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Arthur Windsor did not sleep so much as he surrendered—surrendered, that is, to whatever force or madness or chemical imbalance had taken up residence in the space behind his eyes and made it its permanent address.
At twenty-eight, he was a gentleman of a declining aristocratic family, which in Victorian...
The Whitmore Dispatch
The jazz from below was too loud for a man who needed to think.
Thomas Whitmore sat at his desk...
The Void Architect
The world was not made of matter, but of geometry. Sarah lived in the Third Octave, a realm of...
The Parasite's Waltz
The Manor of Blackwood did not sit upon the land; it seemed to grow from it, a twisted mass of...
The Man Who Sold Nothing
ACT ONE: THE RECRUITMENT
The rain in Chicago doesn't wash anything clean. It just makes the dirt...