Heretics book 3 - The Apocryphile Press

362 :: JOHN R. MABRY
He wouldn’t have given the look in Richard’s eyes a second
thought were it not for one thing: Richard had not come
home afterward. Dylan had called twice, before he went to
bed, and after he got up. Both times Richard had answered,
both times he insisted he was all right, and both times he had
been evasive as a greased sow. Dylan scowled through the
haze, feeling very uneasy. Something was not right with
Richard, he knew it in his bones. But Richard wasn’t saying.
Eventually, Dylan saw the amber streetlight above the
punk club cut through the fog, and he followed its hazy
beam. He skirted the edge of the building to where he had
left Jaguar and Mikael last time.
There, as he had been expecting, was Jaguar, sitting
patiently, his long, black tail whipping to and fro in an
unconscious rhythm. Dylan stopped, confounded. Mikael
was nowhere in sight. Dylan cursed inwardly, and suddenly
all of the stress, all the frustration, all of the rage of the past
several days caught up with him, and he could no longer
contain it. “Where the fuck is Mikael?” he exploded.
Jaguar did not reply, but only blinked calmly, and after a
few moments, rose and began padding away.
“What the hell?” Dylan called after him. “Am Ah supposed
to falla you?”
Jaguar looked back at him, then turned again and glided
into the mist, his mottled black fur reflecting gold in the
amber light.
“Fuck!” shouted Dylan, and he began to jog after the
great cat. In moments he had caught up, and, placing his
hand on his power animal’s flank, they walked side by side
for some time.
He realized how mad he was at Richard. He was the Subprior,
after all. If something was going on, by God he should
know about it. Especially if it were something that could
effect the Order, or Richard’s ability to lead it. Dylan felt
excluded, and it was not a feeling he enjoyed.