Read Online The Forever Drug by Lisa Smedman - Free Book Online Page B

imagine the puzzled frowns they must have been wearing behind their tinted helmet visors. A wolf had disappeared, apparently into thin air. I was glad the officers weren't from the Magical Task Force. They'd have realized instantly that they were dealing with a shifter and would have spotted my true form the instant they used astral sensing.
    I didn't dare change back into wolf form. Instead I strolled as casually as I could over to the end of the block where I'd last smelled Jane's scent, and waited until the cops were gone and the sidewalk was relatively clear. Then I bent down as it I'd dropped something under a parked car and was looking for it. I pressed my nose to the sidewalk, closed my eyes, and took a long, deep sniff on the concrete.
    Drek, but it was hard to find a scent with a human nose. My sense of smell was keener by far than an ordinary human's, but after being in wolf form, it was like trying to smell something through a nose plugged by a cold. I caught only the faintest whiff of Jane.
    It was enough. I knew she'd come at least this far.
    I repeated the ruse at the end of each block, sometimes having to double back and round a corner and try another direction before I caught the scent. It took a long time; I had to wait for any pedestrians who'd seen me look under a car in the previous block to pass by before taking another sniff. But the trail grew ever fresher. It eventually became so strong I knew I'd find Jane within a block or two, at most.
    The scent of the man who had come for Jane was also growing stronger. I'd have to be careful.
    I was standing on Terminal Road, in front of the Via Rail station, a massive rectangle of a building whose antique stonework was from a century far removed from the ultra-modern maglev trains that now departed from it. Via Rail used to be what they called a "crown corporation" in the previous century, back when there was still a country called Canada. Its claim to fame was that it linked the nation from sea to sea; you could get aboard a train in Halifax, and five days later arrive in Vancouver, on the Pacific Coast.
    The trains don't run to Vancouver anymore. Not since that city was swallowed up by the Salish-Shidhe Council. Nor do they run to what used to be central Canada, which is now the Algonkian-Manitou Council, nor to Quebec, which declared itself an independent nation in 2022. These days the trains are routed south, down through Buffalo and Detroit, with service west to Winnipeg. And Via Rail is part of the Symington Corporation, which in turn is owned by Saeder-Krupp, a German megacorp.
    I wondered where the man who had come for Jane was taking her. And whether I was already too late to stop him.
    I entered the building, every sense on alert. The Via Rail terminal is cavernous and echoing, filled with the sounds of people talking and loudspeaker announcements of trains arriving and departing. A wave of scents washed over me: human, meta, fast food, and the pungent, burnt smell of roasted coffee. There was no way I'd be able to pick up Jane's trail inside the building—not in human form, anyway. I had to rely on sight to find her.
    As I made my way into the crowd, I heard music playing up ahead. I thought it was just a passenger carrying a boom box, but then I spotted the Music Man. Despite the urgency of my search, I was caught up in his music for just a second or two.
    "Music Man" was what they called him in the North End neighborhood where he lived. Nobody knew his name. He was mute—either that or he chose never to speak a word out loud. Instead he spoke through his music. He was human, dark-skinned, maybe fifty-plus years old, and scrawny for his race. His head of thinning gray hair only came to mid-chest level on me. He'd spent every nuyen he scrounged over the years on cybernetic implants of a very specific type. Hidden under his skin were a series of sensors, synthesizers, and speakers that he used to produce his music. As his hands slapped or stroked his