The Wolf with the Iron Jaw (Elysium #1)

Chapter Thirty-One

 Trinket hardly breathed for fear that even a single misplaced sigh would alert the Wolf to their presence and turn this expedition into another chase. It was pulling and tearing at what looked to be a dead dog, desperately trying to scrape off every last bit of flesh.

Booker slowly reached for his sleeping gun and aimed it at the beast's hindquarters. She held her breath, waiting for the trigger to pull.

The Wolf lifted its head, ears perked.

She stifled a gasp, and Booker stepped back. Had the beast sensed them? No, it was looking in the opposite direction, beyond the slums. Body at attention, it stared into the night.

A whine escaped from its throat.

And it bolted.

Booker hissed a curse as he stashed the gun away and tightened his grip on Trinket's arm.

"We can't lose sight of it," he said as he began to run.

She stumbled along beside him. Her lungs ached with each breath of frigid air. The Wolf was fast, even with an injured leg.

A twitch of its ears. A pathetic whine. An increase in speed.

Booker sped up, and Trinket nearly tripped over her feet attempting to match his gait.

The fresh snow was deep. Drifts blocked their path. But Booker was not deterred. He plowed through the obstacles, following in the Wolf's wake. With her skirt in one hand, Trinket clutched Booker's arm with the other and tried to keep up. Snow was caked onto the hem of her dress, and the added weight threatened to slow her down. For the first time in her life, she wished she had been wearing trousers.

Rounding a corner. Zigzagging across the street. Vanishing in a cloud of white powder. The Wolf was on a mission.

Where was it headed?

A sudden halt. Ears alert.

They were feet away from it.

Another whine. And then a weak wag of its tail.

It darted into the shadows.

Booker picked up his pace, nearly knocking Trinket over in his haste. When they reached the shadows into which it had disappeared, there was only a dilapidated building. The paw prints stopped at the door frame, but there was no sign of where the beast had run off to.

The Wolf was gone.

Booker rushed into the shack. He searched frantically, opening the windows, stomping on the floorboards, knocking on the walls.

But there was nothing.

His hands opened and closed, eyes darting about in desperation. Frustration was written across his face as he paced back and forth, checking and rechecking until, finally, he threw his hands into the air and sank to the ground. Leaning his head against one of the remaining walls of the hovel, he gazed up at the patches of cloudy sky peeking through the gaping holes in the roof.

She approached him cautiously, and when he did not respond or object to her presence, she slid down beside him, tugging at her gloves nervously.

"We were so close," he said at last.

She chewed on her lip before stealing a glance at him. The hope and eagerness that had brightened his face earlier that night were gone. Now his eyes were dark and moody, his throat tight as he swallowed down his disappointment.

"It's not like we failed," she said. "Our whole objective tonight was to track the Wolf and confirm that the Mice did not have it. We succeeded in that respect."

"We would have succeeded more if we had caught it."

She glanced about the building in which they were sitting. "Where are we? Is this still the slums?"

"St. Spittel."

"I thought the slums were St. Spittel?"

"Technically they are, but when streetfolk use the name, they're usually referring to this area. It used to be a night district. Brothels, gambling dens, thieves for hire. The reigning gang before the Mice set it up."

She peered through the crumbling walls and caught glimpses of the surrounding buildings. They were in just as much disrepair as the shack in which they sat. It was difficult to picture the area as a thriving hub of turpitude.

"What happened to it?" she asked.

"Gang wars. The Mice torched the place."

"When?"

"Long before I arrived. The Mice were already well-established as the dominant gang by the time I came around." He turned to her. "You're trying to distract me from our failure."

"I'm genuinely curious about this place. Distracting you is an added bonus."

"I know I'm being childish. I know we accomplished something tonight. It's just so frustrating. We had it right in our sight and then—"

With his hand extended before him, he squeezed it closed and dropped it in his lap with a sigh.

"Did you notice how its ears kept perking up?" she asked. "And how it was whining? It was as if it heard something."

"I didn't hear a thing, though. Did you?"

She shook her head. "No, nothing."

He sighed again. "I feel like I'm missing something, like it's right under my nose."

She glanced about the building again. Where the Wolf could be hiding in such a place was beyond her. Everything was open and exposed.

Booker groaned and pounded the floor with his fist, stirring up a mixture of snow and dust. "It has to be here! There's nowhere else it could have gone!"

With a sympathetic smile, she laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Let's go back home. I'll make us some tea and we can try to figure it out in the warmth of the parlour where our posteriors won't freeze."

Though he seemed to be fighting it, a smile broke over his face. "Very well. I suppose sitting here and throwing a tantrum isn't going to get me any closer to an answer, is it?"

"Very unlikely."

She rose to her feet first, extending her hands to him. He reluctantly took them and lifted himself up. Brushing the snow from his coat, he cast one final look around the abandoned building. Then, turning to her, he shrugged his shoulders in defeat, and together, they made their way back to the slums.