“Oh yes,” he says. He has one arm in his coat sleeve and his body is twisted awkwardly from the action of dressing for inclement weather. “I saw the little, er, Mr. Lawlor earlier, my lord. He was wearing a flat cap. He said…”
Goddamnit. Sid talks slowly in the face of a crisis.
Not that this is a crisis. Of course not. Jensen is around here somewhere. I simply don’t know where he is at this exact moment. He’s fine though. I’m sure of it. He’ll turn up in a minute, and we’ll all have a good laugh about this.
“Mm-hmm, good. Great. Thank you, Sid,” I interrupt, speaking much faster than he did to give him the impression I’d like him to speed things along. “Do you happen to know where he is now?”
He sucks a slow breath in through his teeth, shaking his head. “Ooh, I’m afraid not, my lord. It’s been some time since I’ve seen him. Some hours, I’d say. He was wearing a flat cap when I saw him last, my lord. He said he was going for a walk.” Sid waves vaguely in the direction of the stables and beyond. “He said he had important matters to contemplate, but…but surely he’s back. It was midday when I saw him, and the weather’s turned—”
“Nasty,” I finish for him. “The weather has turned nasty.”
I turn to the window and the chill from outside swims through my veins. The rolling hills that usually greet me are smudged out by mist and banks of black clouds. It’s cold out, and it’s beginning to rain. Every hair on my body stands on end. I feel the prickle, the tension of imminent danger everywhere. For the first time in years, instinct awakens despite the fog and panic roars through my limbs.
My reaction is immediate, an animalistic reflex rather than conscious thought.
Something is wrong.
Jensen is in trouble.
My heart rate accelerates rapidly and my hands begin to feel hot. My focus narrows, vision tunneling as I sweep the horizon for signs of Jensen.
“Sid.” A low rumble I didn’t intend to unleash accompanies the word. “Call everyone who’s here or nearby. Now! Get all the cars ready, get everyone! Jensen is out there, and we need to find him.”
From there, things happen quickly. People appear out of nowhere and a fleet is assembled. Raincoats and wellies are issued to those who will be searching the grounds on foot, and the rest of us pile into vehicles, two people per car, one to drive and one to look for Jensen. Engines roar and vehicles take off at speed, each party given a particular road or lane to comb.
The windscreen wipers work double time, squeaking and sloshing torrents of water off the windscreen as Sid changes gear and accelerates. We careen up and down the gravel roads that lead from the stables, through the valley, to an old, derelict cottage. Essentially, it’s a lane that leads nowhere, but it’s a lane that can be seen from Jensen’s bedroom window, and one I often take when riding Gregor, so I know he’s familiar with it. It’s a picturesque path most days, with beautiful views of the moor, but as the rain beats down heavily, it’s fast becoming a treacherous mud slide.
We drive up and down, as far as Jensen could reasonably have walked in the time he’s been out, and then a little farther. My heart doesn’t slow down the entire time. If anything, it beats faster. An unfamiliar sting of fear shortens my breath and makes my lungs burn. I keep my eyes peeled, scanning the road and the countryside for any sign of Jensen as my panic grows.
We search for thirty minutes. Forty-five. An hour.
And nothing. No sign of Jensen at all.
Gradually, calls come in from the others looking for him. Like us, they’ve been unsuccessful. Jensen’s not on the grounds, notat the stables, not in any of the surrounding paddocks. He’s not on or near any roads or tracks that can be accessed from the house.
It’s not my imagination. The hair on the back of my neck wasn’t wrong. Instinct seldom is.
Jensen is missing.
My phone rings. It’s Mrs. Thompson. She’s come in on her day off, and I’m weak with relief at hearing her voice. “I’m calling emergency services,” she says firmly. “There’s a cold snap forecast, and we’re starting to lose light.”
“Yes,” I agree. “Do that. Tell them to hurry.”
There’s a kerfuffle of calls back and forth between us that ends with me hanging up and swearing viciously. Evidently, according to the powers that be, Jensen is considered low-risk, whatever that means. The best the officer Mrs. Thompson spoke to could do was suggest that we check local areas—as if we haven’t thought of that! I put in a blunt, rather loud call myself and get promised dogs and drones tomorrow if he hasn’t been found.
Tomorrow?
To-fucking-morrow!?
“Don’t they know he’s not from here!” I yell at no one in particular. “We aren’t even sure he’s dressed for the weather. He could be freezing!”
“Just a thought, my lord,” says Sid, grimacing and holding eye contact for a little longer than usual before continuing. “The missus’s cousin, Reggie, might be able to help. He lives a couple of towns over. He’s an, erm, alpha known for his tracking abilities. If we call now, he might be able to get here before Mr. Lawlor’s scent washes away.”
The deafening drum of my elevated pulse falls silent. It ceases to exist for several seconds as a base rage sinks its talons into me. It’s so base and intense that my vision tunnels, and thentunnels again, narrowing so sharply that the world seems to turn on its axis.
An alpha.
A man who’s not me scenting Jensen. Looking for him. Becoming familiar with his scent. Finding the gentle trace Jensen leaves behind when he moves, finding that, knowingthat, and using it to track him.
