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He swore. “Can you track it?”
“Yes.”
“Be there in five.” He hung up.
I grabbed the backpack, shoved on my coat and checked the keys were still in its pocket, and then headed out. The night air was icy and still, and other than the rumble of an approaching truck, there was little in the way of noise. It was almost as if the regular sounds of the night had been silenced by the thread of evil creeping like a thief through the darkness.
It was a thief that was hungry.
Very hungry.
I shivered and moved across to the curb as twin beams of light swept into Mostyn Street and raced toward me. Once Aiden’s truck had stopped, I climbed inside.
“Where to?” he asked, even as he pulled away from the curb.
I shoved the pack at my feet and wound down the window; the icy air slapped my face and drew a soft gasp from my lips, but I ignored the discomfort and reached with that psychic bit of me able to sense these things. “Straight ahead, and then left.”
Tires squealed as we took the corner at speed. I held onto the handgrip to steady myself, and tried to concentrate on the tenuous thread that pulsed through the night.
“Turn right at the next road.”
“That’s the Pyrenees Highway.” His voice was grim. “Looks like we’re heading to Maldoon and the Marin reservation.”
“It can’t just be about the Marins,” I said, “because Marlinda wasn’t a werewolf, let alone a Marin, was she?”
“No, but she did have a rather long relationship with Luc Marin, Aron’s older brother, so there is a connection.”
“Meaning this still could still be about revenge.” I paused as the thread tugged sideways. “Right at the next road.”
“We’re definitely heading back to Maldoon.” He slowed just enough to take the corner safely, and then accelerated away again.
I didn’t say anything. I simply concentrated on the steadily strengthening thread of evil. This thing wasn’t in Maldoon.
But it wasn’t the pulsing that told me that.
It was the faint wisps of fog that were beginning to sidle across the road. It was the same sort of fog that had been present with the first murder. Now, as then, the patches gradually got thicker, until both the road and the land beyond either shoulder were nothing more a wasteland of white.
The soul eater was here somewhere.
“Slow down,” I said.
He immediately did so. “There’s nothing out here but scrub.”
“Maybe.” And maybe not. I flexed my fingers, but it did little to ease the growing tension. Ahead, at the very edge of the headlight’s reach, was a vague and rather squat outline. “What’s that?”
“It’s one of the old brick cottages that are scattered all around this area. Many of them belong to—or are leased by—the Marin pack, even though they’re outside pack ground.”
“We need to check it out.” The evil I was sensing might not be coming from within that cottage, but it was very close to it. I dragged up my backpack and quickly undid it.
“I’ll continue on and turn around at the next farm gate. That way, we’ll hopefully allay the suspicions of anyone who might be in that building.”
He turned off the headlights once we were past the cottage and, at the next farm gate, turned around and then stopped. We were near enough that the cottage was visible despite the fog, but hopefully not so close that whoever was inside would have taken much notice of the truck’s engine.
I pulled the charms from the backpack and handed him one. Aiden slipped it over his neck without comment and tucked it out of sight under his sweater. I couldn’t help the smile that touched my lips despite the seriousness of the situation.
“What?” he immediately said.
“I was just thinking how much things have changed. A month ago you would have distrusted anything to do with witches and witchcraft.”
