and stored the various incense, oils, talismans, and charms she sold out front.

“You smell that?”

Sigmund tapped his foot against the paddle on the trash can and gagged when the open top released the odor of perishable food left out for several hot days. 

“Fuck. Yeah, I smell that.”

“No, not that.”

The opening of the lid added another level of stench but a different odor than what lurked inside the stainless steel can assaulted my nose. The stench made me wish I had gold or iron rounds in my clip instead of the hollow points. The stink of sulfur and decay of flesh, or maybe of the soul. The connection hadn’t been made last night but the harpies carried the same gag inducing smell.

“Something… else.” ...

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