Monday, November 05, 2012


Retrieving gloves from the car, I paused to draw protection runes. Invisible, they still crawled over my skin like ants.

When I returned, Nate was standing. Naturally. He solves problems by chambering another round – or ordering one. With no way to divert fear, he faked bravery.

“No spells,” he warned.

“This isn’t witchcraft. The flavor is wrong, corrupt.” Traumatic myopia drove me to reveal secrets I shouldn’t. “I can’t cure you.”

Red lines blossomed under his skin. “I thought tumor fruit was a myth.”

“Apparently not.”

“Then before I die, let’s torch this crop and hunt down whoever created it.”


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