Bloodhound Tracks Novels & Stories

"My inner wolf required a fresh scent-profile after the long travel, so I traded my bloodline fibers for these pale blue valley hides that showcase my running legs," I stated, shifting my weight into the frame of the heavy obsidian threshold. Vickon Blackwynd locked his dark pupils onto my form for a silent span of heartbeats before executing a firm nod of his chin. "Very well. Advance across the perimeter and extract the records your beast requires." I stepped inside his command sector, and within three paces, the broken, stolen cluster of lunar flora I had been shielding behind my flank was exposed to his tracking senses.

The tracks in the snow froze me in place. "Stellan." My voice was barely a whisper. "Look." He moved closer, his eyes scanning the prints. "Fresh. Hours old, maybe less." His jaw tightened. "Something's hunting in these mountains. Something big." "Wolves?" "Maybe. But these tracks are strange—deeper than they should be, like whatever made them was incredibly heavy." He looked up at the pass, at the shadows gathering between the peaks. "We need to be careful."

These hunters and their wolf associates wanted to prove how easily they could get to him, Tristan, and his family. To me. I turned back to John. “Were there any tracks?” His expression was grim. “Nothing we could follow. Whoever did this covered their trail well. No scents left behind led off the property, no fingerprints, nothing. Just this.” He gestured at the photo. Hunters. This was their specialty—moving unseen, leaving no trace. And now, they were working with werewolves—wolves who knew how to avoid detection just as well as we did.

And I wasn’t going to stop until I remembered the rest. *************** The sun had slipped just below the horizon by the time I stepped off the porch. The ocean breeze cut sharper now, lifting the hairs on the back of my neck. The ground around the house was scattered with debris—splintered wood from the door, broken glass, and the unmistakable imprint of boot prints stamped into the muddy earth near the side fence. I crouched beside the tracks, studying them. At least two different pairs, maybe more. The soil was soft enough to show depth, and the impressions were recent. But they trailed off toward the road, where gravel made it impossible to track further.

His lips brushed the side of her neck, soft despite the growl still rumbling in his chest. Maddox shifted back, crouching naked and bloody. “Trackers.” Heather frowned. “What?” “It’s the only thing that makes sense. They said they tracked their missing wolves right here. No way they guessed. They had to know. While we were out cold me in the pit, you when they grabbed you they planted something. That’s how they found us.” David’s grip tightened. “We check their gear. Now.” They moved to the nearest truck, tailgate down, crates of equipment spilling out. High-end scanners, monitors, blinking screens. Two steady signals pulsed on one display.

**KAEL** *** morning *** Bruno, one of the players in the mansion met me at the bottom of the stairs, holding a map in one hand and a list of names in the other. “They’ll be here any minute,” he said. “Three of our best scent-trackers. One’s from the Red Claw pack, knows how to follow a trail over any terrain. If Sasha left even a whisper of a scent behind, they’ll find it.” I nodded. My wolf haven’t been at rest since Sasha left, it kept pacing and trying to take over, but I anyways found a way to suppress it.

But even the best cover couldn’t fake what the earth remembered. Then I saw it. Just beyond the treeline, where the slope dipped toward the river bend. Indentations. Parallel. Four thick tracks. My heart slammed once, hard. Tires. A truck. I dropped to one knee and pushed back the foliage. The impressions were fresh - no more than twenty minutes. And the spacing was wide. Heavy vehicle. Big enough to hold someone... or multiple someones. Kael lunged up with a snarl. “Follow it. Hunt. Kill.”

“Not rogues. Not Red Hollow either.” I narrowed my eyes. “Then who?” The answer didn’t come immediately. The forest seemed almost frozen, every branch coated in ice and heavy with snow. Even the usual sounds of wildlife were faint, as if the storm had silenced everything in anticipation. I pressed my hand to the hilt of my dagger, feeling the familiar pull of readiness deep inside me. Mira’s voice broke the silence. “Tracks.” She pointed to the snow covered ground where faint impressions were barely visible beneath a thin layer of fresh snowfall. “They’re fresh. Larger than ordinary wolves, heavier. Someone or something passed through here recently.”

That probably is the reason why Dylan wants me to come fast. "I removed the grass covering the tracks so you can see it clearly your majesty." My senses worked overtime as I scan the ground and see what Dylan is talking about. Two tracks, on the dirt. It is not clearly visible to ordinary wolves but we are not ordinary. The claw prints are large and it is walking slowly I could tell the careful steps the wolf made in order not to alert the guards.

Remy nods once. We continue forward, deeper into our territory, searching for signs of hunters, broken branches, footprints, spent shell casings, anything to prove they were here recently, but the further in we get, the fewer signs there are until there’s nothing. And that terrifies me more than finding something would have. “Tracks,” Ronnie calls from ten metres ahead. We rush to him. Boot prints, deep and fresh. Ryder kneels, tracing the edges with two fingers. “This was less than an hour ago.”