Only…they wouldn’t see it coming, because they
didn’t have a clue what it was.
Squatting by Joe’s body, Dagan reached inside the
gaping chest and waited. The darksoul came to him, so
cold it burned. It writhed and twined up around his
forearm like a wet, slimy worm, then down again, only
to dissipate into a greasy haze and ooze up, up, until it
hovered just above his shoulder.
Absently, he yanked it free of its mortal tether and
collared it with a band of fire. Then he rifled through
Joe’s pockets. A handful of change. A stick of gum. A
wallet. He went through that. Credit cards. ID. A
couple of twenties. An emergency contact card with a
name scrawled in red pen.Frank Marin.So maybe the
brother wasn’t overseas. Dagan tucked that card in his
pocket. It was worth checking out.
The last card caught Dagan’s attention. Expensive
cream-colored paper. Burgundy ink so dark it looked
black. No name. No logo. Just an address. In Toronto.
And folded up behind the card, a receipt for parking in
a lot on College Street. Also in Toronto.
“That’s the day before Lokan was killed,” Alastor
said, reading the stub over his shoulder.
Dagan nodded, and he passed the wallet and its
contents to his brother.
“You need to see this, too.” Alastor held out a short
stack of photographs. Dagan flipped through them.
They showed human torsos, denuded of skin.
Just like Lokan.
Silently, he handed them back to Alastor and turned
