Page 77 of Break Out the Girl

Slinking through the grass, I realize the sounds are coming from two heavy animals on the far side of the bridge. They aren't normal guard dogs, they're savage, mutated hounds. As their nostrils flare, aggressively catching the air, I see them turn their heads in our direction.

Did they catch our scent?

The mutts snap their oversized jaws, thick ropes of drool dripping from their maw.

We need to move.

London and I bolt as behind us howls sound. The faun’s hand pushes on my coat, urging me to go faster. He’s right. Our natural scent is a massive giveaway.

Fuck.

We race through the dark woods until we are under the perimeter fence and back to the LandRover. I shift, scramble in and slam the door shut.

“What’s going on?” Rory yells.

I can’t answer, my chest is heaving as I start the engine and pull away. We’ve got to move. I don’t know how well those things can track, and I’m not risking Rory.

“That was exciting,” London puffs.

Rory lets out a frustrated sound. “What the fuck happened?”

I leave London to the explanations while I screech around the corner and onto the main road again. Finding a forest turn-off, I roll in and cut the engine.

“...and so you see, it’s a pickle. Those dog-things are going to smell a wolf and a faun from a mile away.”

He’s right. We’ll have to go in as humans, and that is a distinct fucking disadvantage. I’m running through options in my head when the air in the cabin shifts. Somehow, I know it’s Rory’s magical signature.

I look around to see her fingers dancing a beautiful pattern.

The scent of fresh clean rain floods the vehicle. “So what about this spell? It’s to block odors. No man wants to smell a girl’s sweat, you know.” She throws a wry grin in my direction then casts some more. I can feel the air around me continue to cool and freshen. “Can you smell him, London?” Rory asks the faun.

London blinks. “Burt has never smelled so good. I’m almost inclined to kiss him.”

“I wouldn’t try if I were you,” I growl at him, but without any heat.

Then my face breaks into a smile. She can hide our tell-tale scents.

“Nice work, Princess. Very nice work indeed.”

27: FRANCOIS

As a minion puts $20 of gas in the sedan’s almost empty fuel tank, the golden wire in my chest vibrates with an increasingly intense frequency.

She’s close.

I stare at my reflection in the rearview mirror while the tank fills. Gods, I have combed the knots from my hair, yes, and scraped the Ashgrave mud from my skin, but I still feel soiled. Contaminated.

The chalky, chemical mint of the antacids are doing a miserable job of masking the stomach-churning weight of the rodent still fucking dissolving in my gut. I am a prince of Le Milieu, a creature born to look down upon the world from a position of absolute, unassailable luxury.

Yet here I am, huddling in a stolen vehicle, waiting on a twenty-dollar hand-out of fuel, while nausea overwhelms me.

I’m deciding how to improve my lot when a custom, armored Bentley Mulliner rolls into the lot. It looks thoroughly out of place against the rotting northern weeds.

The tinted rear-window rolls down an inch and a thick cloud of expensive cigar smoke drifts into the damp air. My basilisk instincts flare, pupils flattening as I recognize the silver lion-headed cane resting against the leather door panel.

Hector Montgomery.

He is one of my father’s inner circle. A repulsive man who is no doubt wrapped up in the twisted trafficking world. No doubt at all.