the smuggler’s bible

Dorian

The doorjamb is brittle and splits with a sharp crack under the prybar. Inside, the foyer is silent. Motes of dust float through the last red rays of sunlight that filter in through smudged windows.

Dorian takes a step inside, pauses a moment to listen, then turns and props the door shut as best he can. He reaches into a coat pocket and pulls out a small pouch, from which he sprinkles a thin line of salt onto the floor in front of the threshold.

“Oh, come now,” a voice hisses from the shadows. “Play fair. For old times’ sake.”