The Pale Shadows
Chapter One The wind off the Strait of Magellan did not blow; it hammered, stripping the bark from the pines and rattling the glass in the distillery windows until the whole building hummed a low, broken note. Fernando Beltrán stood in the staff canteen, the air heavy with wet wool and stale beer, watching the dust motes swirl in the beam of a single, flickering bulb. He was twenty-four, his...
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