“James,” Alaric says with a frown, “what’s the matter?”
James is huffing and puffing, struggling to string two words together. “It’s Buddy,” he says, hands on his knees. “He’s … he’s dead.”
I feel like I’ve swallowed a stone. The shop spins around me, the faces of the men shifting in and out of focus. I’m desperately hoping that this is all just some sick, twisted joke, or a dream I’m about to wake up from. But it isn’t. It’s real.
Two men. Both of whom I did business with last night. Dead.
And then a chilling thought snakes into my mind. One is a coincidence. Two is a pattern. The Necroseals. Thishas to be connected to them. But how could anyone have known I took them? Those rings were stashed away in some dusty old box. Hidden beneath the floorboards. Even more baffling, how could anyone have known I sold them?
The straw-haired merchant must’ve talked. Buddy is careful, professional. He’s bought more stolen jewels from me than I can count.
A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. If someone found out about the stolen jewels, and they’re willing to kill to reclaim them…
It hits me like a pile of bricks.
Elara. The gold ring I gave her last night.
“Talia!” Alaric shouts after me. “Where do you think you’re going?”
But I’m already out of the door.
Chapter Five
I’m sprinting as fast as I can, until my chest is on fire and a crippling stitch embeds itself into my side.
The winding cobblestone path is narrow and uneven, guiding me on a steep descent into the valley. Past the sprawling fields of wildflowers, past the pale stone cottages to the fringes of the forest, where a handful of smaller houses huddle together, their moss-covered roofs sagging with age.
On a better day, the little house Elara and I share would be bathed in warm, golden sunlight, but today, as I approach with bated breath, there’s an unsettling chill surrounding the place and the sky is ominously overcast.
Worry cinches around my heart, squeezing until it feels like a pair of strong hands are pressing down on my chest, harder with each breath.
I wade through the overgrown garden, suddenly acutely aware of the silence that surrounds me.
When I spot the front door ajar, my stomach churns.
Something is terribly wrong.
“Elara?” I shout as I burst through the door.
Upon first glance, everything appears as I left it a few hours ago. The small kitchen basks in soft, diffused light, and the air still smells faintly of sugar and butter.
Elara’s at work. Of course she is.
But then I see them, and something frigid snakes through me. Elara’s cupcakes sit on the edge of the dining table, neatly displayed in a ribboned box. She had her audition at the bakery today. There’s no way she would’ve left them behind.
“E-Elara, are you here?” I call out again, but the only answer is the haunting echo of my voice reverberating through the cottage.
My teeth sink into the tender flesh of my cheek. There has to be a logical explanation for this. Last night, Elara was a bundle of nerves. Odds are, she forgot the cupcakes. Or chickened out of taking them.
I try to ignore the fact that her coat is still hanging on its hook near the stairs, her work shoes still lined up beside the front door. My knees are weak as I pad up the stairs. I pause on the landing. Try to home in on any foreign energies that may lurk in the house.
The top of the landing is always dark – the solar lantern hanging from the ceiling has long run out of power. But today, the darkness seems to stretch, reaching across the matted carpet to Elara’s bedroom door.
I shiver. It’s ajar.
Oozing with dark energy.
The murky tendrils coil sluggishly through the air, clinging to the walls and seeping into the cracks near the ceiling. It tastes of ash, dry and choking, coating my tongue with a sharp acrid sensation that lingers. It’s the energy of despair.
