Devil Take The Hindmost

Chapter Twenty-Four

We need to talk.

It was a simple text message from Cat conveying much more than its constituent four words ought to, and I pondered it at length as I strolled through the copse of Hazel and Alder bordering Pebble Deeping along its northern edge.

Fungus darted between tree trunks, yelping with delight whenever she caught a whiff of a rabbit, a squirrel or most tantalising of all, a pheasant. It was a couple of weeks into pheasant season, and I carried my over-under shotgun with the breech broken over the crook of my arm in the hopes of bagging some opportunistic grub.

Every few paces, my left hand would gravitate to the hip of my padded jacket, where my fingers would caress the cool brass irregularity of a pocket full of shells. I felt a kind of self-assuredness whenever I touched one of the small parcels of pent-up death which was somehow comforting in the face of the uncertainty characterising my life outside that wood.

The pheasant is an attractive creature, but not one known for its cunning or intellect.

Like a hapless contestant on a reality TV show, they look very pretty, but one is given the inescapable impression that shooting them would be both a kindness and a net positive gain for the average IQ of the planet's inhabitants. They also tasted quite good by the time Ty finished hanging, plucking, and roasting them, which was the primary reason for stalking through the woods and fields in search of a brace.

This morning, I was more than usually distracted, and Fungus was more than usually excitable. Consequently, I had already missed several glorious opportunities when one of the plump birds broke cover and lumbered into the air to escape the frenzied pursuit of the hound.

"Are you taking the dog or the gun for a walk?" Edge shouted from ten metres away where he stalked through the undergrowth with a lithe grace suggesting, if he had not taken to shouting insults, he could sidle up to a pheasant and wring its neck without the creature even noting his presence.

"Both!" I smiled back at him. "I'm not into it today, and I'm rather letting the side down." I stooped to ruffle and pat Fungus' off-white flanks by way of apology. She is a well-trained gun dog and seemed not to understand why her master did nothing about any of the delicious smelling things she had scared out of bushes so far.

Agreed. My place or yours? I typed out the reply carefully using my free hand.

"Are you going to tell me what happened the other night?" Ty said, suddenly very close by after having apparently floated across the ground without making a sound.

"A gentleman never tells," I demurred. "However, in this case, even if I were not a gentleman, I wouldn't have anything to tell you."

Edge stared at me with a passive expression indicating he was processing what I said.

"I'm not sure about Cat," I said at last.

"Hmm," he responded, stroking the dark sandpaper stubble on his cheeks with an audible rasp. "I don't trust Widdershinz."

"Quite the pair," I nodded. "I think Cat has been holding out on us, she's known about the blood and the sigils all along."

"And Widdershinz is so full of shit that if he were to sneeze, he'd fertilize the top meadow," Ty countered.

"There is something there, though. Just enough of what he says rings true to suggest he is either right, or he's involved," I said. "Why is he so on edge about Cat being a police officer?"

"I think we should have it out with both of them. Or ditch them and sort this out ourselves," Edge threw a stick into the undergrowth and Fungus, relieved at last to have something to retrieve, bounded after it with her tail spinning like a helicopter's rotor blade.