Page 27 of Cursed Shadows 5

The door behind me is as rotted as all the others. The frame is almost entirely eroded. Whatever shade was once painted onto the wood is now gone, just bubbled and sun-bleached.

I fish out the parchment from my pocket and turn it over in my hands. “This is it?”

Dare takes a step around me. “You know where this is?”

I turn to trace his movements, his gradual backsteps away from me. I shake my head. “No.”

“Rune has a sibling.” Another backstep. “His brother is a once renowned warrior. Forranach. And this is his home.”

“What?” The word escapes me in a breathy rush. “This is the home of Rune’s brother?”

Dare nods his head to the parchment in my fist. “I suspect Niamh is the one who offered you sanctuary. Careful, now, heartbreaker. Forranach isn’t known for his loveable nature.”

He turns his back on me—and stalks down the alley.

He leaves me at the old, rotted door.

5

††††††

I stand in the alley for a while, parchment crinkled in my fist, staring at the door.

The splintered spears of wood, stripped and peeled away; the murky slime that coats the brass knob.

I flinch.

A splash of water hits me right on the nose.

My chin lifts as I turn my gaze upwards. I half expect to see someone leaning out of a window above, about to toss water out into the alley, and those first few drops that spill from a bucket are striking me.

But I see nothing more than the thick darkness.

Another droplet hits me. This one on the cheek.

My face twists.

And not a moment after, a sudden downpour falls from the black skies.

I throw myself at the door.

It swings open with an awful groan, and my boots stagger onto hard steps.

I stumble, grabbing at the walls to right myself. And, as I look up at the steps, I realise I am in the realm’s narrowest stairwell.

I start up the stairs.

My legs move slow, lethargic, and the muscle of my thighs are screaming louder and louder with each climb.

I push through it, until I reach the third level—the second number on the parchment.

The first number is 5.

So I walk the narrow hallway to the fifth, final door.

For a beat, I stand there, looking at it. The unpolished brass number bolted to the wood, the smell of soup wafting up all around me, the distant pummel of rainfall outside.

I loosen a swelling breath before I lift my hand, then curl my scraped, torn fingers into a fist.

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