“Always keep it on you. No matter what.”
“It nearly scorched my hand the other night.”
“It’s doing what it’s meant to do—keeping bad things away.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“Maybe that’s because your mother is always right,” he snapped, yanking open a drawer.
He pulled out pouches of dried herbs, grains, little black stones, and a thick bottle of cloudy liquid.
“In the evening,” he said, voice low and fast, “put these outside every door, every window, your bed, the threshold of the house. Every corner. Don’t skip anything.”
I reached for it. “Weeny Man, what the hell is—”
“Don’t ask questions, Sanora,” he said firmly. “Just do it.”
Then he turned and opened another drawer, pulling out a small ring of keys. “I’ve got a car out back. I don’t drive anymore. You can use it while you’re here.”
He pulled one key loose and pressed it into my palm, pocketing the rest.
Before I could say a word, he walked around me, crossed to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside, leaving me standing in the bookshop, confused out of my mind.
CHAPTER SIX
THRAX
The house stank of potions, incantations, dried herbs, and blind hope.
He paused in the doorway, inhaling the heavy, perfumed air like one might examine a piece of spoiled meat. It was almost choking, with the cloying scent of burnt sage, steeped herbs, and potion residue that clung to the walls like mildew.
It clung to his tongue, burned the back of his throat. Not because it was strong, but because it was offensive and insulting. As though a few scattered grains and candle wax could keep him out. As though the hands that brewed these spells had ever metrealpower.
If his seventeenth ancestor had made them, maybe he’d have felt a sting. But this? This was superstition passed down too many times.
He stepped through the threshold without resistance, the house welcoming him like a thing that had long since stopped believing in salvation.
He drifted through the cramped space, fingers trailing across cluttered surfaces, his touch stirring nothing but dust. Jars of dried petals, half-melted candles, handwritten sigils pinned to the walls. Everything was so desperate, protective charms meant for children afraid of the dark.
The floor creaked under his boots as he moved towards the centre of the room, where an old armchair sat before the hearth. He settled into it and crossed one leg over the other.
He felt him coming.
Winifred.
The air shifted as the old man approached the house. He could hear his erratic echoing like a weak drum. The door opened, and he stepped in.
He watched the man’s face collapse into fury and disbelief.
Good.
“You. Thrax,” Winifred spat, rage colouring his face like wine spilled on linen. His eyes scanned the charms strung around the room, every one of them useless. “Get out of my house this instant.”
“Sit,” he said, deep voice like frost sliding over glass. Not loud, not aggressive.
Winifred didn’t obey. “Get. Out—”
The rest died in his throat.
