The Wraith-Fire
The last thing my father said was a joke about the basketball. The last thing my mother said was my name. Then the wall glowed red, and they were gone. It was my fourteenth birthday. The rain had been falling since afternoon, steady and heavy, the kind of London rain that makes the gas lamps sputter and die in the middle of the day. We had just come in from the garden where I had been playing...
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