Then…..
Sometime after midnight, Amel catches the scent of blood on the air.
Unable to sleep, which is nothing out of the ordinary on these lonely winter nights, she steps out onto the porch of her little cabin and is caught off guard by the smell of it. Can tell, immediately, that it's not the blood of an animal. It's unmistakably human. And much, much too close for her liking.
For a long moment, she stands staring out into the darkened treeline bordering her tiny front yard. Aside from the fact that hunting season has been over for weeks, no hunter would be out at this hour. None with any sort of common sense. So she doesn't understand. Is confused by this new presence. It's smell.
She's tempted to let it be. Can't imagine who would be foolish enough to be out at this hour, in this weather.
But she can't let it be. So, she goes back inside. Throws on a pair of jeans, tugs on her favorite over-sized cable knit sweater over the T-shirt she'd been lounging in, punches her feet into a ratty old pair of hiking boots, and sets off into the night.
The moon is high. Its light glitters and sparkles in lovely patterns across the snow, illuminating her path, though her wolf eyes need little assistance.
The scent is easy to follow. It's thick and cloying on her tongue. It hangs heavy in the air. Metallic. Underscored with notes of gun powder and oil. And something more. Something she can't quite place.
She cuts quickly through the silent forest. Finds what she's looking for less than a quarter mile from her place.
For a moment, she can't piece together what she's seeing. A man is on the ground, slouched against a tree, blood pooling across the snow beneath him.
He is most definitely not a hunter. At least not like any she's seen before. What he is, she's not sure. He's wearing what looks like tactical gear. Dressed all in black with a startling array of ammunition belts and buckles banded across his broad chest. There are knives in sheaths strapped to his thighs. A gun at his hip. Something silver glints at her in the surrounding shadows, where his left shoulder should be, which is somewhat out of view.
His head is bowed, and a tangled mess of longish dark hair shields his face. She listens. Can hear his heart beating out an almost sluggish rhythm inside his chest. His breathing is slow, but even. He's alive, though not for long if she leaves him to bleed, or to succumb to hypothermia.
She can't very well leave him, not entirely out of concern for his safety and well-being. Moreover, there might be others. Might be others like him, and she isn't willing to totally risk her peace and solitude for this wounded stranger.
Tentatively, she takes a step toward him. Starts to move around him to approach him head on so as not to startle him.
"Sir," she calls softly, her booted feet crunching over the hard-packed snow. Her eyes scan the surrounding darkness for any potential threats. "Sir? Can you hear me?"
No response. If he's unconscious, he'll be damn near impossible to move. She's small and, even with her shifter strength, she'd still struggle under the weight and bulk of him.
She bites back a curse as she continues to move, stepping slowly around his outstretched legs.
She lowers herself to a crouch, eyes scanning his body for the point of origin of all this blood. There's a tear in his right pant leg, just above his knee, the black cloth made even darker by the blood soaking through the material. She leans closer, starts to reach a hand out to examine it more closely, and is brought up short by the ice cold feel of a knife at her throat.
There's no fear in her. For a second she is merely surprised. Then, resigned. Doesn't move. Waits for the stranger to speak. Or slice her throat. Whichever comes first.
She mentally chastises herself for not staying home.
There's a long moment of silence, of stillness, during which Amel holds her body on edge. Swallows against the kiss of the blade against her skin. Listens to the still steady beating of the stranger's heart.
Finally he moves, slowly raising his head, his hair falling away to reveal his face. Surprisingly handsome, if she doesn't count the knife he's holding to her throat. Bright, clear blue eyes in stark contrast to his pale skin and dark brow. Full lips starting to turn the faintest shade of blue amid the light scruff of a dark beard.
The glint of silver catches her eye again, and she allows her gaze to follow it. To settle on his arm. Which appears to be made entirely of overlapping metal plates.
She blinks. Blinks again. Is having trouble comprehending this.
"Who are you? Who sent you?"
The gruff sound of his voice brings her attention back to his face. For someone who's wounded out in the middle of nowhere in the dead of winter, he is oddly calm and focused.
She licks her lips. Advises herself not to make any sudden movements.
"My name is Amel," she says in the softest tone she can manage. "You're on my land."
He doesn't respond. Nor does he lower the knife. His eyes move over her face, perhaps gauging her words, her intent, then flick back up to hers. They narrow as they take in the oddness of her own.
A slight, almost imperceptible tremor starts in his hand and she latches on to that.
"You're hurt. I can help you, if you'll let me. My house isn't too far from here."
He remains still. Keeps the knife at her throat. The scent of his blood moves around her and, now, she knows what the something more is that she'd noticed before. His arm. The metal. It smells hot. Electric.
She sees him swallow. She's growing tired of this stalemate. Thinks he probably is, too. He hasn't killed her yet, so that's something.
"Listen, pal, I can leave you here, which is totally fine, but you're in pretty bad shape. Let's get you warm and cleaned up, and then you can get back to...whatever it was you were doing before I came along to bother you."
Silence.
The forest shifts around them. Snow settling on bare branches.
He swallows deeply. Then, thankfully, slowly lowers the knife down to his side. She stays on her haunches. Offers him a grateful smile.
"Can you put weight on that leg?"
He gives a small, sharp nod. Reluctant. Doesn't seem like a man used to asking for or receiving help. She completely understands.
"Ok, big fella, let's get you out of this mess."