Reader, writer, maker of pointlessly elaborate renaissance dresses and collector of increasingly rid...
Red was fear, so red was the color Everard dreamed in. Red was there even before the torchlights registered through his closed eyelids and he heard the clicks of the monsters, before the panic took his heart and pumped blood into his opening vision.
He could have pretended it was one of his bad dreams, but then a dying man fell across his legs and the blood that splashed against Everard’s face was hot and then cold as the life left it, and he could no longer deny he had . . .
