The Pale Path
The fog was thick, tasting of sulfur and wet wool, when I saw the man running toward the alley off Slaughter Lane. I had been on the beat for nine hours, my legs heavy with the cold, and the gas lamps along the cobblestones were flickering with a rhythm that felt less like wind and more like a pulse. I adjusted the strap of my truncheon, the leather slick against my palm, and moved to...
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