Hunching deeper into his thick fur lined overcoat, Jonah trudged through the snow grumbling to himself. One of these days he would ignore his boss’s not so subtle requests and retire to warmer climes. He didn’t know where, just as long as there was no snow, no cold and no biting wind. He shivered as it sliced him straight through, lingering on aching joints just to prove he was getting old. Of course he was by no means the oldest in the team. Mack outlived him by a few hundred years, but as the only mortal, he felt every one of his fifty-two years.
To keep his mind off the cold and his aching joints, he forced himself to concentrate on the job. The information his boss had given him was sketchy at best, scribbled on a tiny bit of paper in the near illegible handwriting typical of the dwarf. The size of the paper was always relative to the carrier. It infuriated Jonah that his boss insisted on sending the smallest pigeon when he knew that Jonah’s eyesight was not what it was. His boss’s arguments that he needed to send fast carriers never convinced him.
A body had been found in the basement of a local apothecary. He presumed that the owner had made the discovery, but that information hadn’t reached him. The body was an unknown male, who appeared to have found his way into the basement unseen through a locked door.
Through the darkness, Jonah could see the orange haze of Shairon’s light outside the large shop door. He scowled. How had she arrived before he did? Highlighting the swirling snow, her light remained steady in the strong wind where most flames would have long died.
Grunting, he pushed against the door. Although heavy, it opened without protest. A bell above danced, jingling a merry welcome. It grated on his nerves, and repeated its chime as he pushed the door closed. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. He inhaled a lungful of spices.
Opening his eyes, he shook the snow off his collar. Tugging his fingers from his gloves, he turned back to the room, rubbing at his face in an attempt to generate some heat in his circulation. His rough skin grated across the stubble at his chin. Carefully, Jonah surveyed the room.
Dark timber shelves lined the walls. Vials and jars glinted in the light from the candles that balanced in holders projecting at regular intervals, keeping the flame from the contents of the shelves. Either side of the door, in the depth of the bay windows, two tables were spread with tools and bottles symbolising all the services that the apothecary offered.
He shivered as he noted the barbaric teeth pulling instruments, alongside bandages, hoof picks, large rasps, hoof trimmers, flea combs, and various powers. A deep counter blocked access to the furthest shelves, where he supposed the dangerous herbs and potions were kept.
Inspecting the nearest shelf, he recognised a vine leaf carved in the timber to identify the primary contents.
A muffled step carried into the shop. He paused, turning to look over his shoulder. A curtain behind the counter, hidden almost entirely by shadows from the poison shelves, quivered. Treading carefully on the straw strewn floor, he reached for his dagger.
The curtain pulled back to reveal a curved figure. In the candlelight, her tanned skin took on a ruddy appearance. He green eyes widened, her smile wavered as she noted his hand. He relaxed with a growl.
“Shairon? How did you…?”
“It’s my side of town. Sorry.” She explained, stepping aside to let him pass. He noted they were in a narrow corridor.
“I didn’t mean to startle you…” she glanced again at his dagger, her hand automatically lifting to play nervously with a strand of blond hair that draped over her shoulder.
“Habit.” He shook his head. “Are they…?”
“Yes, both down in the basement. I’m staying with the apothecary, a Mrs Brimble, while they take a closer look. She is in a bit of a state.”
“She? Good girl.” Jonah nodded his appreciation to the efficient young witch. “I’ll take a look before I introduce myself.”
“Alright. I don’t know if she will be talking by then, but introducing yourself will do no harm.” Shairon nodded. “We’re in the sitting room just here behind the shop.” She indicated to the door they were facing. “The next door along, central to the corridor is the basement. The one beyond that is the kitchen.”
Grunting acknowledgement, Jonah trudged down the corridor. A timber door clung to the walls of a staircase that descended before him. The stone steps were coated in Shairon’s iridescent fire, which filled the narrow space with a warm light. Jonah made his way down the stairs, cursing as his shoulders scrapped the walls. His only consolation was that Geraint would have struggled even more.
“So, our accomplished leader arrives at last.” Mack grinned as he entered the musky basement. “Must be getting old Jonah if Shairon beat you.”
Sparing Mack his driest glare, Jonah took two paces forward across the pressed dirt floor to where a still figure huddled against a trunk.
Leaning against the case and the adjoining wall, the body had his back to the room, arms wrapped around bent knees. Crouching alongside, Jonah growled in frustration as he recognised the face had been deliberately tilted down, hiding his features behind his knees. Jonah noted the broad shoulders, thin clothing and frowned at the still disturbance to the brown hair. There was something decidedly odd about the fixed pose.
“Ya know what’s odd boss?” Geraint growled from the shadows. “Aside from ‘is miraculous appearance here? He ain’t got no smell.”
“You serious?” Although Jonah knew that Geraint hadn’t a humorous bone in his body, the idea that there werewolf had detected no scent whatsoever on the body was un-nerving.
“Sure I am. If ya don’t believe me, ask Mack. Even he’s noticed.”
“Yeah, this one is goin’ to be a nerkin to profile.” Mack sniffed over his sketchpad to Jonah, nodding his agreement so his blond hair danced around his shoulders.
Scanning the body, Jonah searched for the fine detail that could give some clue to the body’s identity or origin. The white shirt was ruffled at the shoulders, exposing pale wrists. Black trousers pulled up by his position displayed a pair of fine leather boots. Boots like that were a prize to many, so he discounted theft as a motive for the body’s death. Returning his gaze to the shirt, Jonah studied the peaks and valleys of the creases in the shirt. Ridges stood tall and proud along the shoulders and arms in a way Jonah had never seen before. Reaching down, he cursed as his rough fingers brushed against the solid fabric.
“He’s bludy frozen. That’s why there’s no neckin smell.”
