Inglemouth was a city with a gold star in history and an F minus minus in geography. Venture too far down its statue-lined streets and you might find yourself lost in a tangle of alleys, or snared in a pocket dimension, most likely both, and oh god the statues were following you, fuck fuck fuck.
Inglemouth library was deathly quiet. Par for the course librarily speaking, but in Inglemouth a sinister adjective was always worth noting.
Yves flinched as he opened another book. Usually only Atran grimoires contained spirits, but when you'd died more times than you could count on your fingers, you took the hint and started being careful. Besides, nobody could accuse Yves of being a lucky man.
He hissed as he uncovered his client's name exactly where he'd hoped he wouldn't. A registered homunculus, and she didn't even know. He was certain of one thing, at least – he'd been set up.
Holly Reiff regretted everything. A comprehensive catalogue of everything