POV: Clara

The library was in ruins, and so was I.

Paper and blood smeared into the air, sharp and dry. Children’s books were strewn across the rug, a shelf jutting drunkenly off axis, the puppet stage cracked open like a shattered jaw. A paper moon dangled from its string, absurd and cheerful, soaking up the orange wash of the emergency lights.

And there he was, in the wreckage.

Daniel Blackwood.

Half-shifted, claws oiled, chest heaving and hard. Eyes glowing ...