Book Four: Chapter 6

Near the center of the village stood a small hut, squat and round, its walls darkened by soot and age. A thin plume of gray smoke curled lazily from the chimney, dispersing into the humid air above. Even before Mike got close, the smell hit him like a wall. It was sharp, medicinal, and oddly sweet all at once, as if someone had emptied the contents of a fully stocked medicine cabinet directly into a bubbling hot spring and let it stew.

He wrinkled his nose instinctively as Leo led him closer. The scent clung to the back of his throat, bitter enough that he could almost taste it. Whatever they were brewing inside, it was powerful—and deeply unpleasant.

“God,” Mike muttered under his breath, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “What is that?”

Leo chuckled, slowing to a stop in front of the hut. “The shaman says it is progress,” he replied lightly, cle