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Chapter Forty-Two: Smell
Lucas's Perspective
It was late.
Well, not that late—but later than I usually allowed myself. Late for me. The kind of late that made my skin itch slightly with the sense that I was behind on something, even if there was nothing on the schedule. That annoying hum of having slept past your internal alarm, like I'd betrayed some unspoken deal I had with the day.
A low groan escaped me as the pale morning light bled through the cracks in the blinds and painted long, dusty lines across the ceiling. My eyes drifted toward the digital clock on the nightstand: 8:03 a.m. Not catastrophic. Not even that unusual by most standards. But it felt wrong.
Still, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, letting my bones pop and creak as I stretched out the stiffness from the night. My shoulders rolled with the kind of tired satisfaction that came from deep, dreamless sleep. The apartment was quiet, that early morning kind of quiet, the hush that comes before the world really remembers to start humming. I let it wrap around me, familiar and unassuming.
Richard's apartment.
My apartment now.
The thought still landed awkwardly in my brain—like trying on a coat that didn't quite fit yet. Technically it was mine, legally and practically, but emotionally? It still felt like I was house-sitting for a ghost.
I padded barefoot into the living room. The floors were cool underfoot, the air faintly smelling of coffee and dryer sheets. Sure enough, Emily was already awake and exactly where I expected her to be: curled into one end of the couch, wrapped halfway in a blanket that looked like it had seen better days, legs tucked under her like a contented cat.
She was watching some brightly lit home renovation show, the kind where everything gets resolved in forty minutes with a sledgehammer and a little white paint. In her hands was a comically large bowl of cereal—balanced like a sacred offering, spoon halfway to her mouth.
She barely looked up when I walked in, but a grin broke out across her face between bites. "Morning, Sleeping Beauty," she said with that usual teasing edge, her words slightly muffled by a mouthful of sugar and nostalgia.
"Eight a.m. isn't sleeping in," I mumbled, running a hand through my hair. "Not for most people."
"You're not most people," she countered, nonchalantly scooping up another bite of cereal. "You're a werewolf. I figured you'd be brooding in some corner of the apartment with glowing eyes or pacing around like a caged animal—not drooling on a pillow under a comforter."
I didn't dignify that with an answer. Instead, I wandered into the kitchen, where the scent of already-brewed coffee greeted me like an old friend. She'd made a pot—black, strong, exactly how I liked it. I poured myself a mug, savoring the weight of the cup in my hands and the heat curling off the surface.
I sat next to her, letting the couch cushion dip beneath me, and sipped in silence. The show continued to drone on—something about shiplap and open-concept kitchens. The quiet between us wasn't awkward. It was the opposite—comforting, familiar, the kind of silence you could stretch out in without worrying it would snap.
Emily had been staying in the guest room for a week, since I moved in. She said she wanted to help me settle, and maybe that was part of it. But I wasn't naïve. She didn't want to be alone at her cabin. Not yet. Not after everything we'd gone through together. Not after raising me, not after losing Richard.
And truth be told, I didn't mind having her around. I kind of liked it. The apartment didn't feel as hollow with her presence filling the corners. It made it feel a little less like a mausoleum and a little more like a home.
Eventually, I stretched and stood, intent on making breakfast. I opened the fridge, fully expecting to find the usual staples—eggs, bacon, something worth frying. Instead, I was greeted by a cold, mocking emptiness. A half-stick of butter and a lone jar of mustard that looked far too judgmental for something that expired a few days ago.
"Great," I muttered under my breath.
I threw on my jacket and turned toward the door.
Emily glanced up, spoon still in mid-air. "Where're you off to?"
"Supermarket," I said, grabbing my keys. "We're out of food. Unless you want to eat mustard with butter."
Her face lit up with a weird sort of glee. She shot to her feet, blanket falling away. "Wait for me—I'm coming with. I haven't been to a supermarket in… God, I think Reagan was still president."
"You're that old?" I asked, dry as sandpaper.
"I'm Druid old," she said with a smirk. "Totally different metric."
We piled into Richard's—my—car and pulled out into the slowly waking city. The traffic was light, the sun slanting across the windshield in golden beams. Emily rolled the window down and stuck her head out just enough to let the wind tangle her silver hair. She looked enchanted by every fast food sign and billboard we passed, smiling like she'd stepped into a whole new world.
The supermarket was sleek and modern, with those bright lights that make everything look ten percent cleaner than it really is. Emily walked beside me in awe, like we'd just landed on Mars.
"There's self-checkout now?" she whispered like it was a state secret.
"Emily," I said flatly, "they've had that since before Twilight was a thing."
"Oh, hush," she replied, waving me off. "Let me be impressed in peace."
We made our way through the aisles—me grabbing what we needed, Emily staring in fascination at the frozen food section like it was a museum exhibit. Everything felt normal. Mundane. Almost boring.
And then it wasn't.
The shift was instant.
One second, I was debating between maple and applewood-smoked bacon, and the next, my entire body went still. A chill rolled down my spine. My breath caught, and my nostrils flared.
The scent hit me—sharp and unmistakable. Not the sterile cold of freezer air or the cloying sweetness of bakery samples. No, this was something different. Something primal.
Fear.
Panic, raw and biting. The acidic tang of helplessness. Adrenaline, sweat, dread—all rolled into one thick wave that hit the back of my throat.
I stood straighter. My eyes scanned the aisles, zeroing in on the source. And then I saw her.
A woman, standing near the front of the store. She was clutching a child's toy like it was a lifeline. Her hands trembled, her speech was too fast, too fragmented, and her eyes—wide and wet—darted between two uniformed police officers. Her whole body screamed of alarm. Of pain. Of something terribly wrong.
She wasn't just upset. She was terrified.
And I could smell it.
Every instinct in me sharpened. My senses narrowed. I stepped forward, ready to find out what happened.