Chapter 17: The Bloodstained Trail

‘Uncle Dalton hates Clint!’

Simon’s internal alarm blared. He had to protect Clint from Dalton at all costs! In a split-second decision, Simon grabbed Clint’s wrist and bolted toward a nearby alley.

“You little—!”

Dalton’s roar echoed behind them as he gave chase. Simon sprinted through the narrow passage, with a bewildered Clint running right alongside him.

“Why are we running?” Clint asked, sounding more curious than panicked.

“Just because! It felt like we had to!”

Simon didn’t have a logical explanation; it was pure instinct that Dalton and Clint should not meet. The result was a brief but frantic chase. Despite his age, Dalton possessed a surprising amount of stamina and doggedly pursued them through the twists and turns.

Unsurprisingly, Simon was the first to flag. They hadn’t gone far before his pace slowed significantly. Sensing his fatigue, Clint took the lead.

“This way.”

Clint pulled Simon along, pivoting right at a fork in the path. Tucked behind a crumbling stone wall, he nudged Simon into a narrow gap and stood directly in front of him, shielding him with his own body.

‘Too close.’

Simon held his breath. They were at a precarious distance, their bodies nearly touching. He could feel the warmth of Clint’s breath against his skin. Oh, Heavens. Simon found himself reaching out to a God he hadn’t thought of even on his deathbed.

“You brat! You think you can hide from me, Simon?!”

Dalton appeared at the fork, huffing and puffing. He hesitated for a moment, glanced down the right path—which appeared empty from his angle—and then charged off toward the left.

“He’s gone.”

Clint stepped back, creating space. Simon let out a small, lingering sigh of regret.

“Could you… let go of my wrist?”

“Oh! Ah!”

Simon recoiled as if burned, dropping Clint’s wrist. He hadn’t realized he was still clutching it so tightly.

“Ow. You grab me like your life depends on it and then toss me away? How cold,” Clint teased.

“No, I was just…!”

As Simon stammered out an excuse, Clint burst into a hearty laugh.

“Are you making fun of me?” Simon narrowed his eyes.

Clint nodded, his eyes dancing with mirth. Hmph. Does being handsome give him a free pass for everything? Unfortunately, the protest died in Simon’s throat because Clint’s smile was simply too dazzling. He turned his head away, afraid that if he kept looking, he’d end up wearing a truly gormless expression.

“Anyway, where are we? I don’t recognize this area.”

“Follow me. I promise no more tricks this time.”

Clint led the way with a grin. Simon followed, subconsciously opening and closing the hand that had held Clint’s wrist. As they navigated the labyrinth of alleys, they emerged into a small, dusty clearing—the threshold of the city’s slums.

Suddenly, Clint stopped dead. Simon followed his gaze to the ground.

There, so small it would have been missed by any casual observer, was a tiny dark spot. Clint crouched down to examine it. Simon leaned over his shoulder.

“What is it?”

“A drop of blood.”

“What? Blood?”

Simon’s heart skipped a beat. Even in a secluded alley, seeing blood in a residential area was chilling. Clint looked around and quickly spotted another drop further ahead. They formed a trail of small, intermittent points.

“Judging by the coagulation, this was spilled around dawn.”

They cautiously followed the trail. It led them to a patch of wasteland overgrown with tall weeds. At the end of the trail, hidden by the foliage, was a large, dried pool of blood partially covered by freshly turned earth.

“It looks like someone set down a heavy, leaking sack here,” Clint noted, scanning the area. He pointed to a specific patch of dirt. “The color of the soil is different here. We should dig.”

Upon closer inspection, the spot Clint pointed out was unnervingly flat, and the earth was a shade darker than its surroundings.

“Stay here. I’ll go borrow a shovel,” Clint said.

While Clint was gone, Simon waited by the wasteland. From his vantage point, he could see the gray, dilapidated houses of the slums and the equally drab figures of people moving between them. The normalcy of the scene was somewhat grounding. Surely nothing too terrible happened here, he tried to convince himself.

Clint returned shortly with a shovel. He handed his jacket to Simon and began to dig. Whatever was buried was deep. After several minutes of labor, a burlap sack was unearthed. He carefully untied the knot.

“Ugh.”

Inside the sack were a dozen rat carcasses. Every single one was missing its head. Simon reflexively looked away, his stomach churning.

“That… that’s just like the newspaper,” Simon whispered.

“…The article about the headless animal remains,” Clint finished. He looked just as disturbed by the macabre discovery.

