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|'The Four Seasons', by Vivaldi ('Autumn'). 'Gunza' means anything from 'idiot' to... well, anything. An oligarchical government is run by a select group of rich people, not to be confused with a republic (where the people choose representatives). Sparta, for instance, was governed by an oligarchy that enforced military law.||
Milliaria flattened her body against the wall, still as a statue. She didn’t even dare to breathe as her pursuer panted past the mouth of the alley where she was hiding. As his footsteps faded into the distance, she darted away in the opposite direction, ghosting quietly from shadow to shadow. Stopping above a narrow grating in the street, she crouched down against the dirty wall and scanned the area cautiously. She could see nothing but the rickety buildings, their walls grimy with smoke stains and filth, towering above her and cutting out most of the midmorning sunlight. Having satisfied herself that she was alone, she reached for the rusted catch just beneath the bars and slid the grating back.
She slipped her legs into the gap and dropped into the cool dimness of the sewers.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she was able to make out the dripping brick walls of the ancient sewer system she called home. It stank, but it made a great hiding place and gave some protection from the weather, if you were careful not to sleep under the grating or fall into the broad, deep channel carrying filthy water out to the river.
“Hey, Milly. Get anything good today?”
The voice from her right made her jump, and she blushed in the darkness, hoping it didn't show, wishing she could get used to sharing the sewer. Irritated with herself, she made a show of slinging off the bag over her shoulder and rummaging about in it, while her heartbeat slowed down gradually.
“Two loaves of bread, a bit of dried meat I took from that foreign stall; might be kinda spicy… hmmm… grabbed some fruit, but I was a bit slow; the old guy at the stall – you know, the one with the parrot? - he saw me. Chased me all the way to Fourways, but I lost him at the alley.”
She ran a hand through her short red hair, carelessly making it stand up in spikes, and massaged her temples. Usually, her takes were flawless, but a persistent headache had hounded her all day, making her fingers clumsy when she was “borrowing” a few rare oranges from the bad-tempered vendor.
“Fact is, you stand out too much,” commented her companion, “Now, if you’d just let your hair grow long, or dye it a little...”
“Rek,” Milly sighed, “Dictate my hairstyle after we're married, will you?” Glaring sidelong at him, Milly tore a chunk of bread in half, dusting herself with fine white flour.
Rek stepped out of the shadowy corner where he'd been sleeping, a half-smile on his lips. His canines were slightly sharpened in the way of many Southerners, and his eyes were slanted, almost elflike. A light shade of purple, their strangeness only heightened when set against his dark, tanned skin. He was tall and as slender as a girl, and his long, black hair fell loose and gleaming to his waist. Yawning, he leaned against the damp wall and looked up into the sparse light that fell through the grating.
“Anyway,” mumbled Milly, around a mouthful of bread, “you should stand out much more than me.”
“Let's see... a foreigner, Belshammoni, long black hair, purple eyes; anyone having trouble recognizing your description is either lackwit or blind. Possibly both.”
“But I, Milliaria, am a master of the art of moving silently.” Rek stated, elegantly striking a pose and twirling a non-existent mustache, “Moreover, my hair is almost ordinary – in comparison with yours, anyway. We Belshammoni, we understand...”
“Oh, shut up, you idiot!” Milly laughed. Rek grinned, walked over and squatted down beside her. His movements were relaxed, almost lazy, but Milly knew how fast he could move. He took a strip of meat out of the bag and examined it disdainfully.
“Cat?” he asked.
“Probably,” answered Milly. Carefully, she held something up, trying to catch the light. It glinted as she turned it.
“What’s that?” asked Rek, “Is it a mirror? You risked life and limb for a mirror?”
“What do you think?” Milly replied, somewhat grumpily.
Trying to ignore Rek's quiet laughter, she examined herself in the small, gaudily decorated glass. Tilting it carefully, she saw a short girl with blue eyes, red hair, and light skin that was sprinkled with freckles over the bridge of her nose. Today she was wearing a short blue coat and a faded, ragged pair of trousers that she liked because they fit well; it was a constant struggle to find clothing that fit her.
Rek’s face appeared in the mirror as he leaned over her shoulder, examining his reflection; his proximity threatened to make Milliaria grin stupidly for no apparent reason, and she said quickly, “Your hair's still loose. Want me to braid it for you?”
