Page 11 of Terror at the Gates

“I don’t see that relic I brought you two weeks ago,” I said. “Or the cross from the week before.”

The relic was a necklace with a plait of hair encapsulated in glass. It was said to belong to Saint Sebastian, a man whose life I knew nothing about, save that the church had canonized him. I doubted the hair actually belonged to him, but who really knew. In any case, people paid good money for a piece of a saint, no matter how small. I’d takenthe cross from a priest. It was solid gold, set with rubies, and had dangled from his belt—a belt he’d been willing to remove without any encouragement from my magic.

Though other than creation, celibate priests were probably the biggest myth in Eden.

“Lying is a sin, Abram,” I said.

“Sin is our currency, girl,” he said, shoving the box under the counter. “Well?”

“Don’t call megirl,” I said, drawing the blade Ephraim had given me from my pocket. I refused to say steal. I set it on the counter. Beneath the light of Abram’s antique shop, it looked a little less stunning, but I thought that was intentional. He wanted everything to present poorly so he could lowball his customers.

His expression changed, bushy brows rising as surprise flashed in his eyes, though he managed to put a cap on his interest when he spoke, not a hint of wonder in his voice.

“Where did you find this?” he asked, picking it up to examine it closely.

“Around,” I said. Usually, I would get straight to the point and demand a sum of money, a few hundred dollars more than I wanted in hopes that Abram would negotiate down to what I needed, but this time, I was actually curious about the blade. Plus, if he gave me details, perhaps I could get more than just a few months’ rent out of him. “So? What is it?”

“A dagger,” he replied.

I rolled my eyes. “I know that, asshole. It’s special, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer me but paused to open a drawer. He pulled out a jeweler’s eyepiece, using it to scan the stones.

I didn’t like his silence and crossed my arms over my chest as I waited, tapping my foot. After a few seconds,he tossed his eyepiece into the drawer and closed it before resting the blade on the counter.

“Two hundred,” he said.

I couldn’t tell what I felt more keenly: anger or shock at his offer.

“Fuck you. That blade is worth at least three thousand, and you know it!”

Abram chuckled. “Might be what it’s worth, but I have to make a profit.”

I glared at the old man. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll just pay my rent with the fucking dagger.”

I went to snatch it back, but Abram grabbed it first.

I reached for my gun, furious. I had done business with this man since I’d moved to Nineveh, and this was how he treated me? Fucking blade must be worth a small fortune, but when I met the old man’s gaze, I froze.

The whites of his eyes were red.

The color drained from my face, and for a moment, I ceased to breathe.

“Abram?”

He blinked, and a trail of blood raced down his cheek.

He lifted his hand, touching his face. When he pulled it away, he rubbed his fingers together, brows furrowing, as if he did not understand what was happening.

Ididn’t understand what was happening.

The old man lifted his bloody gaze to mine. His face had turned a garish color. A low, strange whine came from his mouth, like he was a balloon leaking air, and as he made that sound, he seemed to fall in slow motion, hitting the ground with a hollow thud.

For a few seconds, I stood stunned, unable to process what the fuck had just happened.

“Abram?” I called and then jumped, resting my stomach on the counter as I peered down at the floor. He lay on his back, eyes pools of blood.

He was definitely dead.

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