The Butcher's Bride
The other side was filled with beeping monitors, IV drips, and oxygen tanks.
And in the center, sitting at a long ebony dining table set for three, was a figure in a wheelchair.
Julius Blackwood.
He was terrifyingly small. His body was withered, his skin clinging to his bones like translucent parchment. His hands, resting on the arms of the chair, were skeletal claws. He looked like a corpse that had been dug up and dressed in a velvet suit.
But his eyes were alive.
They were bright, feverish, and predatory. They locked onto me instantly, stripping away my defenses.