“Hah. No, it's okay.”
“What d'you mean, 'hah'?”
“Your braids are always skew, that's all.”
Rek pulled a face at the mirror, tugged Milly's hair absently, turned and padded over to the rickety old ladder built into the wall beneath the grating.
“I'm going to the market to see if I can find some real meat,” he said wistfully, adding, “And don't stay down here too long,” as he scrambled up the rungs in the sewer wall and slipped out of the gap.
Rek and Milliaria lived on the streets of the colourful, dirty and densely populated city of Pouyo. Milly had been a street-rat all her life, and she made a living from thievery. Independent and self-confident, she had learned to protect and fend for herself, eating what she found, stole or bought and wearing whatever clothing she could get her hands on. And, due to her prowess in the field of acquiring things not her own, she never lacked for food or clothing.
On the other hand, Rek's skill was more than a match for her own. Several times, Milly had wondered bemusedly how one Southerner, who could not have been more than sixteen years old, had just wandered into her life and changed everything. She knew very little about his history – who his family was, whether he had siblings, anything like that - but it didn't really seem to matter. Intelligent, skilled and amusing, Rek made life both easier and a hell of a lot more interesting, and Milliaria realized that his arrival had taken her out of her comfortable rut and opened her eyes.
Until the day she met Rek, Milly had considered herself something of a wise, world-weary veteran streetchild; she spoke Pouyo's slang fluently and swore as virulently as any barbarian trader from the caravans. She was acquainted with the less reputable citizens of the city, among them whores, thieves and hardened criminals, and most of them knew her; no mugger would ever accost her in the early hours on Pouyo's darkened streets, recognizing her by her red hair and short stature, the two most terrible banes of her life.
The hired mercenaries working the caravan routes, deprived of female company for weeks or even months, were carefully avoided by discerning women, but Milly went out of her way to flirt with them. It always amused her friends no end, and the clumsy soldiers were never quick enough to catch her; not even the city's militia could touch her.
Well, that was until the day Rek's caravan arrived.
Led by a Southerner named Buinda, the trading caravan came into Pouyo late one afternoon when Milly and three friends had climbed up onto a roof overlooking the marketplace, trying to get a good view of some rival gang warfare taking place below.
Semiya, the twenty-something year-old leader of the Ske gang, had ranged his gang members against Milly's favoured contestant, the Yu gang. The boy who led Yu, Keehan, had looked after Milly since she was three years old, teaching her all the tricks she knew and generally supplying her with brotherly advice and affection, and she hoped to see his gang victorious over their bitter enemies.
She slid down the far side of the peaked roof and hooked her knees over the narrow gutter, dislodging the cracked clay tiles as she made herself comfortable. In the makeshift arena below, she watched Keehan throw a punch, knocking some Ske boy back into a stall and sending the display of clothing and material flying. Furious, the merchant struggled out from underneath some stained bolts of cloth and made a grab for Keehan, who ducked and ran, laughing.
It happened very quickly. Barely a moment after Keehan dodged the merchant, Semiya darted around the corner and tripped him up with a wooden pole snatched from a collapsing stall. The crowd swallowed them in a moment, but Milly saw the pole rise and fall three times before it, too, vanished. Milly's shout was lost in the growing noise of the disrupted marketplace as she twisted around on the edge of the roof and swung her legs over, scrambling down the whitewashed wall with her heart thudding in her throat.
Dropping from her hold on a ground-story window, Milly landed awkwardly, ignoring her friends' yells from above and dodging falling bits of masonry as the others made to follow her down.
“Keehan!” she called, panic tightening her voice, “Can you— ”
Rough fingers caught at her hair and someone grabbed her shoulder, spinning her round. She gasped and barely swallowed a scream. A Ske boy wearing a greasy headband shoved his leering face into her own, giving her a confused close-up of his peach fuzz beard and pimples.
“Milliaria, ain't it?” he observed. “Keehan's bitch, are you?”
“K'shakkor Ske!” she spat, recovering herself, “I hope your flesh rots and your hair falls out! Let me go!”
He opened his mouth to speak again, a nasty smile stretching his thin mouth until Milliaria kicked him solidly between the legs. Ducking out of his grasp, she slipped into one of the milling knots of people nearby, losing her assailant before he could even cry out after her.
As she wove through the crowd like a fish navigating the rapids, Milly kept her head down; no one saw her come and no one saw her go.
