Bloodhound Tracks Novels & Stories

For now, though, I focus on the task at hand, determined to find even the smallest glimmer of hope amidst the devastation. I walk through the dense forest, my boots crunching softly on the damp underbrush. My eyes are fixed on the faint tracks left in the mud, boot prints, paw prints, claw marks, and disturbed foliage. At first, I think I’m onto something, but soon, the tracks start circling back on themselves, looping in a way that throws off any sense of direction. Frustration builds as I realize the Crimsonclaw pack has deliberately obscured their trail again. Before I can figure out my next move, something catches my attention. I stop dead in my tracks, my breath hitching as I see it, a

A single shoe, child-sized, floats in a trough. My stomach flips. Rowan doesn’t slow. He pushes past, eyes already hunting for tracks. Mara’s voice is a whisper, broken with grief: “They didn’t even have time to run.” We find tracks in the mud—clawed, wrong, like wolf prints melted into human ones, too big, too many toes. Mara mutters a prayer under her breath. I bite my tongue to keep from doing the same. We catch a second scream, sharp and animal, somewhere ahead—firelight flickers through the trees.

Vampires are known to have incredible, fast speed, so it is hard to trace them through footprints. "I need someone to trace this smell and the footprints to know where it leads, maybe we can get a clue of what they want and where they went," I commanded. One of my men, who was well-trained in tracing scents and smells, stepped forward and fell into line. "As you wish, Your Highness," he said. He quickly transformed into a brownish wolf and then sprinted off, following the footprints and the smell of blood I had pressed to his nose. "Were there any captives, or did you all lose them?" Caspian asked.

For once I wished I actually knew what was going on in his head. “Don’t fight,” Keiran pleaded as he ran a shaky hand through his messy hair. “I have enough things to worry about and I don’t want to have to worry about the two of you.” Growling, I retook my seat and pushed the tablet across the table towards Keiran. “They found some tire tracks at the edge of the territory behind the house. Four pairs of footsteps and one animal track.” “The rogue?” I nodded. Keiran studied the photos carefully. “The animal tracks are probably the rogue. But what I don’t understand is how they got it here into our territory without anyone noticing.”

I felt hunted. I tugged my hoodie back on and slammed the door behind me as I got out. The cold slapped me in the face. That’s when I saw them. Tracks. At first, I thought it was just players’ boots, scuff marks in the snow. But no. These were wrong. Not paw prints. Not human either. The shapes were twisted, uneven. Like something heavy dragged itself forward on too many limbs. And they weren’t scattered randomly. They circled the rink.

Her lips parted, a flicker of longing in her eyes, but Gideon’s glare stopped her cold. Dax burst into the hall, his dark eyes wide, breath heavy. “Vera, we found Bloodclaw tracks near the caves,” he said, voice urgent. “They match his map.” My wolf purred, vindication hitting, but Gideon’s aura didn’t budge. “Convenient,” he muttered, eyes boring into me. Vera’s gaze flicked to Dax, then me, her claws retracting slightly. “You’re sure?” she asked Dax, voice tight. He nodded, holding up a tracker. “Fresh prints, leading straight there.”

Every broken twig, every shift in the dirt, every disturbance in the undergrowth meant something. And then I saw it.. Tracks. I pulled the reins sharply and the horse stopped with a soft snort and its breath began fogging the cool air. I slid down immediately, my boots hitting the earth with a dull thud as I crouched low, my fingers brushing against the ground. “…No,” I whispered. The tracks were fresh and it wasn’t scattered like prey, it wasn’t careless like that of wanderers. These were hunters moving together in formation. I traced one of the imprints with my fingers, my jaw tightening as I studied the shape.

None of that leaves us anything to go on. For wolves, and dogs for that matter, scent is a pool, so for the most part, tracking is like following puddled footsteps visible along a floor. For Ian, there are scent tracks into the catacombs, but the strongest pool is the one where he caught and killed Cordelion. But no scent trail leaves from it. As Jack and Silas saw, everything, including Ian’s scent, vanished in that instant he did, and the only thing to return was Cordelion’s broken body.

Our paws tore across earth and root, wind lashing against fur, heart pounding in time with the echo of a memory that smelled like innocence, like blood, like a tiny shirt that still sat on my nightstand like a wound I couldn’t close. We found the van, but it was burned. Charred beyond use, hidden in a ravine off the main path. But it hadn’t exploded. It had been destroyed carefully. Erased. Which meant they were trying to cover their trail. And that meant they were close. I shifted back, skin blistering as bone reformed, breathing ragged but steady, eyes sharp as glass. There were tracks—weathered now, softened by time. Human boots. Two sets. One larger. One smaller.

But under it, something older stirred. Fear? No. Not quite. It was instinct. Wolf-deep. The kind that rises when something unnatural enters the land. I moved ahead, following the tracks with Mira. Rowan flanked the left, Kye the right. No sound but boots against dirt and breath through teeth. Then it came, a smell, old blood, salt and bone. The tracks led us to a clearing half-sunken in mist, framed by dead trees. And at the center, Bones.