Thistle Witch by P. J. Whittlesea

Author:P. J. Whittlesea [Whittlesea, P. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9789492523174
Publisher: Tyet Books
Published: 2022-12-16T05:00:00+00:00

A VOYEUR

He couldn’t be sure if she was one. It was just a feeling.

He had watched her march away from the old man. She was clearly upset. There was a purpose in her stride that gave her away. Five-year-olds don’t walk with such purpose. They don’t have goals. They are not so focussed. In general, they do what they’re told. They don’t make decisions the way she’d just done, and an old man, presumably her grandfather, would certainly not let her go like that. Something else was going on.

The hound growled at his side.

‘Settle,’ he murmured through his teeth.

The dog was so tall he could lay his hand on its back without bending down, and he was not a small man. The animal sniffed the air and looked up at him. The red glow of its eyes unnerved him. It stepped forward, tugging in earnest at its invisible leash. He clenched his fist more tightly around the short, thick, heavy chain that controlled the beast. The links in it snapped taut, wrenching at his arm and forming a u-shape around his hand. He widened his stance and leant his full weight against it. The trailing ends of the chain levitated in mid-air, almost horizontal to the ground and in line with his arm. They followed the movement of the dog and traced a line directly to its great head.

He wasn’t entirely certain he could control the animal if it decided to take off. The problem didn’t lie with the dog itself. It was trained to obey him. He did not have sufficient confidence in his own abilities, and watching the muscles ripple across the hound’s shoulder blades, he doubted his own strength. His training had been extensive, but nothing beat real world experience. This was something he sorely lacked.

He hated the smell of the beast and pulled his nose away from it. The stench was like a stale fireplace that badly needed cleaning. The ash had stopped smouldering long ago, yet it still gave off its bitter odour. Even the act of laying a hand on the hound stirred up more fumes. It irritated him so much he had taken to smoking a cigar. The sweet smoke was the only thing that had been reasonably successful in covering up the reek of the dog.

The hound strained again, following the scent it had picked up. As the animal yanked at its leash, the ends of the chain whipped from side to side. He felt it jerk violently at his shoulder, threatening to rip his arm out of its socket. He held his ground, solidifying his stance. He made a similar mental adjustment, reassuring himself that he was in control. He pulled the chain close to his body and stepped up to the dog’s flank. His leg brushed its fur and raised more of the putrid odour. He held the animal back with a wave of his free hand in front of its snout.

‘Steady,’ he commanded.

The beast whined and reluctantly obeyed, sitting back on its haunches.

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