Chapter 18
Mrs Isolde's pharmacy filled with music, heavy as air in a room of static before the storm. Their shadows stretch and twist across the walls as they stalk Victor. The one in front of him is scruffy, with a knife in his hand and all the arrogance you get when you have ripped time. Yet Victor did not flinch. His own blade should have come naturally to his hand, as much a part of himself as the arms that bore it had been; instead he was repulsed by its darkness.
"Who sent you? Victor repeated for emphasis, and his voice was a little deeper but steady.
The man gives a wicked grin, and steps forward. Victor, you've been out of shape(so to speak) for too long. That you've gone all Oprah. Selective amnesia has caused others... to believe you've forgotten who you are.
Victor clenche
