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Brew City Magazine | |
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Guidelines About the Magazine Editor-in-Chief:
Managing Editor: Associate Editor:
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Peter Roblejo
“William … cheerio and drat! I’ve forgotten the time difference across the Atlantic. I do apologize for this rather impromptu message, but I simply had to share some extraordinary news. My theory on the ancient worship of Zefonith in the Americas is on the verge of being proven! Thanks to the generosity of the University staff here at Arkham, I have discovered a very intriguing pictograph image belonging to the Lenape indians: it is identical to images I have obtained of a Persian incantation bowl of the sixth century CE bearing the image of Zefonith! I am astounded by this discovery . It only raises more questions than it answers, and I plan to investigate at once. The images were photographed some years ago in a place called Milmay in the State of New Jersey. I shall contact you as soon as I arrive. Prepare the Oxford blokes … I’m going to make them eat their words.” Click.
The message had run through Sutherland’s mind for what had to be the hundredth time. He was well-known for his photographic — and some would say audiographic — memory. Ironically, the recording from Russell Osborn, his tenured colleague, was one he would just as soon have forgotten: it had heralded the man’s untimely disappearance. No one had heard from the fellow in over a week. Yet it was not Osborn’s disappearance that had prompted Sutherland to leave the serenity of the English countryside to embark upon a personal manhunt for his colleague. Something more ominous had done that. Sutherland shifted uncomfortably behind the wheel of his charcoal-gray Saab 99T. Three hours had gone by since he’d rented the little car at Newark International Airport. More than half that time had been spent heading south along the Garden State Parkway, a rude thoroughfare that divided New Jersey’s shore regions from its pinelands to the west. Sultry mid-September winds, laden with a scent of cedar and occasional skunk-musk, made the Briton’s chestnut locks sweep chaotically beneath a newsboy cap dating back to the 19th Century. The stifling heat had forced Sutherland to remove his frock coat and loosen the Windsor tie that hung off his neck like a dead snake. He cursed himself for having forgotten how long and hot the summers of America’s Mid-Atlantic region could be. The cool comfort of the English Cotswolds would never again be taken for granted. Sutherland may have dressed like a centenarian, but his visage seemed just shy of middle age, studded with eyes both deep-set and penetrating. A well-tended Goatee completed a picture of erudition that exemplified the Brit’s calling as a doctoral professor of Parapsychology at Oxford University. A gloved hand fished through trousers until a curious timepiece emerged from Sutherland’s pocket: A 16th century Stackfreed clockwatch of exquisite craftsmanship. Its fire gilt, engraved shield and quarter-striking layout were magnificently preserved — a relic of German horological prowess and the envy of watch collectors the world over. Sutherland always reconfirmed the hour with a more modern timepiece that garnished his wrist. The clockwatch was often quite off, he knew. It couldn’t be helped … it was over three hundred years old, after all. Admittedly, it was better off behind a glass case in some museum, but the heirloom had been in his family for generations, and disowning it would have been insufferable. It had been his father’s only cherished bequeathal; it was priceless. “Past six,” he muttered aloud, maneuvering the crumpled, 1978 map that occupied the passenger’s seat. Having turned west onto the Atlantic City Expressway, the savant decided to veer onto a rest stop to gather his wits. A quick look around deepened a sense of foreboding that had steadily grown over his heart since leaving the Parkway. Beyond the billowing plumes of dust welling up from the undercarriage, Sutherland gazed in amazement at the maelstrom of gnarled pines, in all their myriad classes, bending over the highway in an almost ferocious campaign to conquer humanity’s intrusion. Many climbed to heights surpassing a hundred feet, stabbing the sky like living spears while sending scraggly roots down into the earth like the talons of some mythical beast. A sign loomed ahead, just visible beyond the raucous undergrowth that was the forest’s doormat: HARDING HIGHWAY TO MILMAY 15 MILES. Sutherland’s brow furrowed in concentration. “It’s exactly the same.” He released a sigh. The sign was just as it had appeared in his dream not four days after Osborn’s voice message … down to the rust-gnawed edges — even the rather obvious crack that split the last letter “Y” away from its neighbors. The Briton shuddered as he