BANG.
Torin smashes his beefy ol’ shoulder against it until the doorframe splinters and the door goes flying.
“That’s one way to do it,” I say. “Kit’s going to murder you.”
But Tor’s already stepping inside, sniffing the air and letting out another low growl. “Is it me or does it smell weird in here?”
“He’s definitely going to murder you,” I mutter as he tracks wet footprints through Kit’s hallway and up the stairs that lead to his dwelling above the shop.
Torin ignores me yet again, still sniffing like a bloodhound.
“Do you think he’s ill?” We clomp up the stairs to Kit’s sitting room. I yank open the curtains, filling the room with marginally more drizzle-diffused light before heading into the bedroom.
“He’s not here.”
The place is as filled to the brim as ever. There isstuffcovering the book shelves, the numerous endtables, the coffee table and even the floor. It’s like the shop has spilled out its contents all over his house. Or maybe it’s the other way around and Kit had to open a shop to justify his love of all this crap.
We head through to the kitchen where there’s the faint scent of cinnamon in the air, and Torin’s already testing the kettle with the back of his hand.
“Stone cold.”
On the wooden counter sits a tangle of chains, attached to two wrist cuffs. I poke them with my index finger before thinking better of it. “Part of his collection, do you think?”
“His collection of what?”
“I dunno.” I shrug. “Kinky stuff?”
On the scrubbed kitchen table, beside an unwashed mug, there’s a little golden safe covered in unfamiliar markings.
“I guess I don’t need to tell you not to poke that one,” Torin grumbles.
I hold my hands up as the picture of innocence. Considering Kit’s secondary profession as a cursebreaker, there’s no chance I’m going to risk touching it.
“Just the bedroom left to check.”
This place isn’t exactly expansive. If Kit were here, we’d know by now. But I suppose there’s the chance he left a note for us somewhere to let us know when he’d be back.
Inside his bedroom, I yank open the wardrobe and reveal dozens of pairs of jazzy trousers and neatly ironed shirts. On the bed sits a fat duffle bag that Tor unzips, sifting through the contents.
“Enough clothes for a few weeks,” he mutters.
It’s colder in the bedroom than in the rest of the flat, and there’s a dampness in the air, like the weather has seeped in.
“Window’s open.”
I step closer to the window and get hit with a scent that drags me straight back to my childhood, forcing a knot to form in my gut. “D-do you smell that?” My voice cracks like a pubescent boy, earning me a sharp look from Torin.
It’s rancid, metallic, and herbal all at once. The smell hits the back of my throat and I have to gird myself not to throw up all over my shoes.
“There’s blood.” Torin prods the window and it swings further open. “Smells wrong somehow, though. “You think someone came in by the window or that they left that way? There’s no sign the place has been gone over, or you’d think they’d have taken some of the gold stuff in the other room.”
Typical thatnowTorin’s decided to be verbose, right when I’m struggling to stop myself from descending into panic.
This room smells like dark magic that lures and binds, trapping you until you’re mired in sludge.
“Sorcery.”
Chapter 1
