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Blood Bound

Blood Bound


Description : Blood Bound
Only two-thirty in the morning, and I already had blood on my hands. The most messed-up part of that? It was the hour that bothered me.

“You sure it’s him, Liv?” Booker swiped one hand over his sweaty, stubbly face as we stared at the lit window on the third floor. The apartment building was long and plain, like a cracker box on its side, and the moonless night only smeared the sides of the featureless building into the ambient darkness.

I nodded, shoving both cold, chapped hands into my jacket pockets. It was warm for early March, but still cold for me.

“How sure?”

My eyes closed, and again I clutched the blood-stiffened swatch of cloth in my right pocket, inhaling deeply through my nose, and the world exploded into a bouquet of scents. Relying on years of training, I sorted through them rapidly, mentally tossing aside those I couldn’t use. The metal tang of several huge trash bins. The chemical bite of Booker’s cologne. And the pervasive, ambient smells of life east of the river—motor oil, fried food and sweat.

What was left, with those more obvious smells out of the way, was the trail I’d followed all over town, as much a feel as a true scent, and a virtual match to the blood sample in my pocket.

I am a Tracker. More specifically—and colloquially—I’m a bloodhound. Given a decent, recent sample of your blood, I can find you no matter where you hide. Officially, my range is about eighty miles—on the high end of average. Unofficially…well, let’s just say I’m good at what I do. But not too good. Too much Skill will get you noticed. And I know better than to get noticed.

Booker cleared his throat and I opened my eyes to find myself staring up at the lit window again—the only occupant still awake. “Ninety-five...
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