Page 47 of A Taste of Torment
The sound that escapes my lips is pathetic, even I can tell that, but I have no control over it. Her nails are painted dark blue with tiny little dots to look like stars. I’d painted those.
My hands clench into fists, and I barely manage to hold back a sob.
I close the folder and force breath after breath through my lungs. Jarron doesn’t move for a full minute as I work to control myself. Tears still well in my eyes, my chest is still tight, but I’m not actively sobbing, so that’s good news.
“I can tell you what’s in it if that helps.”
I swallow. “I need to see it myself. But it might take some time.”
Jarron nods. I sniff back my tears, which, to my horror, cover my cheeks and run down to my nose. I wipe away what I can.
I knew it would be hard to see, but I didn’t expect it to come on that quickly or intensely.
“You looked through it already?” I ask, holding the folder up. I remind myself that this is why I’m here. And I refocus on the demon in front of me. There’s still a chance he is the one that did this. I can’t let my guard down. I need to believe it’s possible or I run the risk of falling into the same trap as Elizabeth.
“Yes,” he says calmly.
“Did you find anything interesting?”
Jarron slides down from the bed to sit on the cold stone floor. He holds out his hand, requesting the folder but not taking it. “May I?” His voice is so gentle I nearly shiver. I hand him the folder.
He carefully thumbs through the stack of papers inside the cursed folder, holding the information about my sister’s death, then he pulls out one single slip and hands it to me.
I sniff again and then take the report. There’s a date and a few signatures.
“Toxicology report,” he tells me.
Breathing still comes with difficulty, but I try to force my brain to obey. Finally, I find the words.
Present in blood: Atropine; Residual sortilege.
“What does it mean?” I ask. Though I have a base understanding of the words—atropine is a toxin that can cause hallucinations, and sortilege is just a word for physical evidence of magic—I don’t have any context for what it could mean. The residue could mean a glamor or influence, but I couldn’t say exactly how.
“Because her body was found over a week after her death, it’s hard to say. The residue was slight, just enough to know something happened. It could have been as small as a magical barrier, like the ones we pass here daily.”
“But then, wouldn’t the trace have been gone entirely after a week if it were such a small source?”
“Theoretically, yes. So, we can assume a larger amount of magic was used on her, but it’s still very vague. There’s more though.”
I swallow. “Just tell me.”
He pulls out another sheet of paper but then hesitates. “It’s a picture, but she’s not in it.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
He hands me the image of a forest. There are scorch marks all over the ground, chunks missing from trees, dirt and rocks everywhere, as well as splatters of red.
I frown.What the hell happened there?
He hands me another image.
A small card among the rubble, similar to a tarot card, but it’s a character I’ve never seen. It’s a genie? A scary-looking, purple being with golden cuffs and middle eastern style dress.
“What’s this?”
“I wasn’t sure at first, but I’ve done a little bit of digging, and it turns out it’s a calling card of sorts.”
“Calling card?”
