Tracking the Bear (Blue Ridge Bears Book 1)(6)

And increasingly, I was the odd man out at home. Both my sisters had found their mates early on, one at university, and the other when she’d gone ice fishing in Minnesota. There was nothing that could drive a wedge between my parents.

The sun would be up in an hour, and it would be the third sleepless night in a row. My bear rumbled inside my chest, ignoring my body’s plea for sleep.

We can come back for her, I assured it. She hadn’t smelled like another male, and she’d worn no rings. She was single, fertile, and mine for the taking. I just had to track down Luke Elmsong, and drag him back for trial. Then I could pursue Lucy at my leisure.

There was nothing for it. I wasn’t going to get to sleep. I picked up one of the crime scene photos that had been slipped discreetly to my home office from the bedspread and examined it. As always, photos like these had an odd sort of dissonance. The blood and viscera were made somehow less gruesome when neatly delineated, sorted into piles and examined by a coroner.

I was almost certain it hadn’t been anything less than a nightmare for Keith Page.

“You poor dead bastard,” I muttered, flipping to the next in the pile. Keith’s ruined carcass looked only marginally less sickening in the autopsy photos.

The only mercy was that he hadn’t suffered long. Luke Elmsong had gone straight for his throat. After that, he’d probably lost consciousness after twenty seconds, and bled out in less than two minutes. Twenty seconds wasn’t a long time to ponder your imminent demise, but time was relative. I’m sure they’d seemed like an eternity to the dead boy.

I’d gone over the evidence on the way down, but I reviewed every item in the envelope again. This was what I was meant to be doing here. This was the reason I had to leave Fairchild, Tennessee behind and proceed further east. Luke Elmsong had become a monster, and for three nights a month he’d be an unstoppable killing machine. Every day I wasted here brought him closer to the full moon and another chance at slaughter.

I pulled on a pair of jeans and then sunk to the floor, arranging my limbs so I sat in lotus position. Ideally, I would have lit sandalwood incense, but I doubted the charming lady who ran the bed and breakfast I was staying at would appreciate it. Besides, the incense wasn’t really necessary. It was merely a force of habit, the same as the preparatory shower I’d taken. It made no tangible difference, it just helped me focus.

I steepled my fingers and closed my eyes, clearing my head of all thoughts of Lucy. Normally I’d have done meditative breathing, letting the smoke fill my senses and allow me to transcend. Instead, I focused on the low buzz of static filtering from the television set. I let the low electric hum fill my mind, and my body relaxed even further into the thick carpeting.

A few minutes later, I stepped out of my skin. Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration. My spirit left my body, and I didn’t look back to survey myself. I knew exactly how I’d look. I’d seen other lawmen leave their bodies to scope out an area before.

And I really couldn’t look back. Much like Orpheus, if I turned back it defeated the purpose of the whole exercise. I had only to glimpse the vessel that housed my soul, and I would be forced back into it, like a rubber band snapping back to its original shape. I would always have to return to my body until I died, or it did.

I strode forward, not pausing at door to my room. The door put up no resistance, and I phased through it. It was like stepping into a cloud of cool mist. Very little could hinder me in this state. Enchantments and places of faith could pose a problem for me, but Mr. and Mrs. Wells only seemed to worship at the altar of NASCAR and Bud Light.

I floated above the stairs carefully. Just because I could interact with the physical realm, didn’t mean I should. I didn’t want to start a rumor that the Wells Bed and Breakfast was haunted by an unruly spook. The front door rattled slightly, and the screen door shivered at my passing. All in all, it was one of my smoother exits.

I was less cautious on the porch. The cat perched in the rocking chair hissed as it sensed me. I flicked its ear on my way past and it bolted, hissing like mad.

In this insubstantial form, I could fly to my destination if I so chose. I chose to walk the streets of Fairchild instead. I wanted to see the town where my mate had been raised.

I still avoided the pools of lamplight cast on the pavement, though my spirit self couldn’t cast a shadow. It was an instinct I’d honed after many years of practice. I ticked down the addresses one by one, counting down to my destination. Luke’s maternal aunt Carol Boswell and her husband Mack lived at 519 N Elm Street. It had been hell on my GPS trying to figure out where to go. For whatever reason, the small town didn’t show up on maps anymore.

The town boasted only one gas station, a bed and breakfast, a few shops, and one restaurant. There wasn’t a school building in sight, and I had to assume that she must have attended high school in the next town over.

The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon when I reached Elm Street. A cursory glance around the house confirmed what I’d already guessed. Luke Elmsong hadn’t been home for a long time. I retreated from the home, slightly put out. It might have made for a disappointing hunt, but I’d been hoping that he’d act with human instinct and seek out a familiar place. I wanted this hunt to be over as soon as possible so I could return to Lucy.

My initial hunch had been correct. Luke’s newfound bear would lead him in search of a thickly wooded area, someplace where it would have an advantage over the human police that had attempted to gun him down. That would drive him further east, toward the Appalachian mountain range.