The door to Saluki's chamber shut behind Leon with the quiet click of a trap resetting itself. The air outside felt cleaner, though it was only an illusion—here, the walls themselves seemed steeped in the smell of incense, cheap wine, and something that could have been gold dust or skin cells.
He had the bitter aftertaste of the pill still in his mouth. Not the immediate burn—that had passed, leaving only a metallic tang that reminded him faintly of biting down on a coin as a child. The inscription on the Finger of God had lodged itself somewhere deep in his thoughts, like an echo that refused to fade.
The Year of the Dog has begun. It is Now.
It was the kind of statement that didn't give you time to prepare, didn't suggest that you had months or even weeks to make plans. It was an announcement and an ultimatum rolled into one. And Leon hated ultimatums.
