Det stood there for a solid thirty seconds to give Calisco time to figure out she’d made the wrong choice, but, upon reflection, she’d never been known for second thoughts. She’d either charge into the mine and do exactly what she planned—exploding things along the way—to make a great impression, or she’d get chewed out by an annoyed General Vans.

  “While likely still getting to continue with them because it would be too much trouble and risk to lead her out,” Det grumbled. Another ten seconds—still no company coming back—and he finally turned to pick up his pace to Ironsalt. Annoyed as he was at Calisco, he had been given an order. And a responsibility.

  The Mistguard was a military operation on Elestar. Following orders had to count for something. Det’s goal wasn’t small advantages now, but bigger opportunities to expand his magic. He’d either be able to draw a door back to his own world, or he’d find some other way. Both of those options came through him advancing within the Mistguard.

  On his own and not feeling like he had to keep pace with anybody, Det picked up the speed of his jog, moving more into ‘run’ territory. It still took him almost another full ten minutes to spot the town. Apparently, his jog hadn’t been motivated enough for General Vans’ expectations.

  Noted.

  Wiping his hand across his brow—Barely even damp, thank you ReSouled body—Det put his other hand on the hilt of his sword. The woods had stayed eerily quiet during his run, and now that he was closing in on the town—visible in the distance—something felt… odd.

  “Of course,” he mumbled. “I can see more than twenty feet in front of my face. Not having to deal with the mist, how about that, huh?” Of course, talking to himself in the middle of the empty road was possibly something new he should worry about.

  Dismissing the self-reflection, he turned all his attention to his surroundings. Captain Simmons had done a flyover—Flying swords? What is this world, a xianxia story or something?—and he hadn’t seen anything. That didn’t mean there was nothing there. And, by what Det could view, the town wasn’t tiny.

  Bigger than Radiant, and with a decent-sized wall around it. Stone, probably taken from the mine? Either way, it was a good ten-feet tall, with a heavy, wooden door open to the road.

  No guards. No movement in the street. An empty cart, with a cloak caught on the seat, flapping in the wind. Oh, no, this isn’t creepy at all.

  Still, he didn’t draw his sword, and slowed only when he reached the open, double doors. Pausing there, he listened. Nothing. Still no birds. No distant sounds of conversation. No children playing. No sounds of work being done. In all the years he’d been in Radiant, the town had never been this quiet. Even in the middle of the night, he’d hear somebody snoring, if nothing else.

  Nothing to do but go in and look.

  Passing through the wall, he took a quick look left and right. A space between the wall and the closest buildings—big enough to drive a wagon through, if needed—along with a laddered-tower on the other side of the big door. So they could see over the wall, since it’s only a foot thick.

  Still no guards, so, he moved to the closest building on the left. A house, from the simple look of it. No big windows, no signs like it could be a shop or anything like that. Just a one-and-a-half-story building with a cute little red door. One Det went up to and raised his hand as if to knock.

  There, his closed fist paused.

  It would be polite for him to knock before entering, but would it be smart?

  The town was deathly quiet. Him rapping on the door would echo down the street like a gunshot in the silence. If something was there—something not friendly—he’d basically be announcing his presence. Or ringing the dinner bell.

  Neither of those were great options.

  Instead, he lowered his hand and wrapped his fingers around the doorknob. If this place was anything like Radiant, the door wouldn’t be locked.

  And… it wasn’t, gently swinging in without a squeak. Beyond, a small entryway, three pairs of shoes on the floor, and the same number of jackets hanging from pegs on the wall. A kid and their parents, from the sizes. Past the entryway, a small hall, doors leading off it on the left heading deeper into the house, and a ladder at the end. Probably up to the attic.

  Great place for a kid to hide. Or for me to get attacked by a giant spider. … this better not be friggin’ spiders.

  Cursing silently at the thought, Det crept into the house, stepping over the shoes and into the hall. His wife’s voice berated him for not taking off his own shoes, but his imagination argued back they wouldn’t mind if they were dead, or if he rescued them.

