Page 141 of The Darkest Hour

Havoc widened his eyes. “I thought I smelled things growing on the island but this is. . .incredible.”

I nodded, barely able to tear my gaze away from the sheer abundance laid out before us. “We have everything here—food, water, shelter, but even more, the owner of that house. . .has a way off of here.”

“Perhaps.”

I began to walk forward.

“Careful.” He stopped me. “I smell death even more.”

I parted my lips. “Shit. I forgot that part once I saw the vegetables and fruit.”

“However, there’s also chickens, goats, and I think pigs or. . .cows. For some reason, I always mix them up.”

“How can you mix up pigs and cows. I feel like pigs would be stinkier.”

“Are you questioning the skill of my nose?”

I snickered. “No. Sorry.”

“Either way. I won’t have to kill your pet doe. We have other animals to kill.”

“Unless they are cute-looking.”

He groaned.

I kept the gun by my side. “And the death? Where do you think it is?”

“I smell it near the livestock and it’s maybe. . .in the house too. Yeah. I’m sure of it.”

“But do you smell anything else like cologne, perfume, or any indicator that there are people in there?”

“I don’t smell that. Not one scent of people.”

“Are you sure, Havoc?”

“That chateau is huge and the garden is well-kept.”

Havoc’s expression grew serious as he stared at the chateau, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to pierce through the walls with his gaze alone.

I could see the gears turning in his mind, trying to make sense of what his sharp senses were telling him.

“I don’t smell anyone in there,” he repeated, his voice firm. “No people. Not a single one.”

I looked back.

He sighed. “Humans have a distinct scent. Every person carries their own unique mix of smells, but there are some things that are always there, no matter what.”

“Like what?”

“Men, for example. Their scent is usually stronger, more musky. It’s a mix of sweat, testosterone, and whatever else they’ve been around—sometimes it’s the outdoors, sometimes smoke, food, or even oil if they’ve been working with machines. But there’s always this underlying note that’s unmistakable.”

“Okay. And you don’t smell that at all?”

“Not really.”

“Not really?”

“I smell it, but with death. Lots of death.”

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