The Pale Dance
Chapter One "You’re late again, Dieudonne." The voice came from the shadows of the coffee house back room, low and wet with tobacco smoke. I did not look up from the bet book of the defunct club lying on the table, its pages soft as wet cloth, its ink faded to the color of dried blood. The knife sharpener’s bell outside was ringing, a thin, metallic cry that cut through the heavy air of the...
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