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The Wistful MirrorThe furnace was set to a temperature that would melt bone, and Elias Thorne knew it with the same certainty he knew the price of a loaf of bread, which was that he had no bread, and no coin, and only three days before the Guild of Glass would decide if his workshop in Oakhaven was to be shuttered or granted the permanent commission that would save his life. He stood before the cold, dark mirror...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe dream was always the same: a bridge of pale, translucent bone spanning a chasm so deep the bottom was lost in white fog, and Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old and actuary at a firm in Chicago, standing on the edge with his hands shaking, feeling the wood beneath his feet give way not to rot, but to a sudden, cold indifference. He woke on a Tuesday morning, the rain hammering against the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridThe glass trembled in Elias Thorne’s hand, the wine sloshing against the rim in a thin, erratic line. He set it down on the mahogany table with a soft, definitive click, the sound sharp in the quiet dining room of the frontier outpost. Judge Halloway smiled, a gesture that did not reach the cold, gray depths of his eyes. "Your loyalty, Elias, is a rare commodity out here," Halloway said, his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ProtocolThe brass button was cold against Elias Thorne’s thumb, a small, hard disc of authority that felt less like metal and more like a frozen tear. He turned it over, watching the light catch the engraved lion, before sliding the discarded uniform into his pack. It was a strange thing, finding one’s own clothes on a stranger, but the mist in the trench made all things strange, blurring the edges of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownThe mug was heavy, a thick slab of cream-colored ceramic that my mentor, Arthur, had bought in a flea market in 1998 for four dollars, a sum he claimed was a bargain because the glaze was uneven and the handle had a hairline fracture running through the base. I held it with both hands, the heat seeping into my palms, feeling the weight of it as a counterbalance to the lightness of my own...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsThe timber fell not with a crash but with a wet, tearing sound that seemed to come from inside my own chest, and before I could even register the white-hot spike of agony, my father was already screaming at me to move. I was twelve years old, standing in the black mud of the hollow where the creek ran brown and thick, my left hand hanging by a thread of skin and splintered bone, the blood...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded DustThe rotunda of the Van Helsing estate smelled of stale wax and old money. You stood there, twelve years old, your small hands gripping the railing of the balcony, feeling the vibration in your teeth before you heard the sound. It was a low thrum, a localized pressure that sat heavy in the air, visible only as a slight distortion in the gilded light. Silas, the butler, stood a few paces away,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MasterThe fog was thick, tasting of copper and old pennies. Elias Thorne stood at the window of his cell, watching the grey sludge creep up the brickwork of the constabulary station. His left hand, the one that had been his for thirty-four years, now looked less like flesh and more like a rusted hinge. The skin was pulled tight over something that ticked. He flexed the fingers. They did not move with...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe ring is not in your pocket, Constable." I looked up from the ledger, the ink still wet on the page, the smell of iron filings and old dust thick in the air of the archive. Justiciar Thorne stood in the doorway, his backlit by the grey fog that always seemed to cling to the lower levels of the court. He did not enter. He simply watched me, his eyes flat and hard as flint. "It was in my...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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