“Keehan!” she called again, and finally she caught sight of the striped awning near the spot where she had seen Keehan go down. With grim determination, she fought against the mass of people, her ears ringing from their deafening babble and her bare feet slapping the dusty, beaten clay of the street, when suddenly she was stumbling over something underfoot, an object that rolled when she stepped on it, almost making her lose her balance. Looking down, she saw it was a long wooden pole, stained dark at one end.
“Milly! Your name is Milly, right?”
She turned to face the voice and her eyes narrowed with hatred.
“Semiya,” she growled.
Bending, she picked up the slender pole and spun it through her fingers.
“Where's Keehan, you bastard?”
“No time for that, gunza!” Semiya snarled, “The militia are here. Run!” With that, he turned on his heel and fled, disappearing into the crowd.
Milly shivered as she realized that everyone was clearing away from the centre of the marketplace, suddenly decreasing the noise level. The merchants had moved on up the street, afraid of being implicated in the riot. People were watching from the windows of their houses as gang members struggled in the ruins of several gaudy stands and their scattered contents. Then, through the clearing clouds of dust, Pouyo's militia marched down the street bearing their heavy clubs and shields, quickly hemming in the last of the fighters and moving to block the alleys.
Damn, thought Milliaria, Someone must have warned them!
“Yu!” she screamed over the grunts and shouts of the remaining gang members, “Ske! Militia! Militia! Get out of here!”
Heads turned, fighting boys looked up and suddenly they were all on their feet and bolting for their familiar escape routes, dispersing from the half-empty marketplace like rats scuttling to their holes.
One, no more than a few yards away from Milly, got to his feet quickly enough but then staggered and almost fell again, groaning and lifting a hand to touch the back of his head. It came away bloody.
Milly dropped the pole stained with Keehan's blood and ran to his side. The first untidy rank of city guards were only yards away; as Milly watched, they drew level with a pair of boys, neither child older than twelve, still scuffling in the dust. It was the work of a moment for a pair of soldiers to dispatch both children with their clubs.
Milliaria covered her mouth with a hand, trying not to vomit. She knew Pouyo's oligarchical government rated streetchildren just above rats, but this... it wasn't gang warfare, or even a real battle; it was calculated slaughter.
Slipping an arm under Keehan's shoulder, she started dragging him towards a sidestreet, alternately whispering encouragements and blistering curses into his ear. He was too badly hurt to respond, but only limped blindly along, leaning heavily on her.
She glanced up, and saw a group of three soldiers coming their way to head them off. Milly's breath shortened and she tried desperately to make Keehan move faster, tugging and pulling at his arm, until he sagged against her, unconscious.
“No,” she gasped, “Wake up, you fool!” Her planned escape-route seemed so distant, and the soldiers were nearly on them.
“K'shak.” Milliaria fumbled with her belt pouch and drew out a knife in shaking fingers. Lowering Keehan to the ground, she turned to face the oncoming soldiers, trying to hold the blade steady as her fear made the sweat run down the back of her neck.
The three soldiers slowed their pace as they approached. Two of them were typical, sneering louts who had joined the militia for the money and the power it afforded them, but the last was a captain. His white-lipped expression was tight with fury, an outward evidence of his disgust. Milliaria instantly hated him the most, knowing that he was the kind who would never accept bribes, turn a blind eye or have pity on a gang member.
“Leave Keehan alone,” Milly shouted, “You leave him alone!”
Trying to convert her fear into anger, Milly took a knife-fighting stance Keehan had taught her and slashed at the first guard who reached for her. He jerked his cut hand back with a muffled curse, stemming the blood with a thumb.
“Little bitch cut me!” the man wailed, “She cut me!”
When the captain stepped forward, Milly knew she stood no chance against him, and she shrank back. He lashed out, too fast for her eyes to follow, and back-handed her across the face. She fell against Keehan, and tried in vain to cover his body with her arms, squeezing her eyes shut and clenching her teeth before the next blow fell. It slammed into her jaw, and she tasted blood on her tongue, felt it run down her chin, cold and thin like water.
“Here, captain, you don't have to kill her,” she heard one of the soldiers say.
“Or not yet, anyway,” chuckled the other.
Then she heard a thud. It was followed by a surprised yell, a grunt and a groan, in that order.
