If I can’t ask her without giving away my ignorance, I’m going to have to figure this out myself.
I wander over to a wood-framed sofa, scanning the room as Alice scribbles away. The house is dark. Dried herbs and flowers hang from the ceiling and what can only be described as a small cauldron sits on top of a wood-burning stove. She’s clearly a witch, but I don’t know what type of magic she’d use to see me coming.
Augury is Ferrymen magic, and Alice is obviously not a Ferryman. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t practice another form of divination. There’s pyromancy, favomancy, cartomancy, osteomancy…But no type of mancy gives answers as clear as “a girl is going to show up at your door asking you to translate an ancient code.”
At any rate, this is the easiest job I’ve ever done. All I had to do to get what I wanted was to show up. I should be elated, but my stomach sinks.
“I didn’t even get to use the accent,” I mutter.
The sound of Alice’s pen scraping against paper stops.
“Good,” she says, then goes back to translating.
There aren’t too many pages in the journal, but an hour in, Alice is still working. I’m bored out of my mind, but if I even breathe too loud, she snaps at me. I have no choice but to start skimming through the stack ofLifemagazines on the table.
It’s not until I’m halfway through an article about something called the Corn Palace creating a grain mural of Colonel Sanders and Maisie Williams that I realize I’m reading a current issue. Which means Alice’s subconscious didn’t create these. Someone brought her these from the Beforedeath. Recently.
That in and of itself isn’t cause for alarm, but, I don’t know, something feels off. There’s a prickle on the back of my neck, a knot in my gut that tells me to pay attention.
What if she didn’t use magic to sense me coming? What if someone tipped her off?
The syndicates must keep tabs on the descendants of the Cult of Persephone still in the Afterlife. They could have visited Alice and told her to look out for someone attempting to translate the codex. Except the syndicates think the Cult of Hades has the grimoire. At least, I thought they did.
Maybe I said something about the codex when Ezra rescued me. Maybe they know we have it. Maybe they told Alice to expect me.
But why translate the journal if she’s planning to hand me over?
Unless she’s trying to keep me here.
And then I realize the pen has gone silent.
I clear my throat and stand. “It’s getting late. I’d better go.”
Alice doesn’t turn from the desk, her posture stiff. “Ain’t through with it.”
“That’s fine,” I say, taking a few steps toward her. “I don’t need the whole thing translated.”
“It’s important,” she says.
I could take it and run. But maybe I need to question her first. And run where? What if the house is surrounded?
I’m halfway through an exit plan when the door bursts open.
I poise to fight, but it’s just Ezra. He looks between Alice and me, eyes wild.
“I, uh, I don’t know how to explain it, but—”
“Shit,” I mutter. I can tell from the look on Ezra’s face it’s a hellhound. Welp. Grab and run it is, then. I snatch the journal from Alice, her quill leaving a trail of ink across the pages.
“Thank you!” I call, seizing Ezra by the sleeve and hauling him out of the house.
Alice yells something after me, but I’m too focused on scanning our surroundings. There’s a gentle breeze rushing through the grass. Birds caw in the distance. Dozens of Dead are out and about,gardening in neighboring yards, strolling down the path, chatting over white picket fences.
Ezra whips around. “Maybe I was imagining it, but I don’t know, I just felt like…”
“Prey,” I finish for him.
Hellhounds shouldn’t be out this far. But paired with Alice’s weird behavior, this can’t be a coincidence.
