The Pale Altar
The left hand was the problem. It had been for three days now, ever since Arthur Vane had woken up with the skin of his palm stretched tight as cured leather, the veins beneath running dark and pulsing in a rhythm that did not quite match his own heartbeat. He sat at the workbench in the back room of the shop, the air thick with the smell of varnish and old wood, and he stared at it. The hand...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior