VII
Ancestral Bogs, Western Continent, Year 2020, One Thousand Years Later
Lucan Grimoire brushed sharp branches from his eyes as he journeyed deeper into the bog. Flies nipped at his face and mosquitos infiltrated his long sleeves.
He’d picked the wrong day to wear a suit. He had loosened his tie minutes earlier, wrapping it around his neck so he wouldn’t lose it. His light blue button-up shirt was stuck to his skin from sweat, and he was sure the ivory buttons would leave marks by now.
An incessant buzzing floated around his ear and he smacked at it. Two flies lay pulsing in his palm. He made a face of disgust and shook them away. He tasted bug spray in his mouth and spit it out.
“How much longer?” he asked.
“A little further, sir.”
A few paces ahead, a university student stopped
