Page 21 of Rejected By the Winter Wolf

She sends me another image, of Griffin and Roman wrestling in the sand. The peace and contentment that accompanies it soothes me. It makes the ache that my journey is carrying me farther away from my family seem less sharp in my chest.

Something on the wind catches my attention. I break off my connection with my sister and slow my pace, my nose going up.

Blood. It takes a few precious seconds to get a better lock on it, then I follow the scent to its source. Once there, I stop short. There’s dried blood here. I paw at it, and the scent rises.

Honey.

Lemon.

Fuck.

Of course she was sent here by magic. But I mean here, to this very spot. Where it hasn’t rained, and the spiced magic scent underlies her honey and lemon and blood.

I shift back, kneeling naked in the pine needles and dirt. I press my palm to the earth and try to understand how her mother did it. And why.

Maybe it was a mindless, quick decision. Anything to get her daughter to safety, and this was the softest landing spot.

Or… maybe it was part of a grander scheme? Something she saw in the future?

I sigh and rise. I’ve discovered where she came from, and her tracks will inevitably lead into the town. What I should’ve done was circle the perimeter to find out where she left.

I shift again, my bones popping and fur bursting forth. Her scent is even more powerful like this, again, and my gut churns. My wolf seems particularly keen on the smell, but I can’t discern why. All I know is that the hunt presses in on us, and our heart picks up speed. We will chase her until we can sink our teeth into her for real. Until her screams are loud enough for it to echo in my mind for weeks to come.

All this for a witch I haven’t even laid eyes on yet.

For a week, I search every fucking town I come across east of the coven’s.

Finally, exhausted, I coast into a small city on the border of Minnesota. It’s possible that the witch continued across the border, or she veered off course since the last time I caught her scent—which was two days ago.

I sleep for a couple of hours in a motel, scrub off the grime in the shower, then go search for a real meal.

There’s only so much rabbit and squirrel I can take.

A loud tavern half a block down from the town square draws my attention. It’s a quick walk to the front door, and the music emanating through it seems to pulse in my chest. I eye the forest at the tavern’s back, at the dense shrubbery. Out here, towns are wilder. The forest presses in even when humans try to beat it back.

Inside, there are a lot of people. The noise level is much higher than anything I’ve encountered in my last few stops. The bar is packed, every chair filled.

A band sets up in the corner.

A waitress carrying a tray of drinks directs me to grab any empty chair. Someone gets up from the end of the bar, and I take their vacated seat.

My gaze travels over the other people perched on barstools. There’s a collection of cowboys and town folk. A lot of flannel and cowboy hats, baseball caps.

I pause on a blonde girl. She sits at the opposite end, her shoulders drawn up like she’s trying to hide. Or escape notice. Her hair is half up, part of it loose around her neck, and the rest knotted on top of her head. She sticks out because she’s different than the rest of the townsfolk, even withdrawn as she is.

A bartender slides a beer in front of me, and I nod my thanks. It quenches some of the thirst but not much. I order food and wave the bartender off from any other questions, ignoring the way she stares. Human women often get stuck on my features, but she isn’t the one I want to look at me.

The blonde sips water from a plastic cup. She has a plate of food in front of her, half-eaten, and her fingers drum on the bar top. There’s a leather cuff on her wrist. She wears a thick, oversized black hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. The rest of her is hidden under the bar. She’s nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with the woman beside her, but they don’t interact.

I watch her through her meal, and through mine. But even so, she seems oblivious. I can’t tear my gaze away from her. I don’t know why. Maybe because she’s pretty? With full lips and a heart-shaped face, and her blonde hair falling over her shoulders, I don’t know who wouldn’t find her attractive.

When she rises, her food finished and paid for, water cup drained, her movements are jerky. She has curves that the giant sweatshirt almost completely masks. Her jeans are ill-fitting, tight at her hips and loose everywhere else. The hems are mud-splattered and rolled up over black boots. My mouth waters when she heads for the exit with a bag slung over one shoulder.

The door opens ahead of her, admitting a man and woman, and the wind pushes in with them.

It catches her scent and throws it my way.

I inhale on instinct.