Yashakiden: The Demon Princess, Volume 2 by Hideyuki Kikuchi

wasn’t fully conscious of drifted by his nose. His senses would have detected any lethal compounds. It didn’t because the odor itself contained nothing harmful.
    Like the pheromones secreted by a bitch in heat, the purpose of the scent was to attract the male, in this case to lure Setsura into the house. And unlike an alley cat, this odor possessed a kind of living beauty.
    On the front porch, Setsura briefly glanced around before pressing the intercom button. Nobody answered. A knock had the same result. He put his hand on the doorknob and turned. The cold sensation he received surely came from the metal doorknob. The door easily opened.
    â€œHello?” Setsura called out, stepping onto the concrete pad of the genkon .
    None of the lights were on. Because the man didn’t have a phone, Setsura hadn’t been able to do anything in advance other than confirm the address.
    A long moment passed. A human figure emerged out of the darkness and hurried down the hallway. An old man bent over from osteoporosis, walking with clumsy, labored steps.
    Something’s wrong here , a warning whispered down in the pit of Setsura’s stomach. This old man—
    A face—exactly the same as in the photo Toya had emailed him—glared at him and said in a demanding voice, “What?”
    Setsura nodded politely and held out a business card. “Professor Niwa?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI wanted to ask you some questions about your field of academic expertise.”
    Without a glance at the card, Professor Niwa turned around. He trudged back the way he came, his hands clasped behind his back.
    â€œJust a minute—”
    â€œFollow me,” the old man bluntly instructed him.
    Setsura reached behind him and closed the door, and stepped up from the genkon .
    The old man passed through the door he’d exited from a minute ago. Setsura trailed behind him. He felt an odd sensation coming up from the floor through the soles of his feet. A close look revealed nothing unusual.
    Every inch of the approximately twelve-foot square, Japanese-style room with a tatami mat floor was strewn with clutter. The interior decor consisted of a musty set of living room furniture, an overhead light fixture and dust. The plaster walls were lined with a spider’s web of cracks and actual spider webs.
    The only thing that seemed out of place was the sweet smell. Though Setsura had noticed it by now, it was not enough to prompt him to leave.
    â€œPlease have a seat.” The old man settled into the sofa and motioned Setsura to a chair.
    â€œPardon me,” said Setsura, sitting down. His butt sank into the soft cushions.
    â€œWhat pressing matter did you need to see me about?”
    â€œAmong your various fields of expertise, would you happen to know anything about the black art of containing and sealing one world inside another?”
    â€œI believe so,” the professor promptly answered. “However, that is something I do not speak about. And now that you’ve asked, you shan’t be leaving here either.”
    â€œOh?” Setsura flashed a thin smile.
    The old man spoke in a dry, raspy whisper. “A curious Chinese gentlemen dropped by and did some remodeling. I took the opportunity to add some of my own renovations. Like this—”
    He poked himself in the left eye with his index finger. The finger sank all the way in. Without so much as a twitch, he pulled it out. The eyeball between his fingers glared at Setsura. At the same time, fluid poured from the eye socket like black crude gushing from an oil well.
    The sweetly acidic smell quickly filled the room. Setsura made for the door.
    The faint scent of this odor was the same scent that hung around the outside of the house as well. Its composition aside, a sudden slackening in the sensation coming up through his feet brought its purpose to his attention.
    It wasn’t so much like concrete turning to quicksand as cold mud