Page 14 of Hunted

This is who I am now.

The girl who ran from her father’s house, heartbroken and petrified, is gone.

What remains is colder.

And far more dangerous.

3

EIRA

Three Days Ago

The bell above the door jangles angrily at being disturbed.

I pause just inside the threshold, letting the familiar, forbidding smells hit me first. Dust, dried herbs, something metallic beneath it all as bitter and sinister as the shop’s owner.

The interior is still narrow and dim, shelves stacked with charms, candles and dusty jars filled with things that might once have been alive or might still be.

A hand-painted sign near the register promises Love, Luck, Protection.

I snort under my breath at the straight-faced lie.

‘Don’t just stand there breathing my air,’ a voice snaps from the back. ‘Either come in or leave. I don’t sell indecision.’

I close the door behind me and lock it out of habit.

The front room is a front. Anyone with half a brain can feel it. The real work is behind the velvet curtain that looks like it’s never been cleaned and never will be.

‘I missed you too,’ I say, heading for it.

The curtain parts and Maître Selphine Rousseau glares at me like I’ve personally offended her ancestors.

Save for a handful more wrinkles, she hasn’t changed from the sour woman I met five years ago. Her diminutive figure is still sharp-boned, wrapped in layers of black that might once have been mourning clothes and might now just be aggression. Her hair is iron-grey and braided tight against her skull, her eyes the colour of old bruises and twice as unforgiving.

She smells faintly of incense, bitterness and something much older.

And no, it’s not just vibes.

‘When you came to me five years ago,’ she says, ‘you had the good sense to be well mannered.’

‘I’ve learned since then,’ I reply just as tartly, because I’ve learned that Selphine might not admit it, but she appreciates getting as good as she gives. And right now I’m tart enough to sour Texas. ‘Knocking implies permission.’

Her lip curls. ‘You’ve learned arrogance and sass. That comes with staying alive longer than you should.’

‘Still alive, though,’ I point out. ‘I’m a testament to your genius and cunning so… you’re welcome.’

She turns her back on me, throws her gnarled fingers up in a quick gesture that seals the curtained entrance – I learned that to my cost when I walked into it and nearly seared my face off in the first weeks of my stay here – and moves deeper into the workroom, where chalk sigils stain the floor and glass vials line the walls like a private library of curses.

I follow, eyes flicking automatically to the reinforced door at the far end.

The one no one ever opens.

Rumour says she keeps something important back there.

A powerful being. Possibly a demon. Possibly the lover who wronged her, whose blood she drains drop by drop, turning it into wards strong enough to fool Gods and make her richer than Midas.

I’ve never been bold enough to ask which version, if any, is true.