the smuggler’s bible


Foot traffic slides by the old building unaware, completely insensate—stones rolling past larger stones. Inside, the night’s work has already begun.

The maniac leers out from a leather coat several sizes too big for him. A hand twitches inside the limp sleeve, then darts out, dagger glinting in the light from the gas lamps. A flash and low whistle, and the maniac’s scream of rage turns into a howl as Ossian Thornquist’s rapier pierces his arm at the wrist, pinning it to the wall. Metal clatters against the stained floorboards where the weapon fell.

The others just watch, frozen.