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Patient ZeroThe clinic in Mill Creek didn't have a sign. It had a door, a light above the door, and a chair outside that was mostly used by raccoons. Ray Kowalski didn't mind. Signs attracted the wrong kind of attention. He was forty-two and had been a doctor once. Not here. Elsewhere. A real hospital with real equipment and real malpractice insurance. Then came the incident—a patient who died on his...0 Comments 0 Shares 36 Views 0 Reviews
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The Amber ScalpelThe fire in Edinburgh did not roar. It whispered. Dr. Alistair Finch remembered the laboratory—the glassware, the chemical cabinets, the strange artifact he had acquired from an estate sale in County Durham. It was a wooden box, amber-hued, carved with symbols he could not read. He had opened it out of curiosity. The symbols had glowed. Then the fire came—not the kind that spreads, but the kind...0 Comments 0 Shares 41 Views 0 Reviews
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The Femme in RedThe rain in Los Angeles doesn't fall the way it falls in other cities. It doesn't fall at all, not really — it hangs in the air like a question mark, a fine mist that gets in your shoes and your collar and your coffee and stays there until you forget what dry feels like. It was a Tuesday in March when Vivian Cross walked into my office. The rain was doing that thing — hanging, not falling — and...0 Comments 0 Shares 45 Views 0 Reviews
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The Empire's BeastArthur Hastings III sat in the archive room of the East India Company's London headquarters and read a report that would have destroyed him if he had believed in destruction. The report was from a district collector in Bengal, dated 1879. It described a village of three hundred souls that had been driven to starvation by a tax policy Arthur's own department had designed. The collector wrote:...0 Comments 0 Shares 39 Views 0 Reviews
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The Leviathan's Ticket## Act I The fog came in off the North Sea like a living thing, thick and yellow and smelling of salt and decay. Eleanor Blackwood pulled her shawl tighter against her collarbone and stared at the black water churning against the Yorkshire cliffs. Three days. Three days since the merchant vessel she had been traveling on struck something unseen beneath the waves and vanished beneath the...0 Comments 0 Shares 67 Views 0 Reviews
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The Frequency Between UsThe Frequency Between Us The first letter arrived on a Tuesday in November, tucked between a complaint about static on channel four and a request for a song dedication. It was written on the back of a receipt from a diner on 14th Street, in a neat, careful hand that suggested someone who wrote things down because he needed to remember them. Your voice makes the dark less dense. I know that...0 Comments 0 Shares 34 Views 0 Reviews
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The Sword at BlackmoorAct I: The Call The fog came in off the moors like a slow tide, swallowing the stone walls of Blackmoor Manor whole. Edmund Ashworth stood at the window of his father's study and watched it move, his reflection ghosting against the glass. At twenty-two, he had inherited his father's sharp features and his mother's stubborn jaw, and neither had prepared him for what waited ahead. Three days....0 Comments 0 Shares 35 Views 0 Reviews
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The Mirror of Saint's KeepThe portrait was not of me. But it was, somehow, the only portrait of me that mattered. I found it in the west gallery of Ashcroft House on the morning of my twenty-first birthday. The gallery was a long room lined with the portraits of my ancestors—stern-faced men in powdered wigs and women in silk dresses who looked at the viewer with the distant expression of people who had never been...0 Comments 0 Shares 57 Views 0 Reviews
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The Poison of MayfairThe fog that night was the colour of a bruise. It pressed against the windows of Arthur Pemberton's lodging in Whitechapel like a living thing, muffling the cobblestones, swallowing the sound of the night watchman's bell. Arthur sat at his small desk, a candle guttering beside him, his fingers stained with iodine and carbolic acid. He was reading a letter he had received three nights ago, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 25 Views 0 Reviews
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