A Grimoire Dark by D.S. Quinton

Author:D.S. Quinton [Quinton, D.S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: D.S. Quinton

Chapter 36

Henri Guillaume waved away the cobwebs that hung from the foyer ceiling and walked into the house at 113 Bayou Rd. Dropping his coat onto the chair that had sat there since before he was a boy, a small cloud of ancient dust swirled, announcing the latest four-legged inhabitants.

“Rats,” he said as his nose flared, collecting dust mite samples. He scratched at his neck and the side of his face. The cobwebs and dust were irritating his skin.

He walked straight to the kitchen without turning on a light. Even though this wasn’t his regular home, he knew it by heart. This wasn’t the home that people would expect Henri to occupy, with his family’s wealth and his upbringing. This was an old house, years past its condemnation date; a shack to some, an eyesore; a place of worship to others. Somehow Frank had found the two brothers in this house. What a coincidence—the entire police force looking for the Glapions and Frank finds them almost in plain sight.

He sat at the old wooden table and lit an oil lamp. He liked the feel of the dark, the void of possibility, the heavy weight of nothingness. Standing alone against the darkness, one small flame flickered its essence, a tiny, hypnotic wave of light and hope. Although just a small flame, within it lay the power to do terrible damage; great things could be undone by a single flame. There was always a flicker of hope, wasn’t there? Something, someone, that stood out as a beacon. A poor lost soul that defies the odds; an orphan. Was she the tiny flame to be feared above all others? He would think on this.

Removing several files from a large satchel, he set them on the old kitchen table, vaguely aware of his visitors. He smelled them long before he heard them. Their musky essence—wet and moldering—lay a heavy scent on the dusty air.

Whiskers twitching, eyes aglow, the rats of Bayou Road and the surrounding wetlands skittered cautiously into the basement and eaves of the old house. Their long, dirty nails scratched a familiar sound into the walls, like the comforting creaks of well-worn boards.

He opened the files in front of him and turned each page with precision and care. He was always cautious of things he read for the first time. He knew to read them with one eye or the other, and to never read them out loud. Reading with one eye or the other, but not both, kept him from reading into a phrase unexpectedly. One eye comprehended while the other watched on in caution, a silent sentinel always looking ahead, skimming fragments, but never completing. Once the brain was trained for such a task, it was surprisingly easy to do, and he quite forgot it was something he had to learn as a small child.

Frang, what are you hiding? He had always been a good cop, a good detective. He had even mentored Henri in his early days, so why

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