Will he be too worried about me to focus on running the pack and defending our people from Walter and the Axis Pack?
Half expecting myself to switch on the hand brake and swing the wheel wildly, performing a hairpin turn like I’ve seen in the movies, spinning us around in a cloud of burning rubber and panic, I decide instead to reach out to Jasper and see how he’s doing, but just as I’m about to use the mind-link Omar sits forward.
“I’ve been here,” he says, staring out his window. “Can you pull off?”
I take the next exit, and Omar directs me through some winding forest roads. Pines stand in perfect lines, which makes me think we must be in some sort of plantation. I wonder if this is where they get the trees for Christmas or harvest the scent for air fresheners. We drive until we’re surrounded by green, and the road, which is carpeted in a thick layer of brown pine needles, becomes a dirt road.
“Just up here,” he says.
The trees open onto a small clearing where a stout building sits. A cabin of sorts, not wooden and rustic like Mitsuha’s in theLunar Plane. This one is made with cinder blocks and corrugated iron. It looks more like a stable or a public toilet.
“What is this place?”
Omar has his hand on the door handle, ready to jump out.
“I stayed here a few years back when I was searching for the Sanc. Malachi, the guy who lives here, is a friend.”
“Someone lives here?” I hit the brake and turn off the engine. Omar has jumped out before the car is fully stationary.
“Malachi?” Omar calls, heading straight for the door.
I leap out and follow him.
Omar raps on the door. “Malachi, it’s your boy! You in there?”
No answer. Omar looks back at me a little puzzled but says, “He sleeps a lot, the old guy.” Then knocks again, harder. “Malachi?”
“Omar,” I say, having spotted the broken glass in the window, the lack of light coming from inside. “Look.”
Testing the waters, Omar turns the door handle slowly and the unlocked door swings open.
Inside it’s dark, a stale scent lies under the overwhelming smell of pine. The place is trashed. Sheets and clothes and papers strewn across the floor. A camping stove sits in pieces on its side, dishes and glassware are shattered over the concrete floor.
“Nah, man,” Omar says, both hands behind his head as he takes it in.
I lift my head and inhale through my nose. Under the pine and the stale musk is another scent, that of a rogue, and then under that, the lingering trace of something else. “Pack wolves have been here.”
Omar is shaking his head.
“Hey,” I say, moving to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe he got out.”
“Yeah,” Omar says, his headshaking turning to nods. “Yeah maybe.”
“He lived here a while, right?” I can tell from the depth of his scent, how it’s embedded in the brick and concrete.
“He knew this forest better than anyone.”
“So maybe he saw them coming and got out before they ransacked the place?”
“You think?”
I take another look around, see what else I can sense, see if my blood-wolf powers can latch on to any emotional distress.
“There’s no blood. If they found him, they didn’t hurt him here.”
Omar’s eyes are bugging out of his head, but I can tell he’s trying to work things through. To convince himself of a positive outcome.
“Where would he go if he was in trouble?”
