The Pale Altar
The rain slicks the cobblestones of the St. Jude’s courtyard, turning the grey afternoon into a mirror of broken light, and Elias Thorne’s fingers are white-knuckled around the silver pocket watch, the metal warm and pulsing against his palm as if it holds a fever. He is forty-two, a man whose life has been reduced to the precise cataloging of other people’s sins, and he stands there with the...
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