Page 73 of Terror at the Gates

It wasn’t my favorite way to make money, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

This part of the city was a maze. The only road into the area was Smugglers’ Row. Beyond that, shops and residences were accessed via a series of narrow alleyways that zigzagged between derelict buildings. I’d learned the safest routes the hard way, though like all things in this district,safewas a stretch.

As I slipped down one dank passage, I wrapped an arm around Cherub and kept the other close to my gun. There were pockets of brightness from windows or open doors, but anything could happen in the gaping darkness.

A woman stood in a slice of light ahead, a length of fabric wrapped between her hands.

“A scarf for you, madam?” she asked.

I ignored her and the curse she spat at my back as I continued, passing a man who sat cross-legged on ablanket, ringing a series of bells. A handmade sign read HEALING BELLS, TUNED TO THE FREQUENCY OF THE ANGELS.

I wondered what that meant and how many people believed his claims, though I doubted anyone in need of true healing sought it in Gomorrah.

Nothing here could save you.

I made a few more twists and turns, winding through the alleys, passing more unfortunate shops—one that sold exotic animals, another selling illegal pharmaceuticals—before rounding the final corner and coming to a stop.

Ahead, a man stood in a flood of yellow light, smoking. He looked to be about Zahariev’s age. His hair was dark and his face carved by the cut of his beard. He took a drag from his cigarette before dropping his hand to his side, smiling.

It wasn’t an unpleasant smile, but it wasn’t warm either.

“Well, well,” he said. “Look who it is.”

“Baal,” I said in acknowledgment.

His eyes glittered in the half-light and fell to the sling around my body, his thick brows rising. “Is that a baby?”

“It’s a cat,” I said, parting the fabric so Cherub could poke her head out.

“It sure is,” he said, taking a drag from his cigarette. “It’s been a while, serpent. What are you up to?”

“I have a new client.”

“Replacing Abram already?”

I stiffened. I didn’t like his tone and wondered what rumors were going around about Abram’s death, but I wasn’t curious enough to ask. I didn’t like Baal. He gave me the creeps, and not for the usual reasons. Baal didn’t lust after me, though I sensed waves of attraction. I suspected Iwas too old for him.

“Money’s tight,” I said.

“Ain’t that the truth,” he said, flicking his cigarette into the darkness before heading into his shop. It was a narrow room and overcrowded with shelves displaying icons haloed in shining gold, statues of saints in pewter and bronze, and hand-jeweled religious books. They were items that were popular with the devout but not what he was known for, at least in my circle.

Baal specialized in procuring religious relics and not just bits of bone or scraps of clothing. He’d sold the mummified heads of saints, their tongues and jaws, reliquaries full of blood and hair.

I was usually a skeptic when it came to the authenticity of relics. They were easy to fake. I knew five people who thought they owned the skull of Saint Innocence, but Baal was different.

He was probably the slowest concierge on the market. It could take him a year to secure items for his clients. If a patron wanted something that already belonged to someone else or didn’t exist, he said so. He also kept detailed physical records of the items he found and sold.

Were they real? I had no fucking clue, but it was his attention to detail that made me think he at least thought so.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“My client is looking for a knife,” I said. “But all he gave me was a description.”

I pulled out my notebook and laid it flat on his counter so he could see my horrible drawing.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Itoldyou,” I snapped. “All my client gave me was a description. I did my best.”