Qebhet could taste it in the air, as surely as Hecate did: death, sharp and coppery and terribly fresh, and her heart clenched for what they might find inside. Violent and recent. Oh so very recent.
But— not Luna. Hecuba's certainty on that point brought a momentary swell of relief, before Qebhet stopped to consider what it might mean, that Luna was in this house, where only hours ago – quite possibly less – a person had been murdered.
She clung tight to be bag of medicaments that she hoped she wouldn't need as she followed Hecuba into the house.