Bordello Dolls by Ellen Ashe Page A

cobbled pavement. A shadow distorted the light for a mere second. Someone moved about inside, perhaps as frustrated with the heat as she. It was far too late for any merchant to be open for business. Curiosity pulled her along the alleyway, closer to the yellow glow and the hope of another fresh breeze against her flesh.
    She stepped into the light.
    Certainly it was a shop. Trinkets, ornaments, crockery, and books precariously cluttered the shelves. Photographs, postcards, and paintings filled the walls. Antiques. The musty damp smells confirmed the age of these artefacts. And the waft of incense—sandalwood, she recognised—hung heavy in the thick air. The sweet odour hinted at a devilish mystique, that those who walked an impish course might have more of a longing to explore this solitary shop than the righteous would.
    Scarlet was neither, so for the time being she stood on the threshold, neither inside nor out.
    “Good evening.”
    The shopkeeper appeared swiftly from a backroom, the beaded door clacking as he moved through. He smiled briefly in her direction before turning his focus to a stack of papers he placed on the glass counter. The aisle between them was clear, and for some reason she was compelled to follow along and draw closer to him. The counter was the barrier between them, and she placed her palms upon it, without considering this might be rude.
    He peered up at her without lifting his head, that icy school teacher stare, a silent reprimand. She took her hands off the counter and wiped them down the sides of her dress. If she hadn’t, she felt that he might have been tempted to rap her knuckles to teach her a lesson in etiquette.
    The air inside the shop was tepid. Even so she shivered.
    “Something I can help you with?” he asked quietly. She noticed he hadn’t blinked. Not once.
    “May I look around? I mean, you are open, aren’t you?”
    He nodded, the side of his mouth pinching into a half-smirk. Then he returned rapt attention to his papers.
    From behind a shelf, Scarlet secretly studied him, reaching out with her senses. She couldn’t get a feel for him. She perceived he had no history, that his very existence was superficial, shallow, an echo. She couldn’t draw on any essence to predict his future because he would always remain the same. This feeling was unprecedented, and it left her feeling unnerved. Had she discovered a Master Predator? One who could cloak his being, one who followed the quiet storms, feeding on the frightened, the innocent and the unwary? The one who would vanish as rain evaporates in the midday sun?
    Scarlet gave herself a shake. Of late, she’d worried that her physic abilities had lessened. At the moment, she felt those abilities had abandoned her completely.
    Still, all men had history. Even those she couldn’t read. To coax her physic ability to function, she concentrated on his appearance.
    She was no master at guessing age. His physique—wide shoulders, strong arms, thick chest—was that of a powerful youth. Pitch black hair swept back from a high forehead and was flecked with grey, which could denote middle age. Could, but not always. No, the indicator that a decade must be added to the physique was his face. That stern forehead was creased. So, too, were his cheeks. Thin lines were evident on his mouth and in the corners of his eyes. Under his ears. He had to be nearing fifty.
    This was odd.
    Twenty years her senior was a conservative estimate and yet, despite her wariness of older men, she felt a sharp stab of arousal.
    Then it struck her as harshly as any physical slap—his was an ancient soul and he courted the knowledge of the dark arts! Deep, dangerous, occultist secrets! Her Guide spoke within her mind, The darkness within him is ageless.
    She looked away. It was as though time, and all its measurements, meant absolutely nothing here. Between the heat, the sweetly saturated air, and the heavy drumming silence, Scarlet was losing her grasp on her own