  She didn’t have a counter to that. Or, Det’s imaginary version of her didn’t, at least.

  Sneaking as best he could, which, really, was terrible—every step made a squeak or creak—he peaked into the first room. A combination kitchen-slash-dining area. Empty, of course. Two of the chairs around the table were knocked over, though, like somebody had jumped up suddenly.

  Or been dragged from the chair.

  A broken plate lay shattered midway to the oven, its contents splashed across the hardwood floor. From where he stood, it looked like the fire had gone out, meaning it hadn’t been tended in a while. The ovens back on Radiant—even in the mist—would still have embers for a couple hours if nobody was watching it or purposely putting it out.

  On the kitchen counter, more food had been laid out for preparation without getting much further than that. Moving in to check—stepping over the spilled food—Det spotted a knife stabbed into the floor where it had probably fallen. Unsurprisingly, nobody was there.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  Too early in his search to start opening random cabinets looking for children, Det turned to head for the next room, again moving to avoid the dropped food. Except, that stain right there, that probably wasn’t food. Crouching down to get a closer look, he didn’t need to be a forensic expert to have a pretty good guess what he was looking at.

  Blood. A splotch of it bigger than a dinner plate, and soaked into the wood.

  That’s… probably not a healthy amount of blood to lose if you’re not a ReSouled.

  Standing back up, Det moved past the blood and back into the hall—still quiet—and he moved to the next room. A few glances to make sure nothing—especially spiders—came down the trapdoor from the attic, and Det moved into the back room. A heater in the corner—no embers there, either—along with a couch, two chairs, and a small table. Living room? Another door at the back of the room led outside, and unlike the door Det had entered through, this one stood open.

  Oh, and it had bloody-drag-marks leading outside.

  At least it’s not spiders in the attic.

  Det twisted back to look at the ladder leading up just to make sure the thought hadn’t jinxed him and summoned some eight-legged horror from above. Still nothing. Given the layout of the house so far—and the complete lack of beds anywhere—the small family would have had to sleep up there. The blood stain didn’t do a lot to suggest he’d find anybody hiding there. He’d put it on his list of things to check later.

  Slightly more pressing now was whatever was at the end of that blood trail. The answer to that…?

  A small backyard. That was it. The blood ended at the single step down to the yard, then completely vanished.

  Hold up…

  Leaning out of the house, Det looked left, right, and above to make sure nothing was about to jump him—clear—and stepped into the yard. An open concept, like a long yard shared between two sets of houses in a line without any fences, it was obvious where the families had shared communal time. One firepit for every four or six houses, along with what looked like hand-crafted chairs and tables.

  It was also obvious it was where bad things had happened.

  While many of the chairs had been purposely painted, several of them sported new, unintentional splashes of color. Red. Most of them had been knocked over, tables had been flipped, grass stood burnt around rocks knocked clear of the firepits during whatever had happened. No people or bodies, though.

  Beyond the yard, while the house Det had exited had an open door, that wasn’t true for the other buildings. Some of the doors stood open, sure, while others had those doors broken down. Or, in some cases, only the bottom half had been punched through.

  Whatever attacked wasn’t big? But still strong or fast enough to carry off the people. Assuming it didn’t… eat them on the spot. No, that doesn’t make sense, there wouldn’t be a trail of blood if that was the case, would there? Er, unless the person tried to crawl away.

  Whatever it was, it was dangerous. And since Calisco had flaked out and left him on his own, he was potentially alone with it. The mine was nearly twenty minutes away at a full run. That didn’t make Det real confident the people had been taken all that way.

  Given the town was still quiet—for the moment—there was no reason for Det to be stupid about this. Time to call for backup. Looking around, it didn’t take him more than ten seconds to find what he needed. One of the houses had a nice, plain back wall. Yes, there was a long, horizonal splash of blood across it, but he could work around that.

