Nate is old school: music, mores, muscle car all terribly out of date. It comes off as charming, in certain company.
The
Houngan we hunted cared nothing for such quirks. He wanted Nate, or me,
depending on who told the tale. Or perhaps he really had wanted my
mother, enough to steal the remnants of her soul and fabricate a copy of
her to house it.
Someone willing to go to such lengths wouldn’t be sloppy enough to discount us. Which begged the question, who was playing whom?
The engine roared as I headed down the road , seeking answers.
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