The warehouse district stank of diesel and rust.

Harold killed the headlights two blocks out and coasted the town car into the shadow of a gutted cannery. The docks stretched ahead like the ribs of some ancient beast, lit only by the occasional sodium lamp and the green glow of Agnetha’s wards pulsing across the water.

Reed checked the magazine on the mountain-stone pistol (rounds carved from the same scale Harold had torn off his own chest the night he chose humanity). Each ...