The Perfume On His Collar
She rolled, coughing, as Rowen landed beside her with a strangled cry.
They lay there for a moment, staring up at the bruised sky, the rain whispering against their skin. Then Clara pushed herself up.
“Come on,” she said. “We’re not done yet.”
Rowen laughed softly, bitterly. “You sound like him.”
The path toward the quarry was little more than a scar through the forest old maintenance road, long abandoned. The trees bent low with the weight of the storm, branches clawing at them as they passed.
When the forest broke, the land fell away. The quarry yawned before them like a wound massive, circular, its depths hidden beneath swirling mist and rain.
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