Every Foul Spirit
The female reclining in the festering dark resembled Glee Deadmond, and now Katelyn understood.
“Come and greet me properly, little bit!” said the woman, standing up and throwing her scaly arms wide. Her riotous, floor-length brown hair was shot through with wild curls of silver—this indeed was Glee.
Then Katie saw in the sallow illumination that she was completely naked, and took a step backward.
A hint of regret touched the strange, familiar face. “What, no embraces for your old dear Granna? I’m hurt.”
“You’re not my grandmother,” Katie told her. “Glee Deadmond died in the river fifteen years ago, thanks to you.”
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