Chapter 13It was snowing. No longer delicate snowflakes, but heavy sheets rained down: big, fat wet flakes, disturbed only by the strongest wind, coming off the lake. Traffic had slowed to a crawl; the streets were virtually empty; visibility was null.
Miranda, red-haired princess of the street, wandered drunkenly through the storm, searching for the Chicken Arms. She had to get back there, had to warm herself and tell them all what had happened.
Let them all know they should be afraid.
But it was so hard! The snow and the half a fifth of rum she’d put away earlier that night made her progress slow. She was dressed for the weather though: black lace-up boots, leg warmers, a long, grey wool skirt, black sweatshirt with a neon Keith Haring design, all covered up by a hot pink parka and ha
