Page 46 of Carved Obsession

I already know what his next word will be.

“You.”

* * *

If I could fly through Queenscove’s traffic, I would, but as it stands, I’m stuck at a red light. Less than a mile from my house. It takes a lot of self-control to stay put and not abandon my car in the middle of this damn boulevard.

If it wasn’t for the motion sensors I kept separate from the main security system, I wouldn’t have known of the break-in. I’ve cycled through every single camera I have in and around my house, and every single fucking one shows static.

Fucking static!

I’m done wondering who the hell has the skills for this, because I don’t care anymore. I’m simply wondering who in their ever-loving mind has the audacity to break intomyhouse.

My fucking house!

Muscles tighten around my bones, searing frost crystalizing in my veins as all those thoughts threaten to overwhelm me.

I am the Carver, and I swear to all the gods they’re gonna end up praying to, I will make them pay in pounds of skin, bone, and muscle. Slice by motherfucking slice.

The light turns green, and I’m finally close enough to the start of the queue that I can pass through and get home. Three turns later and I’m flying through the wrought iron gates onto the cobbled drive. With a screech, the car stops in front of the stone steps nestled between the old trees and ancient graves rising from the thick grass—the former St. George’s Church.

I bought this fourteenth-century stone building a few years ago and converted it into a house after it was left unused for half a decade. Not enough believers in this city for all the churches we have. I jumped on the opportunity right away. It felt like the ultimate fuck-you to my religious-fanatic mother who has sacrificed everything for her Christian god.

I rush up the steps and press the handle to the heavy metal-reinforced wooden door, but it won’t budge. Maybe they got in through the side door. After quickly unlocking it, I burst inside the large entry foyer, gun drawn and aimed at my surroundings as I pass through the open-space main living area, the former church nave. I did save a couple of pews and used them for decor on the sides, in front of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases covering every single wall that doesn’t contain a window.

There’s no noise, no movement.

My gaze travels halfway up the bookcases, where the warm wooden balcony surrounds the entire open space, its footprint curving like the soft waves of the sea you can see from the East windows. There is no soul in sight.

I make quick work of going through the expansive space, checking behind every couch, behind the kitchen island, then in the former transepts that are now the bathroom, storage space, laundry room, and office.

My bedroom is the last place I check. Up three steps, which are bowed in the middle by the thousands of feet they have met, right where the chancel and its altar used to be. A beautiful sacrilege to its former god. It’s empty here too.

The whole house is empty.

Going into the office, I power on my system, which always shows the cameras first, and frown when I see that they’re back online. Whoever did this turned them back on.

Gun back in my holster, I stand in the middle of the room, eyes searching every nook and cranny. Nothing’s amiss, so I move on to the few files and paperwork I have here.

I repeat this in the living area.

Then in all the other spaces, just to find absolutely nothing changed or missing. Even my invaluable Stradivarius violin sits untouched on its stand next to the old organ.

The last place to check is the bedroom. Against the wall to the right of the door I currently have my back to, on slim, black metal legs, sits a display counter—a shallow enclosure encased in UV-treated glass—and I tentatively step toward it.

With a deepening pit in my stomach, I dare gaze inside it, and my heart threatens to stall in my chest. Because right there, inside that humidity-controlled environment, sits another goddamn puzzle box.

But that’s not the main problem, which is that it sitsinsteadof something else.

Something precious.

Something that wasmine.

They stole from me. Whoever the hell this person is...they fucking stole from me.

Not just anything, but one of eighteen third-edition copies of La Commedia by Dante Alighieri from 1472. Seventeen are known to exist. My copy, obtained by the previous owner through various nefarious activities and at least three murders, is not recorded anywhere but in the initial printing records. It reached me through pure luck, after its owner met his demise at my hands. It sat beautifully displayed in my bedroom for three fucking years.

Until now.