the red fire behind my eyes. Rain lashes against the stone walls of my cell, a frantic drumming that does little to drown out the echoes of my own grief.
The door shrieks open.
Not with the deliberate grind of a scheduled feeding or a planned demonstration. This is violent. Hasty. The iron groans in protest as it’s thrown wide, slamming against the outer wall.
The master stands there, silhouetted by the flickering hall torches. He is not serene. His silk robes are slightly disheveled, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides. The air around him is electric with fury, a scent sharper and more potent than any storm. It is the smell of a god’s displeasure, and it is aimed at me.
He says nothing. He doesn’t have to.
The command hits me like a painful blow. A spear of pure will, forged in his rage, that lances through the red maelstrom in my head. It is not a word. It is a feeling, an absolute imperative that sears itself into the core of my being.
My property has escaped. Find it. Bring it back.
The emptiness inside me, the hollow space where a soul used to be, ignites with purpose. The hunger awakens, not for food, but for the hunt. For the chase. For the satisfying conclusion of a command fulfilled. It is the only peace I know.
The guards are clumsy as they attach the lead chain. Their hands tremble. They can smell the master’s rage, and they fear it. I barely feel their touch. My entire being is focused on the command, on the promise of the hunt.
They lead me from the dungeons, up through the winding stone corridors, and out into the courtyard. The storm embraces me. Rain sluices over my hide, washing away the stench of my cell, the lingering scent of the minotaur’s blood. The wind howls, tearing at the banners on the walls.
We go to the western wall, to a pile of refuse and filth. The master is there, along with Vexia and a squad of his elite Miou warriors. The warriors hold their spears loosely, their eyes scanning the darkness of the forest beyond the wall. They are tense, ready.
“It escaped this way,” the master snarls, pointing a slender finger at the muddy ditch below the wall. “The guards were incompetent. They will be dealt with.”
He turns his cold, indigo eyes on me. “Hound. Find my property.”
The guard unclips my chain. I am free.
I drop to all fours, my massive hands sinking into the mud. I lower my head, my senses expanding, pushing past the overwhelming scent of the rain and the wet earth. I search for a thread, a single note in the cacophony of the storm.
There.
It is faint, diluted by the downpour, but it is unmistakable. It is the distinctive scent of the master’s estate—of old paper, ink, and fear. But there is something else woven into it.Something that does not belong. A trace of… warmth? A whisper of something like summer grass and forgotten sunlight. It is a strange, compelling scent that makes the red behind my eyes swirl with a confusing, almost painful curiosity.
It is the strong scent ofit. The property. The quarry.
I have the trail.
I let out a roar that tears through the howl of the storm, a declaration of intent, a promise of pursuit. The Miou warriors flinch. Even the master takes a half-step back.
I launch myself from the ditch, my powerful legs churning, and plunge into the forest. Branches whip against my hide, thick as a man’s arm, but they snap and break before me. I am a battering ram of cursed flesh, and the forest will yield.
The hunt is everything. The world narrows to the scent, the trail. The crimson storm in my mind focuses into a single point of predatory light. Every snapped twig, every disturbed leaf, every drop of water that holds a trace of its scent is a signpost guiding me forward. It is fast. Faster than I expected. Its fear is a sharp, delicious tang in the air, fueling my pursuit.
It tries to be clever. It crosses a raging river, a torrent of brown, churning water that would sweep a lesser creature away. The scent vanishes into the chaos of the current. For a moment, I am lost. The red fire surges, a wave of pure frustration that makes me want to tear the river from its bed.
I do not hesitate. I plunge into the water, the icy shock a welcome distraction from the inner storm. The current is a powerful hand, trying to drag me under, but I am stronger. I fight my way across, my claws digging into the rocky riverbed for purchase. On the far side, I cast about, my nostrils flaring, sifting through the scents of wet stone and decaying leaves.
There. Fainter now, but still there. The trail continues. The property is losing energy. Its fear-scent is mingled with the smell of exhaustion. Good. The chase will be over soon.
I crash through a thicket of thorny bushes and into a small clearing. A flurry of motion erupts around me. Black shapes, screeching with fury, launch themselves from the trees. Razor Birds. Their wings are like sharpened blades, their talons like daggers. They swarm me, their cries a symphony of rage.