recalled the remainder of his dream: beyond the sign, a narrow highway cutting deep into dark wilderness, beset by invading cedars and skeletal oaks that seemed to grow to ominous dimensions in the failing light of day. High above, wizened branches joining across the road to form a living arch that blotted out the daystar even at its zenith. And then, darkness: a shadow-land enveloping the Harding Highway, bewildering all but those born to that surreal woodland. A scream had pierced the night: “Aaaaaeeeeeyaaaaayayayayayahahahaha.” Sutherland’s dream had ended as his visions always did, in terrible discomposure. What had emitted such an unearthly call, the savant did not dare guess. Its pitch was like nothing that pertained to the animal kingdom: discordant, brassy, alien. It fell somewhere between an opera singer and a psychotic crow, its decrescendo plummeting to horrid depths that cast a pall over his soul. Sutherland’s hand pressed against an object that lay against his breast — just beneath his ruffled shirt — and was rewarded with a gentle buzz. He knew that whatever haunted the forested lands of southern New Jersey was real, and it was not of the world. His confidence was beyond reproach, for Sutherland was more than a doctor of parapsychology. He possessed the Gift; the power of sight beyond sight, the power to pierce the Veil that held back the spectral world to which mankind remained oblivious. From the moment he’d heard Osborn’s message, the savant knew that peril lay in wait for his colleague. But beyond that of his friend’s welfare, there lay an even more pressing matter: Sutherland sensed with great fear that the zealous Osborn’s machinations might stir a deeper, darker evil from untold ages of slumber; a nameless fear, a thing that now lived only in mankind’s shadowy, unremembered past. Time was of the essence. Revving the engine, the Brit sped off toward the final leg of his trip. The Harding Highway was little more than a paved over horse trail, as far as he was concerned. It did pass through small settlements on its westward course, but once beyond the fringes of the area’s rustic villages, the pinelands seemed to engulf its tarry surface with relish. Everywhere along the slim highway, towering red pines and blackjack oaks sent crooked roots and woody streamers into the asphalt. Halfway to Milmay, the highway leapt over the tinted effluent carried by the Tuckahoe River, a watercourse that drained the Barrens of its coppery lifeblood and sent it to the Atlantic. Sutherland took note of its eerie silence, steeling himself for the final five miles to where he hoped to find Osborn alive and well. Sutherland veered onto Millville Rd., which had forked away from the highway and led right to the heart of Milmay. He found it a bit odd, despite the sparseness of humanity, that not a single vehicle had passed by once he’d left the highway. “Crikey.” The Briton scanned the area from beneath a sweaty brow as he puttered into what had to be his final destination. It was barely more than a hamlet, a crossroads formed by two slender avenues whereupon stood a collection of farmhouses, what looked to be a ranch-style municipal building, and the Milmay Tavern. The parking lots were more dirt than blacktop, and the tavern seemed a rather unpopular place, if one went by the scant number of cars parked therein. One vehicle did catch Sutherland’s eye: a glistening black Jaguar XJ-C. It would have caught anyone’s attention, given the area’s predominance of weathered pickup trucks. The coupe looked more like a caged panther pressed between a grimy van and a pickup that looked to have spent much of its life on blocks. “This looks as good a place as any.” Sutherland studied the tavern with a dubious eye. Ankle boots landed gingerly on cracked pavement. Can’t leave the bag, he thought, hesitating. He reached over to the floor of the passenger seat and groped about, finally rewarded by the coarse grate of old leather. Sutherland’s satchel was boxy and no larger than a toaster. It wore the weathering and stains of centuries. Its carapace seemed almost alien, and might have been, were one to judge by the rust-colored, runic inscriptions that covered it like some unearthly rash. Indeed, one would have deemed it infected with something, given the savant’s gingerliness in its handling. The Briton’s entry drew stares from the handful of patrons gathered at the tavern. He ignored the publicity his presence so commonly triggered. It was to be expected, especially from a population that embraced the very antithesis of cosmopolitanism. The eatery’s ambience was predictably rustic and uncouth, but Sutherland feigned nonchalance as he approached the counter and removed his cap. “Good day. ” The cook that met eyes with the savant did so with a squint that could not have conveyed suspicion more masterfully. Streaks of grease zig-zagged across his apron like a malevolent