31
LINCOLN
Myla and I enter the chamber. Inside, we find a round space with pale stone walls and an oak floor. There’s no furniture to speak of. An old angel stands by the window, looking out on the cloudy landscape. He’s a wrinkled old man with a bald head and loose-fitting toga. White wings arch down his back. I didn’t spend much time with the man, but there’s no question who this is: Maxon Bane.
“I’m in seclusion,” grumbles Bane. “You’ve seen me. Now, respect my wishes and go.”
That’s what Bane says. The part of him that’s bathed in sunlight from the window looks real enough. But that’s not what attracts my attention. If I look to the shadows, I can see the back of his body is downright odd. It’s as if hands press against Bane’s body from the inside out. There are even palm prints o
