The Pale Altar
The glass vial is cold against the palm, a weight of five ounces and four pence, its amber contents swirling with a viscosity that defies the season. You hold it up to the slanted light of the laboratory window, where the November sleet has turned the sky the color of wet slate, and you watch the liquid cling to the glass in a film that suggests grease, or perhaps something far worse. This is...
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