  One more check up and down the length of the connected yards—just him there—and Det took his hand off his sword and pulled out one of his larger brushes with a habitual flourish and spin between his fingers. In his other hand, he grabbed one of the three bottles of ink Simmons had been able to get him from the stock room. What he had in mind would take the whole bottle, but now wasn’t the time to be stingy.

  Popping the cork with his thumb, he got to work. He needed allies that would protect him. That would rip apart anything trying to do the same thing to him.

  Since he’d been reborn as ReSouled, the art he’d only dabbled in during his previous life had improved exponentially. Most importantly, if he could visualize it, he could paint it.

  And, here and now, what he visualized stretched across the entire back wall of the small building as his arm whipped back and forth. Streaks of black that would’ve looked random at first glance came together one after another, a larger form taking shape. Two minutes later, the handle of the larger brush went between his teeth, and his medium brush appeared in his hand.

  Details emerged, magic thrumming into his fingers and ink, as he moved almost frantically across the space. ReSouled speed flattened the nearby grass until one, final, slashing stroke completed the work of art.

  The five minutes it took him to complete the black-ink mural had been more of an exertion than running the entire twenty minutes from the mine, but it had been worth it. There on the wall in front of him, the image of nine, powerful wolves sprinted as if in chase of their prey.

  Not just normal wolves, either. No, Det had taken this one step further, borrowing some imagery from a game he’d played in his youth. These things would be better described as dire wolves, and not the extinct kind.

  These beasts had dangerous spines protruding from their bodies, powerful jaws, rippling muscles, and long claws. From the lead alpha wolf charging ahead of the rest all the way to the animal in the back, Det had worked around the line of arterial spray to add its splash of color to each of the wolves. Positioned just right, it had given them all glowing red eyes.

  If he did say so himself, this was a work of art. It would also take a tremendous amount of magic to bring to life, but would totally be worth the investment.

  Probably.

  As for the name of his latest masterpiece, that was easy.

  The Pack.

  Stowing his brushes—a pulse of magic burned off the ink left within the bristles, cleaning them in an instant—he grabbed the fallen cork from the ground, and likewise returned the empty ink bottle. Then, placing both hands on the wall, he called on his new allies.

  Magic energy poured out of his body and into the ink across the wall. A shimmer emerged from within the black strokes, pulling them together to forge true connections. Lines of corded muscles flexed. Lips parted in a snarl through the space. Long, terribly sharp claws scratched along stone.

  Then, as one, The Pack stepped out of the wall. Each wolf standing past Det’s waist, they stirred like somebody was rapidly flipping pages to make a series of still images move. And, yet, they still stalked. There was something just dangerous about these things that Det had never managed to achieve in his previous work.

  Did my magic get stronger somehow?

  A question for later, and Det looked at the alpha waiting for its pack’s orders.

  “We’re going to find out what happened here,” he told the blood-red eyes of the big wolf. “Protect me, and kill anything trying to do us harm.”

  His magic pulsed a second time. The command wasn’t any different than what the wolves would’ve done instinctively—protecting him—but something about the first sentence had taken hold too.

  A growl from the alpha, and it turned its big head to look at a trio of the sleeker wolves who’d been near the rear end of the now-gone mural.

  The three each gave a soft yip—along with what looked like a nod of their heads—then turned and dashed off. Two sped down the length of the connected yard at a pace Det would struggle to keep up with, while the other darted out around a corner and onto the street. Even though he watched them go, it was hard to keep track of them as they dashed into the shadows.

  “Did you just send scouts out?” Det asked the alpha.

  It didn’t respond, though it let out another short series of growls and grunts. Three wolves immediately moved, one to each side of Det, and one at his back. Directly in front of him, the bigger alpha took up position himself, while the final two wolves moved to about thirty feet away, then held their places.

  One more short growl, rumbling from the alpha’s chest, told Det his new honor guard was ready.

  “Let’s get on with it, then,” Det said, hand going back to the hilt of his sword, before he and his pack took off at a loping jog.