Page 159 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
The line went dead.
I stared at my rucksack, dumped on the floor beside the door. My thighs ached from yesterday’s march through the Highlands and this morning’s frantic rush back. Every muscle in my body screamed for rest, for food, for a hot shower that would wash away the metallic tang of blood that seemed to coat everything.
But something clawed at my insides insistently, stronger now, as if Rory’s wolf was calling to me. Something that transcended logic and Seb’s very sensible orders to stay put.
I looked around the blood-splattered cottage one more time—at the crimson across walls, the dark pools on the floor, the smears where bodies had been dragged. Evidence that should be photographed, catalogued, preserved.
But instead, I climbed the staircase.Better bring the gun.The thought settled in my stomach like lead. But best to be prepared.
I unlocked the cool metal box, sliding the heavy weight of the Glock into my palm.
Closing my eyes, I remembered Rory from last night. The way those green lights had danced across his face, how still and peaceful he’d looked in that moment. How those eyes that I’d spent hours trying to decipher had stared at me with utter adoration.
The compass needle swung again, more urgent this time.
Find him.
I stood up, went downstairs, and shouldered my rucksack.
26
Rory
Paws strike earth. Hard. Fast. Rhythm pounds through bones.
Raindrops-lemongrass-minefades behind. Distance hurts. Sharp ache in chest where warmth lives. Sad eyes watching me leave. Pain-scent rolling off him like smoke.
Can’t think about that. Can’t.
Run.
Heather scratches legs. Rocks cut pads. Don’t care. Body knows where to go even when mind fractures. Nose down. Breathe deep.
Blood-scent. Sharp copper threading through pine-earth-water smells. Fresh blood. Day-old blood. Same source. Same wolf.
Dev-friend-pack-save.
Trail weaves through bracken. Stronger now. Fear-sweat mingles with blood. Different wolf. Female. Young.
Isla-cousin-trust.
Something else underneath. Chemical-sharp. Wrong-smell. Burning nose-holes. Makes hackles rise.
Trees thin. Buildings ahead. Stone-concrete-metal stench. Human-place where death-smell clings thick as fog yesterday. Body remembers. Wants to turn. Run away.
But blood-trail leads forward.
Sound cuts through wind-whisper. Engine-growl. Wheels on dirt-stone. Getting closer.
Crouch low. Belly to ground. Peer through gorse bushes.
Buggy rolls slow between trees. Same one from arriving-time. Luggage-carrier. But no bags now.
Isla-cousindrives. Knuckles tight on steering. Fear-scent thick around her.
Blankets pile in back. Breathing underneath. Shallow-weak breathing only wolf-ears catch.
Dev.
