TWELVE
Pan.
The name rang in my mind, echoing like church bells as I wandered the quiet streets of West Lovat. Something was there. Something in the information, in that name. I had to find it.
Black Goat.
The clues were there, somewhere, between the rituals, hymns, passages, atrocities of yesteryear, and the pagan celebrations in clearings of long dead forests. I gnawed at my thumbnail as I walked and thought.
Pan.
I bought some starfish marinated in sunflower oil, grilled, and served over seasoned couscous. The food was bland, dry, and overcooked, but still I ate. Exhausted, I felt the need to recharge. I ate as I walked, moving along a quiet, empty road on Level Four. I could smell the salty scent of the sea waft from behind me. The intermingling smell of fish, salt, and sodden ve