“At least it wasn’t Nora.”

“I’m not so sure.”

Clint reached into the pit and picked something up. Simon tried to look at Clint’s hand without seeing the contents of the sack. It was a pretty collar—one he recognized. On the small pendant, a name was engraved in tiny letters:

Nora

“Oh.”

Simon let out a pained moan. Why was Nora’s collar in this pit of horrors?

The headless animals in the news. Nora’s collar found in a mass grave of rats. An ominous dread settled over him. Did something else like this happen in the original timeline? Simon racked his brain, but he couldn’t remember any reports of a culprit being caught. Recent news had been dominated by the upcoming St. Kenyon’s Day festival.

They decided to burn the rat carcasses to prevent disease. Clint poured oil over the sack and struck a match. Flames roared to life instantly. Simon winced, stepping back from the acrid smoke.

“Should we be relieved it wasn’t a cat’s body?” Simon asked as they watched the fire.

“Hard to say. Since the collar was in the pit… it’s highly likely that whoever did this took Nora,” Clint said grimly. There was a madman out there killing animals and taking their heads. Finding Nora’s collar in his wake was anything but a good sign.

“Then Nora is…?”

“…We have to hope for the best.”

Simon thought of the Apple Tree Lady—how her hands had trembled as she pleaded with them to find her companion. His heart felt heavy.

“Our task is simple now,” Clint said. “We continue to look for Nora, dead or alive. And we find out who did this.”

Simon nodded firmly.

“And for now, let’s keep this from the grandmother. It’s better to wait until we have more clarity.”

“Yes, let’s do that!” Simon agreed, feeling a small sense of relief that he wouldn’t have to deliver such a blow to the old woman just yet.

“But how do we find the culprit?”

Clint leaned on the shovel, lost in thought. “We look for witnesses. Based on the blood, this happened at dawn. We need to find someone who saw a man carrying a heavy sack and a shovel around that time.”

Clint surmised the culprit was likely a strong male. Carrying a sack full of plump rats and digging a hole this deep required significant physical strength.

“Witnesses? Should I deploy some of my family’s men to ask around?” Simon suggested.

Clint shook his head. “That would be too conspicuous. People in this neighborhood are wary of outsiders in fine clothes.”

“Then what?”

“In times like these, I have some friends who are very good at this.”

Clint gave that familiar, playful wink. On anyone else, it might have felt oily, but on Clint, it was charming. For a brief second, Simon forgot the headless rats and simply felt swept away.

“What is it? Why’d you call me all the way out here?”

Larry grumbled as he approached them. They had sent word to Sonya’s hospital room to fetch him. He seemed unusually cranky, despite having seemingly nothing better to do than sit in a hospital room all day—a concept Simon couldn’t quite wrap his head around.

“Larry, I need a favor,” Clint said.

Larry’s attitude shifted instantly. He straightened up, his eyes sharp. “What is it? A case?”

“We need a witness. Between dawn and this morning, though dawn is the most likely window. Someone carried a sack into that alley and buried it.”

Clint explained the route he’d deduced from the blood trail. Larry nodded, listening intently. It clearly wasn’t the first time they’d worked together like this. Simon felt a pang of envy as he watched their easy rapport.

“Dawn, huh… that’s a bit vague. But a lot of people around here wake up early to find day labor. There’s a chance.”

“Don’t be too loud about it. Have the kids check quietly. If the guy catches wind, he’ll vanish.”

“Got it. I assume the ‘errand fee’… will be worth my while?” Larry glanced at Simon, having perfectly identified who the financier was.

Simon nodded automatically. Larry looked satisfied and disappeared into the maze of the slums.

“Is that it?” Simon asked, feeling a bit underwhelmed. He had expected Clint’s ‘reliable friends’ to be sophisticated investigators, not a teenager.

“Can we really trust a kid with this?”

“Larry’s friends are almost all from this district. They know these streets better than we ever could,” Clint reassured him.

Simon accepted the explanation. If Clint trusted them, he would too.

“So now we just wait?”

“Yes. But let’s check the cat traps I set last night before we head back, just in case.”

They made the rounds to check the traps. Not only were there no cats, but the dried fish bait hadn’t even been touched—not by a stray, a bird, or even a rat. It could have been nothing, but after seeing the headless rats, the silence of the streets felt deeply unsettling.

Is there any specific detail from the newspaper article about the horse that you think might be relevant to the headless rats we found?