Under the cover of a further succession of heavy blows, Milliaria knelt, her head spinning, and tried to lift Keehan in her arms, but his dead weight was awkward and she had to let him drop again. Almost weeping with frustration, Milly started to drag Keehan to safety, where her friends would be able to help her. But still the crooked little sidestreet seemed miles off, and maybe Yu hadn't even realized that Keehan wasn't with them. A splitting pain was pounding through her head, and she could pull Keehan no further.
There were the footsteps of the guard, coming up beside her; she flinched and bit down on the scream threatening to tear from her throat.
“Quick, on your feet,” the voice was calm and gentle. She looked up, saw the slanted violet eyes and the fall of thick black hair, blurred through her tears. The southerner reached down and took her arm, but she shrugged him off.
“Keehan!” she snapped, “Take Keehan. I can run.”
With a grunt, her helper bent and lifted Keehan's prone body over a shoulder and sprinted for the sidestreet with Milly on his heels. A bigger group of soldiers broke off to chase them, but they were too slow; Milly could barely keep up with the Southerner, even burdened as he was.
They made it to the shelter of the alley with only moments to spare, but it was enough. Nimble Yu and a few of the brighter Ske boys helped to lift Milly and Keehan upward to the rooftops, the exclusive territory of Pouyo's gangs. Looking down, Milliaria saw her saviour sprinting away down the alley, his long black hair swept back over his shoulders. He turned, moving backwards now, and their eyes met. He grinned jauntily and vanished around a corner.
Milly helped nurse Keehan back to health, washing the wound Semiya had given him and binding it up with clean rags. Her own bruises weren't too serious and the swelling on her jaw went down in a few days, though Keehan teased her mercilessly about it. She knew the embarrassment he was feeling at being rescued by a girl, so she suffered his jokes with good humour.
One morning, she returned to the deserted, tumbledown house where Keehan was recovering and gave her password to the Yu door-guard. The head-wound her street-brother had received had had her worried for a while, but after a week of rest, which Milliaria had had to force on him, Keehan wanted to be back on his feet so that he could go fight Semiya again.
Men, she thought dispiritedly as she climbed the rickety staircase to Keehan's room.
She knocked gently on the door and pushed it open at Keehan's muttered, “What?” from within. His eyes brightened as he saw her and he smiled broadly, lifting himself up off his sleeping mat on his elbows, dark hair brushing his shoulders.
Milly rolled her eyes in mock disbelief. “What, still abed, you k'shakkor lazybones?”
A look of worry crossed his face, as though he thought he had really displeased her, but her teasing laugh put him at his ease.
“You always take everything so seriously,” she chuckled, shutting the door behind her. “How've you been?”
“Terrible,” Keehan complained. Then he smiled wickedly. “I'm much better now that you're here, of course.”
Milly snorted, and knelt by his side. “Maybe I could soothe your wounded brow?”
“Oh, please do.”
“Gunza. Let's get these bandages off.”
She was halfway through unwinding the thick material from around his head when Keehan caught her wrist. Her heart leapt into her mouth.
“Milliaria...” he whispered. Their faces were only inches apart, and he closed the distance before she could react.
As his lips brushed against hers, she jerked back as though burnt, scrambling away from him in a confused welter of emotions. Suddenly, she found the wall at her back, and slid down to the floor, staring at him. He had laid one finger against his lips as if to imprint the memory of the kiss there forever, but his eyes were sad.
“Milliaria,” he said finally, softly, “Milliaria, I'm sorry...”
“N-no, you're not,” she babbled, tears blurring her vision. “Keehan, I can't, I can't...”
He seemed to understand. Slowly, he sat up on the mat, and smiled at her wearily.
“Sorry,” he repeated, and then lapsed into silence.
Milly heard the tremor in her own voice, but she had to say something.
“You're my brother,” she tried, “And I don't think I'm ready for...”
The words trailed away to nothing, and she felt the sharp heat of embarrassment on her face.
