“Mystery guy who’s supposed to help me break the curse. If you’re out there, I’d appreciate you showing up sometime soon.”
Slade tucked his pendant beneath the collar of his shirt, aiming the Durango toward his next adventure.
Slade found a campground a few hours from Bowling Green. He could keep on going and end up with a locust-covered windshield if he didn’t pull over before sundown. Primitive camping. Suited Slade. Chuck brought Slade’s camping equipment in the SUV. The tent for two and sleeping bag for one might help him get a good night’s sleep.
No cell phone signal at the campsite, but the convenience store down the road yielded two chicken strip plates. Free WIFI too, to check emails.
He placed one of the to-go trays on a stump; the other he left in the truck while setting up camp, in case he got hungry later.
Wind in the tree leaves and a stream flowing over rocks nearby provided the only sounds. The convenience store owner warned him to watch out for wolves and coyotes. Slade kept his Glock nearby.
Once he’d set up, he pulled out a sketch pad. By the stream made the perfect place to draw. So peaceful here. Ten years ago, he’d been pure city boy. The more he saw of the country, the more he found to love. If the damned curse let him pick a place to stay, he’d like to be in the woods, away from everyone. Maybe he liked isolation; maybe he’d spent too long with his own company.
And to think, when he’d visited Judith ten years ago, he’d wondered how anyone lived so remotely.
There were towns nearby if he wanted something to do. Nah. He’d rather sit here—time enough tomorrow to face people again.
A shot echoed through the woods. What the hell? Hunters? Idiot rednecks with ammo to burn. Another shot. Slade pulled his Glock closer.
Silence. He put a pencil to work, outlining, shading. He’d never been at his best on landscapes, but he’d certainly try to do this place justice. Kinda reminded him of Judith’s place, with hills instead of mountains.
Peaceful. Quiet. Though he’d missed last night’s full moon, the heavens should be bright enough tonight, against the backdrop of a cloudless sky. Forget the tent. He’d sleep underneath the stars instead.
The one-month-in-one-place thing got old the first year of forced traveling. Now, he’d love to settle someplace like this, full of woods, water, open sky.
And some sumbitch kept him from staying here—or anywhere else. How much longer until he ran out of places to go? What happened when old age hit? Or sickness?
Sick sorcerer asshole probably woke every morning laughing at Slade’s sorry ass. He’d never met another sorcerer, a witch, or a werewolf in ten years. Not that he’d know one if he saw them.
Or they bit him in the ass.
He ate most of one dinner, pulled off his boots and socks, and headed closer to the stream to investigate. Wow! Cold! An advantage of being alone? Going bare-assed naked and no one around to give a happy dam. He stripped out of his clothes and waded in, easing into the water slowly.
Downstream a bit, he found a calm, chest-deep pool. He dunked himself a few times, road grime sluicing off his body along with the water. He squeezed droplets out of his hair and beard, noticing more gray. Did the sorcerer age him with the curse? Or maybe the gray came from Dad’s side of the family.
Birds called to each other in the trees. Somewhere a bullfrog croaked out a foghorn mating call.
Then came the cry.
Slade froze. No birds now, just another low—whine? What the hell? A wounded animal? He reached for the gun normally kept at his back, finding only bare skin.
A wise man would go get the Glock.
No one ever accused Slade of too much firepower north of his shoulders. He made his way toward the sound, keeping splashing to a minimum. One more whine cut off. The poor animal must’ve died.
Moans replaced the whining.
Human moans. Slade splashed toward shore. There, on the bank, lay a man.
A naked man.
Pain-filled blue eyes focused on Slade. “Help me,” the man croaked, both hands pressed to his side. He moaned again.
Slade followed the hands with his eyes.
Blood. Lots of blood. Holy fuck!
“You lay right there. I’ll run back to camp for my first aid kit.” Slade had one in the truck, right? If nothing else, he always carried nitrile gloves for work.