“The Wild still lingered in him and the wolf in him merely slept.”
Ian Doyle tipped his head back and sniffed. The strange scent filled the funeral home. Like a thick smog, it saturated every dreary room, and somehow made the place more tolerable.
Doyle continued to breath it in, baffled by the way it made the hairs on his neck stand on end.
With his more-than-capable nose, Doyle could smell the fragrance over the colognes and perfumes of a dozen crying mourners.
He could smell it over the coat of varnish on the wooden hat-rack, over the dust in the air, over the enormous wreath of flowers by the front hall. It must have been the embalming fluid.
Doyle took a few more sampling sniffs and when he decided he liked it (how utterly depraved), sucked in a great gusting breath until his head swam with the smell.
It was tangy-sweet and tantalizing. A welcome contrast to the depressing atmosphere, like a dollop of fine cream on a crusty burnt cake. It wasn't often that he smelled something he liked.
Too many city scents clogged out the good. Cab exhaust and grimy gutters.
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