“It's okay,” he said, “Women say no to me all the time.” His smile took the sting out of his words. And then, in a recovery of composure as sudden as it was astonishing, he laughed at her stunned expression. “Hah, stole your first kiss anyway,” he taunted her, pouting his lips and fluttering his eyelashes coquettishly.<p> “<i>K'shak</i>,” she mumbled, giving him a watery smile that probably looked as pathetic as it felt and stumbling to her feet. She had thought she knew everything there was to know about men and women, but in that moment, when their lips had touched, the thought had occurred to her that she knew very little indeed.<p> *** <p> During the days that followed, Milly's emotions were in an understandably confused state; suddenly she became very conscious of the fact that she was soon going to be sixteen, that she was what most people would call a woman. She didn't feel like a woman at all.<p> Some time later, a few weeks perhaps, she saw the stranger again. He had returned to the marketplace where they had first met, dressed well in clothes cut Belshammonni-style, with a desert trader's headdress – a <i>doro</i> - shrouding his face from the sun. Milly had sharp eyes, and she saw him steal a beautifully tooled belt that was on display in a jeweller’s stand.<p> Quite openly, he wandered up to the stall and examined the goods with the eye of an expert. When the owner realized the young man probably wasn't going to buy anything despite his expertise, he told him to push off. As any street-child would, he turned away, acting sulky and dispirited, so only Milly saw his arm snake out behind his body. Nimbly, he picked up the belt and buckled it around his waist in a moment when he seemed to sense the jeweller wasn't looking. Then, to Milly’s astonishment, he laid his hat on the ground with a flourish — not ten yards distant of the very stall he’d taken the belt from! Calmly, he took a handcrafted flute from somewhere about his person and began to play it, dancing skillfully to the wistful Belshammonni tune. <p> A crowd soon gathered and threw pennies into his hat, applauding his performance, and even the shopkeeper that the foreigner had stolen from threw a handful of small change into the hat, never recognizing the sparkling, stolen belt that the young thief flaunted so publicly.<p> Milly was overwhelmed with a powerful curiousity. She followed the southerner to the far side of the crowded marketplace, watching him examine the goods for sale, and felt a slight twinge of jealousy every time some unpaid-for object found its way into his pockets. His hands would no more than twitch, and the item would disappear. It was a humbling experience. <p> Eventually, he turned down a street leading deeper into the city, discarding his grey <i>doro</i> by the side of the road, and Milliaria, feeling as though her actions were not entirely beneath her control, followed.<p> Athough she knew that she’d used all her stealth to tail him through the city, when she followed him into a dead end he was leaning against the wall composedly. Without hesitating, he greeted her with a kick, very fast and hard, aiming for her head, but Keehan's training came back to her and she ducked the attack expertly. He smiled, his sharpened canines glinting ominously.<p> Reflexively, Milly pulled her knife out of the leather sheath on her belt and lifted it in front of her, the hilt flat against the palm of her free hand; she had developed the one-on-one fighting style herself and it had come in useful. <p> “Don't you remember me?” she asked, slightly shocked despite herself, “You saved my life!”<p> He looked at her more closely, and then shut one eye thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said finally, speaking with a faint southern accent. “I'm a wanted man now, you know. Criminal injustice.”<p> “Then you <i>do</i> recognize me.”<p> “Indeed I do. So?”<p> “So... I thought you might be sort of...”<p> “Really? Why? You've only made my life more difficult.”<p> “You didn't have to save me!”<p> “You didn't have to follow me.”<p> Stumped in the face of this odd brand of logic, Milliaria shrugged, switching tack.<p> “I saw you steal that belt just now.”<p> “Well done.” <p> “Why did you steal it?” Milly asked as they circled each other, looking for an opening. Her opponent had not produced a weapon, as he didn’t seem to carry any.<p> “Felt like it,” he shrugged. His fingers were hooked in the jeweller’s belt; it looked like a habit. “Why do you care?”<p> On the last word, he attacked, leaping at her without any warning and feinting a kick at knee-height, then spinning and catching her under the chin with the same foot. She squeezed her eyes shut and brought her hands up, dreading the impact, but when she dared to open one eye, his boot was resting against her throat, barely touching. The next thing she noticed was her knife, spinning lazily in his fingers with a metallic ringing. Balanced on one leg, the other at a forty-five degree angle in the air, he was as steady and secure as a man standing with both feet firmly on the ground. <p> “After all,” he said, picking up where they’d left off as though nothing had happened, “You’re a thief yourself.” <p> Milly swung back her fist and pain exploded in her throat. Flung back by the force of his attack, she was brought up short by the alley wall. Winded, she dragged herself upright as the southerner strolled after her, tossing her knife from hand to hand as though it fascinated him. Then, as he was about to toss the knife up again, he hurled it at her, the blade spinning so fast that it seemed to leave a trail through the air.