2

It had been the prince.

Of that Jackson Harkness was sure. He had been right in front of him, but for some reason, he had hesitated. Normally, when he found the criminal he was hunting, he acted quickly. The target never even had a chance to run. They most certainly never pulled a weapon and nearly get the drop on him. But there had been something unexpected about this one, and it had given him pause.

He had heard the tales of his beauty, had seen his pictures, and neither had done him justice, but his stormy grey eyes and soft wavy light-brown hair hadn't been what had stopped him. No, his halt in mid-action had been his scent. The vanilla, woodsy smell that surrounded him had been attractive, but more so, it had been surprising.

A murderer had a distinctive smell, a sour odour.

It tainted any other natural smells. As a hunter, he had scented the tainted smell more often than he cared to think about. Yet, as he'd breathed in the air around this one, he had only scented innocence. It had halted all intentions of taking him captive.

And it confused the hell out of him.

Jack stepped into the short-term rental house he'd obtained as he'd searched for Prince Ianto. He didn't flip on the light as he quickly looked around the studio-type room. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He dropped his knapsack by the door and crossed toward the window. It looked out on the small town, but more importantly, it was across from Ianto's apartment. No lights shone through the windows. He wasn't home, and he had to wonder if he would return at all. Why hadn't he grabbed him first and asked questions later?

Though he was kicking himself now, he'd done the only thing he could in that moment. He'd backed off, determined to get more information before acting. The only problem was that he wasn't sure who would have the answers he needed. Where could he get more information?

Could he ever truly learn what had happened?

There were too many unknowns surrounding King Ifan's death. The one thing that was unquestionable was that Ianto had attempted to kill him once before. It had been the reason he'd run. Yet, he hadn't succeeded, and when he was found murdered, everyone had assumed he'd returned to accomplish that which he'd failed at five years earlier.

But, unless he had a spell that could cover guilt, something was not quite right with the situation.

"You are back so soon. I thought you were sure you had found him."

Jack turned slowly and rolled his eyes at the black-furred cat, stretching sleepily as it rose from its comfortable spot on the bed. His familiar, Janet, had warned him that things weren't always what they seemed. The little shit.

"I found him."

"And?"

"And, it didn't feel right."

Janet bounded off the bed and jumped up onto the nearby dining table close to the window.

"So...I was right?"

Jack snarled.

He hated when Janet became such a son of a bitch. "Shut up, you furry bastard. I don't know yet, but maybe."

He turned back around to stare out the window, not wanting to miss his return...if he did.

"Now what?"

He wished he knew. As irritating as his know-it-all familiar was, Jack trusted him to assess the situation objectively and help him decide what they should do next.

"He didn't smell of murder."

They stared pensively through the glass for a few minutes before Janet suggested something stupid.

"That's an interesting development. Sounds like you have to get his side of the story."

"That's what I was afraid you were going to say."

"The other option is to take him in and hope the truth comes out before they execute him."

Why did that feel so wrong to Jack? Why did he care what happened to him?

"It would be easier just to turn him over to the authorities and let them handle the situation."

Janet began licking his paw, engrossed in his grooming for a few moments. Jack knew it was less about how he looked and more a way to tune out while he thought through the possibilities. It was annoying, but Jack let him go about his business. He just wished he'd never been put in this position.

So badly, he wanted to curse King Ifan, but he couldn't think badly of the one man who had believed in him, even if he had asked for the impossible.

Raised an orphan, put into the hunter program at the young age of eight, Jackson had very few prospects to rise in political ranks. Yet, after the first attempt on his life, the King had specifically asked for Jack as his personal guard. Over the past few years, he'd come to care for King Ifan in a way that he'd never cared for any other. To him, the King had been what a father should be. They had grown close to each other since they spent all their waking moments together, and Jackson had even slept in a small chamber down the hall from the King's rooms, well, down from his fugitive son's room.

The King had slept there ever since Jack had known him. It was clear he had loved his son. Too bad he hadn't loved him in return. Jackson rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window, remembering the last time he'd spoken with the King. Just two nights before he had been killed, he had pulled Jack aside and expressed genuine fear for his life. He'd insisted that Jackson needed to find the Prince.

He needed to come home.

Of course, Jackson had thought he was protecting the King by reluctantly leaving to find Ianto. When he'd heard of the King's death, he'd been devastated. If only he'd been there to protect him. Yet, what stuck with him more than anything were the King's final words to him. He'd said, "He's out there, lost and alone."

His eyes had met Jack's, and he'd known the King was talking about the Prince. "You know what that feels like, don't you?"

Jackson hadn't answered. Even if it were true, it was in his past. "He needs to come home. He needs you to find him and bring him home. I want you to be the one to do it. Promise me, no matter what happens, you'll find him and bring him back where he belongs."

Without understanding exactly what he was agreeing to, Jackson had promised. He regretted so much about that day, and he would never get it back.

In an instant, his focus returned to the apartment across the street. A small flash of light had crossed the window, pulling him from his melancholy memory.

Jackson turned and headed toward the door, the sound of his boots like hammers hitting wood as he crossed the hard floor.

He's back. It's time for answers.