There was nothing but a mass of scar tissue where Chanterelle’s eyes had been. She would smear it with a bright color by touch, so that the area looked like a bright splotch of paint, a dribbling of wax, that a good clean might sweep away.

It wouldn’t.

Suid’s antique shop had a steady clientele, but the Ravage was steadily consuming him. In the dim light of his shop, the bristles and furrows were smoothed over, making his twisted form seem strong, even intimidating.

It wasn’t.

You’d think that two such lost souls, when they finally met over an antique vase, would have been a perfect match.

They weren’t.

  • Like what you see? Purchase a print or ebook version!