The hourglass mark burned beneath Thomas Blackwood's skin like a coal wrapped in silk.
London, November 1888. The fog pressed against the windows of Newgate Prison like a living thing, thick and yellow and smelling of coal smoke and the Thames. Thomas sat on his narrow cot and watched the silver mark pulse on his forearm, counting down the hours until midnight when the curse would claim another piece of him. Four generations of Blackwood men had died before thirty. His...
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