Page 37 of Mongrel
Bowie isall action and no talk as he leads me out of the underground viper pit and through the streets of Debrecen. We’re backtracking, which is fine for the moment, but once we reach the outer edges of the city, I need to run a perimeter. I fear his plan is still to race all the way back to Varad. He’s assumed I’ll concede to his judgment, but he’s mistaken.
It would be easier to let him make the decisions, though I can’t afford to let him make the wrong one, even if I’m hesitant to argue.
I’m practically running to keep up with him, scenting the air, hoping to catch a whiff of Cecily’s minty smell. I don’t. What I do catch is much worse.
The breeze carries with it the sweet, pungent smell of oncoming rain. The realization sits heavily on my shoulders. We really have no time to waste. I must change Bowie’s mind. Our best chance at tracking down Cecily before she’s in Báthory’s clutches lies in forging ahead.
Steeling myself for conflict, I announce, “This is far enough.”
Bowie doesn’t slow his pace. “We’re going back, Andras. We must.”
“I don’t think that’s wise.”
He ignores my statement. “Can you shift and run? We could cover ground much faster if you’d sprint. Can you do that?”
Not for long.
Wolves are best at short sprints, not endurance. “I can’t. Bowie, listen. I need to circle Debrecen. Then we must forge ahead.”
“No. We go back.” The stubborn metal in his tone is new.
“But—”
“What if she was taken due south?” His voice is frantic with worry. “We can’t risk missing such a clue.”
He has a point, but it’s still the weaker of our two choices. What could convince him? I recall each detail Bowie relayed to me of Ivaz’s information on the matter until I hit on something relevant. “Aren’t all of Báthory’s castles north or west of here? Isn’t that what Ivaz told you?”
“And if it’s not Báthory? If it’s Turkish slave traders? We don’t have enough information to be certain.”
My ignorance of history betrays me, but I wing it. “Wouldn’t I have smelled that? Wouldn’t Turkish foods smell different from what I’m used to? And do they really pluck noble girls to be sold into slavery? Isn’t it more likely to be the woman? Báthory is being investigated by the king himself. It’s her Bowie. We must go forward.”
His breakneck pace doesn’t waiver. We’re alone as the rubble road becomes dirt and the outskirts of the city turn to pasture. The night sky is clouded and dark, the moon obscured.
Having this conversation while walk-running in the wrong direction has me winded. “Bowie, stop. Talk to me. Please.”
He halts, tense reluctance evident in his posture. His voice is strained. “What must I say to convince you to listen?”
Words never come fast enough when I need them. I stand stupidly before him, my mouth hanging open.
“This is Cecily. Cecily!” He cries her name with utter misery.
I take his shoulders and squeeze. “I know. Bowie, listen. You aren’t thinking clearly, and I don’t blame you. Please trust me in this. Going back isn’t going to help her. I know you’re desperate to comfort Catherine, but we must do that by pressing ahead.”
“I don’t know.” Bowie trembles in my grip. He shakes his head. “If Cecily was taken south, I’ll never forgive myself. And I could never ask Catherine to forgive me after failing her for the second time.”
“One night.” I stare into stormy eyes, willing him to trust me. “Give me one night to pick up her scent from here.” I don’t tell him about the rain. There’s nothing I can do to persuade mother nature to my side, but I must believe I can persuade Bowie.
He glances down the road ahead, then back toward the city. He’s vacillating. It’s clear in his expression.
I muster all the authority I can into the orders, “Get out the map. Let me see it.” If I can get him to cooperate, he’ll see reason. “Hurry.”
Bowie shrugs our pack off his shoulder. I release a breath of relief. We spread the map between us, him holding one side, me the other.
I point to Debrecen. “We are here.”
“Yes.”
“Show me Báthory’s lands. Point out her castles, ending in Csejthe.”
