Alexander Kane

The book lay on Marco’s chest like a sleeping animal, its cover pulsing with a heartbeat that wasn’t his. WAGER OF THE HEART: VOLUME II; the letters weren’t printed; they were carved, the grooves wet with fresh blood that smelled of copper and old wine. The alley was a tomb of silence, the dawn light slanting through the smoke in pale, reluctant blades, catching on the shards of glass and bone that littered the rubble. My knees were in the ash, my combat knife gone, my ...