The Blackwell Claim
a voice drawled from the shadows.
Timothy bolted upright, the movement sending a sickening pulse through his skull. Kan Nelblack leaned against the dresser, his dark hair messy, his silver-grey eyes tracking Timothy like a target. He’d ditched the top hat, looking less like a circus ringmaster and more like the butcher he was.
The tiger chuffed, stretching its massive limbs with a grace that made Timothy’s stomach do a slow, nauseous roll. The memory hit him like a lead pipe to the gut. The alley. The bite. The betrayal.