The Walls of Jericho

Trackers

We’re not far from the village when Channing’s nose gets started. Soon after that, I pick up the scents attracting his attention too.

“I was going to offer to get started on dinner when we got back to the cottage,” Channing’s pace slows to a stop and he scents along the wind, “but if you’re game, I say we follow that and see what we can make of it. It’s that way.” He nods towards a path perpendicular to the one he’d been guiding back towards the cottage.

It takes a few seconds, but my silence finally gets his attention.

“What?” he asks, catching sight of my expression.

“We just ate something,” I sputter. “Not twenty minutes ago at the Visitor’s Center café. You can't possibly be hungry.”

"Of course I can." He shrugs. “And sure, we ate something, but it didn’t smell like this.” He scents the air again.

Seeing I’m still not buying in, he releases my hand and walks around behind me. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Give me a break, Jericho. Why do you fight me on absolutely everything? Close your eyes.”

With an exasperated sigh, I close my eyes.

Against my back, Channing snuggles up closer. “You’re wolf now, babydoll,” he says, his body heat seeping into me through our clothes. “It’ll take time, but your senses should grow into it, including your sense of smell.”

I stiffen a little when he reaches around from behind and his large paw closes on my jaw at my throat. Then his other hand flattens over my belly in a gentle caress and something warm uncoils inside me, reaching towards him as the electricity hums between us.

“Scent is a pool,” he says softly, moving my head with his hand. “When you begin tracking, you have to bear that in mind. It’s only going to lead you the correct direction if you understand how it moves. After that, you have to engage the rest of your senses to take in the whole picture, just like you already do.”

As he’s focused my attention and directed my nose, I get the first inkling of what he means. Within seconds, not only can I pick out the direction from which the scent is coming by the strength of it along various air currents, but I’ve drawn a cognitive map of its dispersion. Carried on the breeze, the smells are fanned across the environment.

“Does it work the same way on the ground?”

Pleased, he releases my jaw and rests both massive paws on my shoulders. Then he nuzzles into my neck and covers me in kisses. “Yes,” he murmurs against my skin. “It’s always a pool. Kind of like fresh chalk lines on a football field. If you blow really hard from one direction, the chalk dust will move. The heaviest particles settle quickest and in the direct path of the air current, and the lighter ones will scatter further, fanning the direction of air movement.”

“How do you sort the scents?”

“Sort?”

“Yeah.” Taking long slow breaths, I pull in the various scents. “I smell—bread. Not sure what kind. Vinegar. Sugar. Other things I can’t make out from the complex whole.”

“Some of that will come with practice. Once you find the scent, then you see what it’s associated with. It’s similar to the way you hear a sound, then later, when you learn to read, you’re taught to recognize a letter or pattern of letters that represents that sound,” he explains.

I open my eyes the second he releases me and the cool ambient air swirls into the space where he was. 

Channing comes around to my side, taking my hand again, then gives me a wink and one of his lady-killer smiles. “Now, what do you say we follow that scent?”

“I’m inclined to say: ‘yes’ because now you have me curious, but I don’t think that’s the same motivator you have.”

“Nope. Babydoll, want to know why you look like a swizel stick with the most perfect breasts on the planet?”

I shake my head. “Not really. No.”

He grins, tugging me along with him. “It’s because you don’t eat enough. I can’t wait until that part of your metabolism kicks in.”

“Are you complaining about my body?”

He snorts. “God, no. Only a really stupid guy would complain about the best s*x he's ever had. Unless you’re doubting me. In that case, I’ll be happy to prove it right here. Then we’ll go get something to eat.”

“You’re so—male," I huff. "And spare me that whole 'best s*x' bullshit. I'm the only s*x you've ever had."

“I’m going to assume positive intent on that comment and take it as a compliment.” He grins, then adds, "And you being the only s*x I've ever had doesn't mean I'm wrong."

Laughing, I bump him as we walk, following the scent of several kinds of delicious food. “Of course you are, beefcake.”

**

It’s not often someone recommends visiting a converted campervan for food. In general, it’s almost as bad of an idea as eating pretty much anything that Esteban has on his diner's menu. Besides the marvelous scents, the well-worn trail and the folks we pass testify otherwise in this case.

