the other Son

Chapter 21

He buttoned his trousers and watched her lounge on the bed, sheets in disarray. She was mouthy for a whore but not as worn-down as her colleagues. Whenever he grasped her neck with an iron grip there was still fear in her eyes whereas the other girls didn't even pretend to struggle anymore – they'd gladly die on the spot.

He picked up the thong discarded at the foot of the bed. Red lace, fit for a vixen like her.

She grinned smugly. "Do you like it?"

Not caring to give an answer he shoved the underwear into his pocket and she raised her eyebrows curiously.

"Taking trophies home?"

He scoffed. "For it to be a trophy there would've needed to be a hunt." He paused to let his gaze trail over her pale, naked body. "I didn't see you run though."

"You're a bastard," she accused him without any heat, more amused than anything else.

"And you're a whore – I think we're even."

"-we're expected to get the first snow of the year by the end of the week so make sure you're prepared! Temperatures might drop below zero and-"

Lesza turned his head and blinked at the radio on the side table, memories – memories? - of muddy brown eyes and red lace dancing in front of his eyes.

He shook off the weird dream and reached for the glass of wine to get rid of the stale taste in his mouth. It was almost eleven o'clock at night and he should really go to bed but his body seemed to be glued to the sofa. He set the empty glass down with a lengthy yawn and-

-the dark figure loomed over him, hand raised for another strike and he smelled smoke and ash and coffee-

He sucked in a stuttering breath and rubbed a hand over his face, attempting to get rid of those pictures.

Coffee?

God's above, he was too tired – maybe a bit tipsy - to think straight and his mind was a jumbled mess. The book still lay on the coffee table and his thoughts wandered back to all those precautions. Had he forgotten something, drawn a sign incorrectly? No, no, he'd followed the instructions precisely. If Dusan had drilled one thing into his head it had been to never act hastily, to always follow every step meticulously – their life depended on it.

Lesza peeled himself off of the sofa and switched off the lights and the radio in the living room as he carried the glass to the kitchen where he left it on the counter carelessly. A few days ago he'd hung herbs to dry and their earthy scent filled the room although it would take some more time until they were properly dried and ready to be stored. Now their scent brought a different thought to the forefront of his mind and he paused next to the sink, staring at the bundles hanging headlong above the heater with furrowed brows.

It hadn't been cigarette smoke the victim had smelled on the hooded figure. Weed, Lesza had thought initially, marijuana. As a young Constable he had spent hours upon hours searching people – some as young as ten, children – for little pouches of the drug. Identifying that sweet, herby smell had become second nature over the years.

It hadn't been weed but something very similar, some kind of plant that carried a comparable scent.

Switching off the lights in the kitchen as well Lesza yawned again and promised himself to look into it the next day once he could think straight again.

The air was pushed out of his lungs as he hit the ground, almost surprised by the strength of the hooded figure. The man wasn't that tall or bulky but what he lacked in physical strength he made up with anger and hatred.