“Better now. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”
Bowie shakes his head. “You’ve nothing to apologize for.” He draws me in, plants a soft kiss on my forehead, and releases my cheeks.
I could swoon. I don’t.
“Ready?” he asks.
I suppose I am. I want to cover as much ground as possible in the next six hours. The more information we can collect, the better chance we have of solving this mystery and bringing the girls home alive.
I nod. “Let’s go.”
* * *
This timeno one has waited up for us as we return, exhausted, to Bowie’s mansion on the hill. I’m glad about it. I don’t want to disturb anyone, nor do I have much to say. It will be our last night here. Tomorrow, we follow the second trail, which leads north, toward Debrecen where yet more girls have gone missing. I will play Beans again to collect their scents. Then with luck, their trails will converge into a singular direction. I don’t want to think of what could happen without luck.
I feel defeated. Following a scent, only to have to turn around when the trail keeps going, is agonizing. So many girls and precious little time.
Bowie leads us on silent feet up to his room. I try to match his effortless quiet, but my steps are clumsy in comparison. Still, I’m careful not to wake anyone as we make our way to the inner chamber of his bedroom.
“We’ll have to say our goodbyes early and head straight out at sundown,” says Bowie, beginning to strip off tonight’s set of clothes.
I nod in agreement and find myself watching him again. I don’t mean to stare, but his every movement is as graceful as dancing. He’s mesmerizing.
He notices my attention, and I look away, embarrassed. I undress to my pants, which I leave on, and hurry to bed. My eyelids are heavy, my body is drained, but my mind stays restless. The missing girls, these new places, a handsome vampire, and a maze of faint scents keep me on edge.
Bowie douses the lights. The bed shifts to accommodate his weight. He shuffles rather close but doesn’t touch me.
“Tonight was hard,” he whispers. “How are you feeling?”
Questions like this often stump me, but this time an answer comes straightaway. “Muddled. Overwhelmed.” I rub my hands over my face, trying to wipe away the memory that arises. “Like when I was a cub, under the full moon. We’d all shift to play hide and seek. But when I hid, no one looked for me.”
“How awful. That breaks my heart,” says Bowie with the sincerity of the sort of person who’d never condone that kind of cruelty.
“I knew I should do something, but I didn’t know what. So I just stayed there in my hiding spot, frozen, wondering where everyone else had gone. Pathetic.”
“Not pathetic. Not at all. What a nasty thing for the other children to do. You must know it’s not your fault.”
“Everything feels like it’s your fault when you’re young.” I’m not sure when sadness became anger or when anger turned to apathy, only that the apathy is easier to live with. I consider it an improvement.
“Mmm. Isn’t that the truth?” Bowie sounds as if he’s never moved beyond the sadness. He hasn’t spoken about his youth, and I’m hesitant to pry.
I tell him the truth behind my fears. “I’m afraid it will happen again. I’ll freeze, and I won’t know what to do. Only this time, it won’t be me who suffers. It will be innocent young girls.”
The bed dips with Bowie’s movement as he shifts to press against my side. His arm comes around my waist, and his chin lands on my shoulder. “Don’t be afraid, Andras. We have each other to lean on. I won’t let you freeze.”
I turn into him and let him draw me into a tight embrace. How did I live so long without this simple comfort? He feels good against me, so natural and safe. Whether it’s wise of me or not, I trust Bowie to keep his word.
“I’m sorry to ask so much of you,” he murmurs. His breath wisps across my collarbone. “I knew this plight would be taxing. I couldn’t do it alone. Thank you for volunteering to help.”
His thanks mean a great deal to me. I want to tell him not to apologize. That I’m glad to be here. That our mission is important, and I understand the urgency. But what comes out is:
“Ozor wouldn’t have been nearly as snuggly.”
That earns me a laugh from Bowie. He pushes his nose into my neck and sniffs. “He wouldn’t smell as nice either.”
“I smell like a wet dog.”
“You most certainly do not.” He takes another whiff. “You smell of the grasses we traversed, of fresh spring water straight from the earth, and of the spicy nectar of blood pumping just beneath your skin. Together it’s intoxicating.”