<p> There was no time to think; Milly’s hand shot out and she caught the knife by the hilt. She was startled at the way he'd thrown it as though he'd really meant to kill her, but catching a thrown knife was a trick she’d practiced many times, and it impressed the southerner.<p> He smiled. “Very good. What else can you do?”<p> Growling at his indulgent tone, Milly drew another knife, so that she held one in each hand. <p> “I can cut you into lots of tiny little cubes,” she told him with relish. <p> Several seconds later, she was sprawled on her stomach and his boot was grinding a hole in her spine. Her knives were far out of reach and her face was pressed into the dirt. <p> “You know, girl, you’re not too bad. I think I like you.”<p> “Thank you very much.” The words were muffled.<p> “You’ve got two choices.”<p> “Oh, good. One, die, two…?”<p> “Two, you give me a guided tour of this place. Maybe I can stay with you while I'm visiting. Where do you stay?”<p> “At the moment, I’m living in a sewer. Sound good?”<p> He chose to ignore that. <p> “What’s your name, girl?”<p> “You tell me yours first.”<p> “You’re not really in a position to make demands, you know.”<p> Milly ground her teeth audibly. “Milly,” she said.<p> “Rek,” he replied simply, “Pleased to meet you.”<p> ***<p> Over the few months they'd been together, Milly had wondered long and often about her new companion. Occasionally, he would wander off for no particular reason, sleeping in a doorway or at some overcrowded Yu stronghold, where he was welcomed as an honourary member of Yu, largely because he had rescued Keehan. But Rek and Keehan never did get on very well, and Milly wondered if she was the only person who knew why.<p> To be fair, Rek had been a true benefit to the gang. Milliaria remembered the time when Semiya had challenged “Yu's strongest member” in a fit of self-aggrandizement. Rek had volunteered instantly; even if he didn't share in the childish hatred between Yu and Ske – something he had shown Milly the foolishness of - he was more than a little angry about the way Semiya had left Milly to fend for herself that day in the marketplace. She witnessed his pent-up displeasure first-hand in the fight with Semiya. Rek played with the Ske boy, gradually instilling real terror in him, and then took him down in the space of a few seconds. As a result, Ske members were starting to drift over to Yu's side, and Yu was becoming one of Pouyo's more dominant street-child gangs. <p> When the caravan left, Rek stayed behind. During the time they had spent together, he had become Milly's closest friend, a confidant, protector and companion all in one. But in all the time he spent with her, he never got any closer than that. Sometimes she would catch him staring at her, or he would touch her shoulder in a way that was more than just friendly, but he never let it go any further. <p> Milly couldn't understand it; when they were with a group, girls would flirt constantly with him, and anyone could see he enjoyed it. He could make them blush like maids with a word. But when they were alone, he put up an invisible barrier, giving her all the brotherly attention she could have wished for but somehow always keeping her at a distance.<p> It frustrated Milly more than anything, but she could never bring herself to talk to him about it - except as a joke. And so their days together were bittersweet, a mixture of joy and pain, speech and silence; still, they were the best days of Milliaria's life.<p> ***<p> Sitting wearily on the cold, stone floor and trying to will away her headache, Milly picked up the discarded loaf of bread, wondering what to do with the rest of her day. There was always something to do at the market; maybe she’d follow Rek after she’d eaten, or maybe she'd go find somewhere to sleep in the sun. She lifted the bread halfway to her mouth and then, slowly, put it down again. Something was moving in the shadows, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.<p> “Who’s there?” she hissed, inching back towards the wall on her knees. Suddenly, the sewer seemed colder and darker than usual.<p> <i>Blood</i>.<p> Something moved again, almost out of sight, twisting in the darkness like midnight-black wreaths and coils of smoke. <p> <i>Hot, dark, red... blood. Ah, to feed... feed...!</i><p> It seemed to swell, and all at once she could see a gaping maw and a shadowy form. The sewer walls receded into the distance.<p> A rank smell, like burning sulfur, filled the room.<p> She felt hot breath on her neck…<p> </html>
|Appendix/Glossary||Jude Ch. 6|
|Jude Ch. 7||Jude Chapter 8|
|Jude Ch. 3||Jude Ch. 5|