the smuggler’s bible

Dorian

The creature flees, gliding over the carpet like a splash of oil across water. It reflects a slippery rainbow sheen from the moonlight leaking in through the grimy Victorian windows. The gun is heavy in Dorian’s hand—has to be if it’s going to get the job done—but it is up and ready in an instant. He shoots twice, and the bullets thud into plaster.

“Goddamn thing is still pulling left,” he says, reloading. The room is still except for a door creaking on its hinges and the dry sound of laughter coming from the back of the house.