Every Foul Spirit
Nothing was left—just dark, sodden grass.
His curved, thin-bladed knife lay gleaming in the moon’s hazy light, wanderer spiders scurrying away from the ravenous annihilation, orphaned and in terror.
Katie opened her eyes in time to crush one of them under her boot with a grimace as it raced past. She wiped the blood away from her forearm, kept wiping at it until none remained. The deep gash there was gone, she could see. She pressed her palm to her own collarbone next, resting her forehead on the ground, trying to complete the healing.
Bab Populer