Page 116 of Nightshade

“Yes. All my staff were purchased. Except for you, of course.”

“So … when you say the heavens are frugal. Does that mean you sell them to the Fallen?”

“Yes,” he answered, face stoic and unapologetic, as I’d have expected. “After what Jesper did, do you think he deserves to ascend from this place?”

“Of course not. Then, I’m to assume all the souls you sell are violent criminals?”

“No. Some are not.” He leaned back against the lush, velvety bench and hiked an elbow onto the back of it. How the man could pull off intimidatingly relaxed was a mystery of the ages. “Why do you think I have more staff than I care to house?”

The comment brought a smile to my face. “Surely, in all the time you’ve been doing this, you haven’t only come across a mere handful of decent people.”

He didn’t respond, as the carriage slowed to a stop, and within seconds, Garic was at the door, swinging it open onto a place which reminded me of the old European cities my father would show me in books. Ones that had stood the test of time and remained untouched by the ever-evolving technology that surrounded them.

Gas lamps lined the streets, decorated in groomed vines and speckled with the few snowflakes that’d begun to fall. A stretch of small shops boasted everything from books to baked goods, an apothecary and clothing, and even a small pub on the corner.

As I followed Jericho out of the carriage, my eyes drank in the weary and wistful little town, set beneath the gloom of the incessant overcast sky. At the door, I glanced down to find Jericho’s hand reaching out for mine, and with an unsure smile, I took it, catching the slight twitch of his palm.

Once I was on the ground, he yanked the hood of his jacket up over his head. “Brace yourself. This town has no love for me. I suspect they’ll perceive you as a poor and helpless soul.”

No sooner had he said the words than a woman approached, and when her eyes seemed to latch onto Jericho, she skirted around the two of us and hustled across the street.

“They truly believe you’re Death?”

“Apparently so. Might be wise to walk a bit ahead of me.”

Instead, I slid my hand back into his, earning myself a frown as he stared down at our clasped palms. “I don’t profess to be all that wise.”

“The fact that you insist on following me around proves it so.” He gave a gentle tug on my arm, leading me down the street, where the wind seemed to channel through like in a tunnel, casting a chill over me.

A bell rang as we entered the bookshop. The scent of aged wood and books hit me like a curtain of calm, and I closed my eyes, breathing it in. How much it reminded me of my father’s office, with his leather chair and papers scattered everywhere. When I opened my eyes again, Jericho was staring back at me.

“Are you all right?”

“Quite.” I stepped ahead of him, eyes wandering over the two levels of books. Shelves upon shelves of them. Candles flickered about, giving off a delicious scent of spice and winter, their light reflecting off the gleaming, dark-wood floors. A fireplace crackled, beside which a woman, seen only by the tufts of fiery red hair sticking up over top of the book in her hands, sat in a chair, sipping on tea.

The squeeze of my hand was the only thing that could’ve distracted me from my enthrallment. When I glanced down to see his hand swallowing mine, mentally noting how natural it felt, for some reason, he promptly let go.

“I’m going to look for the book,” he advised. “Don’t go wandering far.”

“Why on earth would I wander far from here.”

Shaking his head, he strode off.

Careful, so as not to startle her, I approached the woman on the chair and untucked the locket from inside my dress. “Pardon me. Could I trouble you to look at this picture and tell me if you’ve ever seen this man before?”

Lowering her book just enough to peer over top of it, she looked quickly, green eyes sparkling in the firelight, and shook her head. “No,” she said, raising the book up again.

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

As I turned to walk away, something beside her caught my eye. A flyer whose headline announced an upcoming ball. But it was the image on the flyer which captured my attention. Pale skin. Hair, so blonde, it almost looked white. Bright eyes. The unmistakable mole above her lip.

Alicia Maxson. The prostitute whose body had been found mutilated in the motel room. The one Detective Hines had brought to my attention because of the Pentacrux symbol left there. Of course, her face in the picture appeared to be perfectly intact, exactly as I’d seen it in the before picture Hines had shown me.

According to the flyer, she’d be singing at the event. What were the odds that I’d stumble upon her in this place?

I reached past the woman whose nose was still stuck in her book and lifted the flyer from the table beside her.

Hallow Harvest Fest.