The door is about seven feet tall, made of metal, and looks thick even without being opened. The light of Zeke's magic makes it gleam with hundreds of glyphs that were scratched into the surface in a pattern that, if I look from the corner of my eyes, takes the shape of bigger, and more ominous, symbols. Neither are in a language I recognize, or in a language I want to recognize. The door, or what hides behind it, makes me feel an itch under my skin.
There's no door handle, only a keyhole—a small round hole I don't notice at first. I want to lean closer and peek inside, but the thought leaves as quickly as it came. No need to be a scholar of the occult to guess that touching this door without proper protection will end badly for me.
"What now?" I ask Zeke. My lips pinch into a hard line. "The cultists' boss should have the key… That's Hank. But I assume since you let me come here, you can break in."
