Page 55 of Mongrel
I take his hand. “I’d better have two.”
He squeezes. “You could have hundreds.”
“I only want you,” I whisper and lean into him. “Hey, how do they…”
He shakes his head. “No idea.”
We pass through the arched exit, up and out of the brothel to a moonlit street. I suck in fresh air gratefully—well, as fresh as city air can be. At least the musk of sex is absent. I’m glad to be away from The Twig and Berries, above ground, and on the move, though peeling myself away from Bowie and out of bed this morning was a challenge. When this is all over, I want uninterrupted time with him, someplace peaceful, with a soft bed and no other people.
And plenty of oil.
Bowie leads us through a maze of alleys to the main street. We’re headed to Pest’s southern gate first to check for Cecily’s scent, then west across the Danube River to Buda.
Pushing aside images of Bowie naked and writhing on blue velvet, I make myself focus. Around us, stone buildings line the streets, their awnings nearly creating a tunnel over the narrow roadways. Though it’s evening, the hour isn’t yet late, and people are out and about living their lives. I watch them with interest, all the while concentrating on the smells: smoke, roasted river fish, ripe fruit, urine, smelted metal, horse droppings, and so on. The scent of the masses congregated close together, both foul and fair, presents a cornucopia to be sorted and discarded as I search.
We emerge onto a market street as shops are closed or closing for the night. Before we’ve walked even ten full minutes, it hits me.
The blend of rosewater soap, fabric washed in lavender…and mint candy. The scent of Bowie’s estate, his family scent, like pack, a faint but unmistakable aroma they share.
The smell of Cecily.
Stopping, I grab Bowie’s wrist and spin him to face me.
His eyes go wide. “What?”
“I’ve got her. Bowie, I’ve got her! Cecily’s been taken through here!”
His free hand clutches his chest, and his face goes perfectly still, almost as if he’s afraid to believe it. “Really?”
I rush to reassure him. “Yes. I’m positive. This way.” Dragging him with me, I hurry down the main street toward the river.
Bowie trots along next to me, and I’m so happy I want to hug him, pick him up, and twirl him around. I’d wag my tail if I could. The scent trail is fresh, only two days old, maybe three. Certainly, they came through after the storm.
This is the time for speed. We probably won’t be able to overtake them, but surely we can follow and save her from Báthory’s evil.
Buzzing with newfound energy, I follow the trail straight out of the walled city of Pest to the floating bridge that leads to Buda.
“Wait,” says Bowie.
I pause beside him.
He digs into his inner coat pockets. “We’ll need coin to cross, and we must blend in. No more galloping past people.”
“Right.” I’m impressed he can contain himself so well in spite of our long-awaited discovery. “Blend in.” I tug my cap farther over my ears and take a deep breath.
A great stone gatehouse stands at the entrance to the bridge. There’s a short line: a group of men walking as we are, a solo driver with a horse cart, then us. Bowie hands payment over to a gruff-looking attendant, and we’re waved through.
The fish smell is much stronger here and fresher, like I could snap one up straight from the river and devour it whole.
Gazing at the water’s great expanse, suddenly, I’m nervous.
I’ve never seen a bridge like this one, enormous and in constant motion with the rhythm of the mighty river it spans. Wooden planks line the surface, overlaid on top of a series of pontoons, dozens of them, perhaps forty or fifty in total. The inside lanes are for wagons and carts, wide enough two could pass without issue, and the outside lanes are for those on foot such as ourselves.
I clutch Bowie’s arm.
He senses my nerves, as always, and wraps his arm about my waist. “Nothing to fear, my darling. I’ve crossed it before. Perfectly safe.”
I appreciate the sentiment, but words don’t vanquish anxiety. We press ahead on the heels of the other walkers. As I step from solid land onto the floating bridge, a flutter of nausea forms in my stomach. I force it down with a deep breath. I can do this. Bowie is with me, and that’s all that matters.
