Page 77 of Terror at the Gates

I shrugged. “I guess that depends on what you believe.”

The irony was that my mother did believe the story, and she used it to remind me of my place when she felt I was anything but submissive.

We partook of the apple. This is our punishment, she would say.

It was the justification written in the first few pages of theBook of Splendor. From a young age, I had been taught that I was responsible for Eve’s so-called sin. I was made to feel guilty for how easily she had been tempted to disobeyGod and for her temptation of Adam.

Now that I was older, I suspected either Adam was just as responsible, or he had never been capable of critical thinking. Given my experience with most men, I couldn’t dismiss the latter.

Now that I thought about it, choosing Eve as my alias was fitting. My mother used her story to indoctrinate me, but what she’d really done was free me.

Cherub chose that moment to fight her way out of the sling, ears popping up as she freed her head.

The woman’s expression softened briefly.

“What’s her name?” she asked.

“Cherub,” I said.

“Cherub,” she repeated, bending so she was face-to-face with my cat. “Aren’t you precious? My name is Saira.”

I was trying to decide if it was weird that she that only addressed my cat, but then her gaze lifted to mine, souring again, and I decided I didn’t care, so long as I got what I came for.

She straightened and stepped aside, allowing me to enter her shop. The candle was lit again, and it smelled earthy, probably because she had so many plants. They were everywhere, hanging in baskets from the ceiling, trailing along the walls like garland. With the candles, it almost felt homey, if it weren’t for all the weird shit she kept on display—jars of graveyard dirt, brackish water, and dead things floating in discolored liquid.

They were things that outed her as someone who practiced witchcraft, or at least someone who sold items to those who did. It was a dangerous way to make a living, but this was probably the safest place to do it, deep within the Trenches of Nineveh. If the church found out, they wouldpersecute not only her but her clientele.

The woman walked past me, still holding my journal.

“You’ve never been closed,” I said as she made her way behind the counter.

“There’s always a first,” Saira said, holding up the journal. “What’s this?”

“My dreams,” I said.

It wasn’t exactly a lie, but I also wasn’t about to give her the whole truth.

“Your dreams,” she repeated flatly, dropping the journal on the counter. I could tell by her tone I’d lost her.

“I know what it sounds like, but I need answers,” I said.

“I don’t interpret dreams,” she said.

“You opened the door for a reason,” I snapped. “Why?”

She glared at me, angry. I knew it was going to take time for her to trust me. The problem was I didn’t have time. Not with that fucking knife in the drawer of my bedside table.

After a few tense seconds, she opened the book to the page where I’d drawn the blade, jabbing her finger at the picture.

“What do you know about this blade?” she asked.

“What doyouknow about it?”

“It’s my shop. I’ll ask the questions.”

“I don’t know anything about it,” I said, frustrated. “That’s the fucking problem.”

She stared, waiting for me to continue. God, she was as bad as Zahariev.

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