THIRTY-SIX
The poor creature slumped forward, falling through the doorway as the power animating it was dispersed. True Nosferatu. It did not collapse into dust. The corpse bloated first, then darkened and sank in on itself, desiccating rather than liquefying. At a guess, I’d have said about five years’ worth of decay.
From the doorway, Geordie clicked his tongue quietly. One more he would not be able to interrogate.
‘Quincey?’ Chessie scrubbed her sleeve across her mouth, staring hard at our friend. ‘Quincey? Are you okay?’
I’d not have called him okay.
He stared down at it, scarcely breathing, his face blank, then in a jerky, uncontrolled motion, rolled it over with his foot and bent to pull the poniard out of its chest. The steel came free with a dry, papery sound, and he stared at
