The Black Anchorite drew back his hood. “Welcome to the citadel.”
His words barely registered as Morgan stared at his ruined visage. His skin was loose against his skull, a patchwork of different hues, as if each pinch of flesh came from a separate corpse in varying stages of decomposition. Some were finely stitched together with the skilled hand of a surgeon, perhaps Kelley herself, whereas others were sutured with broad dark thread that rose in lumps around open sores that wept pus and blood.
His breath wheezed in and out, almost a death rattle, as he held the edge of the fireplace with an arthritic clawed hand, seams of broken skin visible on the exposed flesh.
Zale moaned and as Morgan helped Jake lower him to the ground, everything finally clicked into place. The stolen reliquaries
