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“Freeze.”
My low order halted Holmes barely one step into the sitting room, and I leaned forward just far enough to tug his jacket. A glance asked why I had stopped him even as he joined me in backing away from the sitting room, but my own silent negative prevented him from speaking aloud. Only once he stood behind me and several feet from the doorway did I start digging for the amulet that had flared as I reached the landing.
Not that I needed the amulet to know that something was wrong. The sharp sense of danger radiating from the room suggested a magical trap in the making, and entering could spring that trap if we were not careful. The bright red of warning washed the room as Nicolas’ gift shifted from alerting me to the problem to protecting us from and guiding us to the source. The pulsing alert changed to a flickering glow when I aimed the middle gem toward the fire Mrs. Hudson had laid earlier. A signal put Holmes behind me, ready to pull me back if I overstepped, and I crept through the door.
Danger and filth grew stronger with every step, oozing through the air and creeping across the floorboards with a malignance that made me wonder how anyone could miss the curse’s existence. Whispers started five feet from the door, too low to understand but clearly tempting us closer, and shadows danced each time the amulet aimed at the source. Holmes’ grip abruptly tightened when a patch of darkness reached for his leg, but our slow progress encountered nothing overtly threatening as we passed one of my shelves, my desk, and the stack of case files Holmes had left on the floor. The steadying flicker returned to a pulsing light when I passed my second shelf, making me double back, and a few seconds’ experimentation finally narrowed the cause to the decrepit book I had purchased at a secondhand sale a couple of months ago. Supposedly a mild adventure tale of a family lost at sea, the pages within had detailed a revolting ritual meant to either bring back the dead or kill hundreds in one go. I had found the book so disgusting that I had resolved to burn it instead of selling it, shoved it to the back of my shelf to wait for winter, and forgotten about it until now. An imp must have set a time-delayed curse on the pages. If we had been in the room when the curse activated…
No. I could mitigate possible what-ifs later. First, we had to destroy the cursed book in the sitting room. While I knew better than to touch a cursed item, the urge to open the cover increased by the second. Two large steps back put us both out of immediate range.
The amulet would have changed from the solid red light if it could do something. The rest of my shelf held only more books. I would not risk the curse transferring on contact, and a novel would hardly help me negate the problem. I could not do magic myself, nor could Holmes. How should I break this?
“When in doubt, kill it with fire.”
Nicolas’ laughing tone wound through my mind, along with the rest of that particular lesson. I had asked what I should do if Holmes or I accidentally acquired a cursed item, and his answer had encompassed everything from leaving it near a portal to how to reach the nearest lutin—and that hot flames destroyed most curses. I should probably evacuate our flat and our neighbors’ and let a magical handle it.
But Mrs. Hudson had lit a good, strong fire for us, and I saw no reason to ask for help when I could fix this myself. I started looking for something I could use to retrieve the filthy pages from my shelf. Mrs. Hudson would have tongs in the kitchen, or—
“Here.” Holmes’ low murmur caught my attention before I could start digging through my bag, and I slung the amulet’s chain around my neck before taking the test tube holder he offered. With him refusing to release the back of my jacket, we edged forward once more until the test tube holder pulled the cursed thing away from my novels. When a glance confirmed Holmes out of my way, I tossed the book directly into the middle of the fire.
“What—”
Which was apparently the last thing Holmes expected me to do. Utter shock appeared even as he let me shove him back onto the landing, though understanding bloomed a moment later when bound pages gave a deafening scream. Loud and lasting several seconds, Holmes and I backed all the way into his bedroom before it ended, and I distinctly heard the back door slam behind Mrs. Hudson. Only when silence reigned for a solid count of ten did I cautiously reenter the sitting room.
And lunge for the fireplace. The pitcher Holmes had left on the side table quickly doused the embers spraying the carpet, and pulling the grate into place kept any more from escaping the hearth. Several seconds’ search confirmed that book completely destroyed—and the amulet back to its typical swirl of color—before I turned to find Holmes still lingering just behind me. A wariness based on ignorance remained in his posture, but surprise became wry humor before I could check him for curse damage.
“No one will ever believe that you burned a book.”
I made no effort to halt a laugh.