"That is because the magic has some form of sensory boundary around it. It is very subtle." He motioned toward the closet. "And comes from there."
I studied the double doorway somewhat dubiously, then pushed my feet into motion. The closet turned out to be another room—one as big as my bedroom and filled with enough designer shoes and clothes to make even Aunt Riley's heart sing. One side held feminine things, the other male, and in the middle stood several long, intricately carved Chinese sideboards. Now that we were close, the magic within them was easy enough to feel. It radiated from the drawers and cupboards in gentle waves, caressing my skin with an electricity that felt as dark and as dangerous as the stones in the greenhouse below.
I stopped and rubbed my arms. "Wonder what these things hold."
"The accoutrements of a dark sorcerer, from the feel of it. I would suggest you do not attempt to view them."
"There's not a chance in hell of me doing that." Even if part of me wanted to.
I swung away from the troubling source of magic, donned my gloves again, and went through the clothes, trying to find some clue as to the identity of their owners. Interestingly, all the male clothing—while exquisitely made—tended to be rather old-fashioned in design. If it weren't for the modern labels, it would have been easy to believe they belonged to a time when breeches and waistcoats were all the rage. In fact, they were the sort of clothes Jane Austen's men would have been perfectly at home in.
But again, there was nothing—not even a scrap of paper in pockets—to suggest that the clothes had ever been worn. It was as if we were dealing with a ghost.
But while a ghost could certainly haunt this place, one couldn't actually own it.
Frowning, I spun around and checked the other bedrooms. The result was, as I'd expected, more big fat zeros.
We headed downstairs. The kitchen was all shiny black and fitted out with silver appliances, and while the result was pretty spectacular, all I could envisage was the multitude of fingerprints and dust that would show unless you were vigilant about cleaning. Which whoever owned this place obviously was, because there wasn't a speck to be seen.
Thankful I hadn't ditched the gloves at the warehouse, I carefully opened the drawers and cupboards. All of them contained the usual kitchen paraphernalia, and all of them were as neat as the rest of the house.
"Whoever lives here doesn't seem to agree with your philosophy when it comes to storing things," Azriel commented.
I glanced at him as I moved over to the pantry. He stood in the middle of the oversized living area, arms crossed and expression wary. Like he expected something to jump out at us at any minute—and things certainly had during past investigations of places where we weren't supposed to be.
"And what philosophy would that be?" I said, opening the pantry door.
"To dump items wherever and worry about finding them again later."