Shaken by the mutant horror that the scholar had become, Tiren felt her way out of the library with the aid of the swordlight. It was the kind of sword that would certainly have a name, but with no way of knowing what that was she simply thought of it as the sword.
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The candle was looking low, its light dimming or at least seeming to dim to Tiren’s eyes. Her feet were sore from traversing the seemingly never-changing expanse of the black labyrinth with not so much as a thread to guide her way.
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After a restless night’s sleep Tiren woke with a burning pain in her leg. Her wraithlike dreams still swirling about her head she pushed herself up on her elbows and tried to make out anything in the darkness. She was sure she had seen windows last night coming up to her hard unyielding bunk.
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A cold sun hung in a sky the colour of ice, shining through a chilly fog that penetrated to the very bone. The boot-tilled mud of the track, normally only slightly more solid than the river, was frozen hard. The birds were silent. Only the wind blew and brought the whispering rush of leaves, or else it would have been quiet as death.
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The moon was white, high above the dockland warehouse where Franco conducted his business. He furrowed his neat brow and glared at the numbers in front of him. Try as he might, he couldn’t make them work for him.
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When they hit the motorway he eased off his white-knuckle grip, glancing at the clock. “Goddammit. Goddammit. If you want to come so bad, you can come with us. It won’t be a joyride, though. Got it?”
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The sickly yellow car turned left into a garage and disappeared from view, and Tomas thumped the dashboard.
“There we are, we got him!” he crowed. “Let’s go!”
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The whole precinct had turned crimson, as the first sign. As the second sign, the whole thing shuddered as if a train had crashed into the front door. It wasn’t a train. It was only a bomb.
The dark-gold nectar poured slow, like syrup, but didn’t smell like anything Folie had ever smelled before. She swished it in the old glass and looked through it at the bartender, bent out of shape by the light’s sudden deceleration in the thick liquid.
He flipped open the cylinder of his Coca-Cola Magnum .44. Two shots left. Goddammit. He would have to make them count. Concrete spat from the wall by his head as a fresh hail of bullets came his way.
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