Chapter 18 · Orin Doesn't Take Cash

The hand was still in Marcus's jacket pocket when he found the waystation door. It twitched every few minutes like it was dreaming. He'd tried leaving it behind twice already. First time, it crawled after him. Second time, his own hand went numb until he picked the damn thing back up. So now they were together, him and someone's severed left hand, looking for a merchant who traded in things that shouldn't exist.

The door wasn't on any map. It was just there, wedged between a pawnshop and a shuttered bodega, painted the kind of flat gray that made your eyes slide right past it. No sign. No hours posted. Marcus checked the back of his palm where the hand had written in water. The letters were gone but he still remembered. Orin.

He pushed the door open. A bell chimed, ordinary and bright, nothing like the drowned bell that had rung when the hand finished writing. The space inside didn't match the door. It stretched back farther than the block should allow, narrow and deep, lined with shelves that climbed into shadow.