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... teriorated tavern floor becoming a nightingale beneath the residence, ensnaring anyone who stepped inside within earshot of the boss.

A faint musty odor lingered in the air, but it was completely overpowered by a heavier, thicker mix of alcohol and sweat. This, combined with the scent of wet earth, created a rather distinct and unusual smell that was difficult to discern unless one had an exceptionally keen sense of smell.

“The weather’s getting more and more oppressive.”

...

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“Now… where should I put you both?” he asked casually, not expecting a reply. “It’s regretful that I only have one chandelier.”

“Underneath my bed? No, no, too dirty. My dust bunnies don’t deserve this,” Atticus mused to himself. “The mantlepiece? How about the vanity table? I suppose if I lop off one of your heads I could mount it over… Wife, which head do you want to stare at while you do your hair?”

“Atticus!” Daphne screamed. “I don’t want any heads! Let them go.”

“Fair enough.” Atticus shrugged, and flicked his fingers.

There were two identical cracks as both necks snapped at once.

Daphne gasped, horrified. This man, her husband, had just killed two men with a flick of his finger, as though he was snuffing out candles.

“I told you to let them go!” Daphne cried out.

“Yes, I let them go,” Atticus said. Then, his eyes darkened. “To receive divine judgment from the heavens.”

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