The Golden Oath
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Center for Paranormal Regulation was not a place for feasting, but for judgment, and Elias Thorne stood at the center of the long oak table like a man awaiting execution. The room smelled of polished wood and cold coffee, a sterile scent that did nothing to mask the metallic tang of the static rising in his throat. He was forty-two, though he looked fifty, his...
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