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It was cold. But I knew the cold — I had been baptized by it. And the darkness. And the First. I could handle the cold.

But wait….  I wasn’t me. I was dreaming.

I was Darrow.

His voice slithered out of the nothingness as soon as I had the realization.

“Grant me your strength, grant me — fervor…. Oh, supreme. Grant me….”

The sound faded in and out. I didn’t catch everything he said. He chanted breathlessly and grunted like every word was a chore, like he had to exert great effort to choke out each syllable.


What was he doing? Where was he? Who was he talking to? I could see nothing in the darkness.


He hissed. The breath was sharp in his lungs. He tasted blood. And salt. He was cold as ice but covered in sweat.


“Oh — supreme.” Another hiss. “Grant me your fortitude. Grant me your fervor.”


Ms. Bellamy?”


Cold. Salt. Blood.


Then pain. Small, but burning. Constant. Building.


Something clicked into place.


Triumph. A laugh in this cold, bitter place.


“Thank you, oh thank you.”


And then the pain exploded.

Want to know what happens? Check it out on Amazon
Gargoyles of Craven, Book Three
Released: December 8
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