The following night it did not come. He waited, sniffed the air, but there was nothing except the sour sweaty smell of the encampment. Eager to copulate, he ignored once more the woman who was his mate, for her days were numbered.

Somewhere . . . somewhere . . . but where?

He went outside, listened. Far away in the deep woods dogs were howling, not the frantic baying of hunting beasts but rather a frustrated wail. He knew how the animals felt. They would, in all probability, get an answering call. He would not. It was up to him to go out and find his mate.

He slunk away into the darkness, breathing heavily. His skin burned, there was a roaring in his ears. Travelling by instinct, stopping every so often and sniffing the air. He was on the right trail. Alert to every sound, once climbing up into the boughs of an oak tree because he heard one of the wild dogs close by; usually they fled at the approach of humans unless it was a hunting pack scenting blood, but one could never be sure. Down below him he saw the animal cross a patch of faint moonlight, a huge shaggy beast that bore a resemblance to an Alsatian, slobbering mouth wide. It did not even pause when it caught his smell for its mind was on other things. Just as his own was.

A long night that seemed an eternity, a lost soul wandering in the Stygian blackness of the forest, several times losing the scent he was following, then picking it up again. When eventually he emerged from the forest dawn had already broken.

Eric Atkinson rested, sprawled in the soft heather, his urge temporarily overshadowed by the need to sleep. His body cried out for rest; and momentarily the trail had gone cold.

Sleep came with the warmth of the rising sun's rays; a deathlike slumber that only the exhausted know but within him a dream was struggling to surface, a fleeting image that came and went in his dulled brain. A woman's naked body, soft and hairless, her dark eyes sad, searching for him. Finding him. Calling him to her.

His arms reached out for her but she twisted tantalisingly away, those eyes wet with tears. Wisps of memory, mists floated across her features, hid all but the eyes. Watching him, a mute plea. Come back to me, Eric, I need you. Eric? Eric?

The familiarity of it all tortured him, dragged him into realms beyond his power of thinking. A creature so lovely, not his own kind but that did not matter because they had copulated before. Where? When? He didn't know, only that she was desperate for him to come back to her.

And then she faded, drifted back into the darkness and the hot sun beating down on him awoke him, had him righting his way back into the only world he knew. He tried to remember but it hurt, like stones pounding on his skull. But the scent was still there!

The sun was directly overhead when he came to the smallholding on the Hill, crouched down in the hedge bordering the field where four calves grazed, but he had no interest in meat. Only . . . the bitch smell was very strong and he knew that she was here!

It was difficult trying to formulate a plan because his brain did not know anything except basic cunning. Stay hidden here until it gets dark then go in to her, drag her out if necessary.

An hour passed and he could stand the waiting no longer. The urge to mate was driving him crazy; twice his fingers had strayed to his pulsing erection, screaming at him for relief. No, it was a waste when a willing mate lay inside those four stone walls. She wanted him.

Go to her, then!

A frightening thought, one that posed problems beyond his comprehension. He trembled, nausea churned his stomach. That face from his dreams came back again, still partly enshrouded by fingers of mist. I need you, Eric!

He began a stealthy approach up the rutted track, kept close to the hedge, wicked thorns tearing at his rough hide clothing—go back, go back . . . Ericl

He came to the end of the lane, saw the open yard, hard-baked clay that would turn back to mud with the first shower of rain. The house, a trickle of smoke coming from the chimney. He breathed in the sweet woodsmoke, something else which was musky and did things to him, had him starting forward into the open.

A door, he ran his fingers up and down the smooth woodwork, saw how the paint flaked off. He caught the latch accidentally; it clicked up, dropped back and he leaped away with a snarl in his throat. A strange place but she was indeed a strange woman.

I knew you would come, Eric.

He backed off; there had to be another entrance somewhere, one that he could just walk in through like his own house. Windows; he touched the glass pane, did not like the way they threw his own reflection back at him like still water when you stooped to drink.

A circuit of the cottage and he saw the outbuildings. Perhaps she was in there although his instincts told him otherwise. This time the door swung open at his touch and he stared in disbelief at the interior. A long table cluttered with all kinds of implements, sharp knives, knives with blunt spreading blades, a curved spear; he tested the rusty blade with his finger. It was sharp enough.

Weapons. He grabbed up an assortment of hammers, screwdrivers, chisels and the rusted sickle. With these he could break into this place . . , no, it was dangerous. Surely she had a mate. The thought was disturbing, began to make him angry. A male lurking in there, knowing that Eric was here, why he had come. You killed for such a reason, because if you didn't it was you who ended up dead. No compromises, a fight to the finish. It was the law of the wild.

Eric licked his bearded lips. He did not relish an encounter, had avoided such skirmishes so far. His stomach did another flip. He was not strong enough to take on a rival, it was not his way. He had not challenged any of the other males when they had mated with Marlene, pretended he had not seen. Marlene did not matter, they could have her, do what they liked with her.

I need you, Eric. I'm waiting.

He drew back into the building, did not want her to see him skulking like this, smell his sweat of terror. Then, in gradual stages, an idea began to form in his slow muzzy brain.

With help he could overcome his rival, take this woman for his own. He studied the various implements. The men back at the camp would relish the prospect of owning such an array of hunting weapons. Sharp blades that would pierce and slash, blunt ones to club with and shatter stubborn bones. They would follow him here, smash their way into the house for him, kill anybody who tried to stop

them.

Do not harm the woman, she is mine. That was the promise. You have the weapons, I have the female. But could they be trusted when the mating smell hung so heavy in the air?

It was a chance he would have to take. He would put it to the others, weapons and tools in return for the woman who was now taunting him day and night, sleeping and waking.

Reluctantly Eric Atkinson left the Ouinn holding, heard her pleas echoing in his brain, driving him crazy.

Don't leave me, Eric. I need you. I shall be back, that I promise. Wearily he set out on the return trip to the settlement beyond the Hill.

That night they were back, a dozen of them eager to get their hands on weapons which would give them supremacy over the other tribes in the hills. If they smelled the bitch-smell then they gave no outward sign. There were plenty of women back in the camp, more than enough to satisfy their needs.

The house was still and dark, no smoke coming from the chimney. Deserted, like every other dwelling you came upon, the occupants having answered the calling and deserted civilisation. Except that Eric knew that she was in there and this time he scented her man, a sour, stronger aroma that was borne to him on the soft summer breeze, one that made him uneasy.