The Wistful Incense
The knife did not feel like steel in Thomas’s hand, but like a heavy, warm bone, vibrating with a frequency that hummed in the marrow of his wrist and climbed, insistent and cold, up the length of his arm to settle in the hollow of his throat where the voice usually lived. He was standing in the nave of St. Jude’s, the air thick with the cloying, resinous scent of myrrh and the wet, metallic...
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