“Are you going to Mini Maegden? It’s right this way,” one man traveling with a large family group including an older couple, likely grandparents, and several children of varying ages down to grade school age, asks as we make our way towards the scents. His absentee ‘w’ and ‘th’ sounds, how he substitutes ‘zz’ sounds for ‘ss’ ones, and the way he enunciates mostly with his lips is a dead giveaway that, like us, he’s a tourist. His recommendation of ‘It’z vell vorz ze visit’ which we quickly translate to ‘It’s well worth the visit’ gives away his Germanic origins. He's still nice, and we smile and thank him.

The little 1950s converted caravan camper is actually parked close to the village of Bushmills on an overlook where a few benches allow visitors to rest and refuel. The words ‘grilled cheese and coffee bar’ painted on the side and a quick scan of the menu give the story in a few delicious and precise words.

The two ladies who work inside—the ‘maegdens’ which is pronounced ‘maidens’ we learn—are former teachers who opted to open their business inside a teeny tiny little camper van pitched in a field not far from the Giant’s Causeway. Here, they make artisan grilled cheese sandwiches on sourdough bread stuffed with loads of local fillings and serve them with homemade pickles of every variety, including many I didn't know existed.

Before Channing and I place our orders, we’re treated to a few small samples to help us decide. We get to taste some fantastically made local cheeses and several types of pickles that range from sweet to biting and a few that are seriously spicy yet still pair nicely with the oozy delights of grilled cheese sandwiches.

Because he’s a carnivore, Channing opts for a blend of Dart Mountain cheeses with a generous helping of Broughgammon Farm goat on his sandwich. Since there’s an option, I choose the veggie alternative for my sandwich stuffings. We take a seat at one of the bench tables offering the wide Atlantic views over Bushfoot Strand, and cuddle together to sip our Bonfire Hot Chocolate as we wait for the food.

We both frown when his phone rings, then he utters a particularly foul curse.

“Who is it?”

“Ferdi. There’s a text I missed too," he replies, quickly scanning the message preview. "The Avernus site where we’ve been developing was vandalized. The tracker and the plans for it have been stolen.” Rising, he paces a few steps away, casting a furtive glance at the other couple sitting in a parked car not far from the bench I occupy.

I eavesdrop as he answers the call, watching his reactions carefully.

“Yeah, sorry. I just saw the text. We’ve been down by the ocean and I didn’t hear the phone’s alert. What happened?” 

His tone doesn’t sound pleased, but there’s a relaxed set to his shoulders that confuses me. “When did they find the theft? Uh-huh. So we’re several hours behind whoever stole it. Was it reported to authorities?”

The faintest hint of mumbled conversation drifts to me as he switches the phone to his opposite ear. Channing listens for a long minute, but before I can hear his response and try to glean more information from it, one of the girls at the camper calls out his name to let us know our order is ready. By the time I return to the bench with our tray of food, my mate has ended the call.

“Well?” I ask, demanding to know what else is going on.

“They’ve got the local police investigating the break-in,” he says softly, shuffling the disposable plate in front of him so the sandwich is front and center. Tasting one first, he adds the little cup of pickles to my plate without a second thought.

“I figured that much by what I overheard, beefcake.”

He flicks me a mildly amused glance then leans to me and kisses the soft behind my ear. “Be nice, babydoll. I've got enough on my plate without adding fighting with you to the mix. Again.” Sitting upright, he takes his first bite of his sandwich, then groans with enjoyment. “You have to try this.”

“Channing, I want to know what happened,” I argue, watching as he tears a bit off his sandwich and puts that on the edge of my plate too.

“I don’t have much of an answer. The police just got there to start their investigation. At the moment, it looks like an inside job.”

“But you’re all wolves, right?” I whisper.

“Everyone with that level of security clearance is, yes,” he replies, stuffing another bite in his mouth. He makes me wait as he chews, savoring his food. “It wasn’t forced entry. The thieves acquired someone’s access cards— or at least copies of the digital codes on them. But they also knew exactly where to go inside the building, both for the device itself and for the design files. Would you be upset if we swung by there once we get back to the cottage and can get the car?”

“As long as that’s a ‘we’ we’re talking about.” Popping another pickle into my mouth, I set half my sandwich on his plate. “You’re not leaving me alone so you can go play Avernus Alpha by yourself. I’m your Luna, Channing. I expect to be involved the same way you are.”

We exchange a tense stare, then he grins. He pecks a hard kiss on my mouth, seemingly pleased. “Okay, pickle-lips,” he agrees.

"Watch it, beefcake."