Picasso piece. The man’s tremendous belly certainly made a great canvas on which to display such art. “You need somethin’?” Sutherland looked over a shoulder. A pair of rustics hadn’t taken their eyes off him. The remaining clientele, an unlikely couple, seemed absorbed in intense conversation. Odd, thought Sutherland, his gaze falling on the female: a svelte, well-manicured lady, her ebon hair gathered up in a ponytail. A plaid skirt of charcoal tint, matching jacket and exquisite leather boots advertised professionalism and worldliness unmistakable to the savant. Her companion seemed the typical “Piney,” if a bit mangier. “I said, do you need somethin’?” Sutherland whipped about. “Terribly sorry, Sir. Actually, I’m not hungry, no … but I am looking for someone. Hopefully you can help.” The cook rubbed a sweaty arm across his scraggly jaw. “I doubt it.” “He would have been English … same sort of accent as mine … his name is Osborn.” The cook planted both hands on the counter and leaned into Sutherland. His eyes had narrowed in mounting annoyance … and what Sutherland sensed was fear. “I ain’t seen no one, I ain’t heard o’ no one. We don’t need no outsiders comin’ here lookin’ for trouble.” Sutherland pursed his lips. “Perhaps I’ll have a word with the local police department … ” Angrily, he turned to depart, almost barreling into the couple he’d just glimpsed. Sutherland suddenly found himself locking stares with the out-of-towner. “I could not help but overhear. You’re looking for someone?” said the woman through a raised eyebrow. Feline eyes and lofty cheeks would have marked her a Hun by any in ancient Rome. Her obsidian mane was caught behind the ears by a spiral of silver that snaked down its length to the small of her back. Her timbre was crisp as the crack of a whip and yet rich and musical. But most alluring were her eyes: dark as agates, piercing as knives, possessed of what seemed unnatural wisdom for a woman that looked barely thirty. “I am Junia Alani.” “Bill Sutherland, at your service,” he said with a slight bow. He couldn’t place her subtle accent, but it was certainly one he’d never encountered in all his wanderings. It had a certain Semitic quality … “As a matter of fact, I am indeed looking for someone … a friend who may have passed through here recently.” A hand thrust before the savant; its suddenness caught him off guard. “Name’s Mills … Jesse Mills. She’s with me.” The woman averted her eyes in what appeared to be barely suppressed disgust. “He’s my guide.” Sutherland turned to the fellow that had come up behind Junia, offering a gloved hand (and thanking the high heavens that it was gloved). The man was short, emaciated. Whatever his true age, he seemed no younger than fifty, his head gaunt beneath strands of oily, graying hair that hung limply from lifelong neglect. His crooked smile revealed horribly receded gums and a plethora of missing teeth. An odor of stale beer clung to him like pine resin. “Pleasure.” Junia studied the savant with such intensity that it made Sutherland suddenly uneasy. “If your friend is who I think he is, we may have a common agenda.” She paused as if to measure her words, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “What is his name?” “Osborn. Russell Osborn. He would’ve been a bit taller and lankier than I. Rather outgoing bloke … around thirty. He would have passed through here perhaps a week … ” Sutherland took note of a silent contest taking place between the cook and Jesse Mills. He could follow the former’s menacing stare to its unerring target as if it were a laser beam, and wondered what bad blood might have existed between the locals. Something is not right here, thought Sutherland with rising angst. But he dissembled his mind for the moment. “That is an interesting bag,” Junia said, studying Sutherland’s satchel with what seemed more than simple curiosity. “May I see it?” “Perhaps some other time,” Sutherland said as businesslike as he could manage. There was something odd about Ms. Alani … he couldn’t put a finger on it … but it made the hairs on his nape stand on end. “And how did you happen to know Russell?” The woman folded her arms. “I’m an associate professor of occult studies at Miskatonic University. I … helped your associate with information on Indian spirit worship and religious artifacts, specifically involving the Unalachtigo tribes that inhabited this region.” Mills spun away from the counter and gave his back to the cook. “We can’t stay here,” he muttered in hushed tones. “I knew your friend, Mr. Sutherland. I can tell you more … at my place.” Sutherland hesitated.” Perhaps we should consult with the police dep — ” “I don’t suggest that,” Junia said with sudden sharpness. “The people here don’t trust outsiders. They will only hinder us.” Sutherland tried to hide mounting suspicion. Nodding without a word, he plodded into the darkening evening. An unnerving silence had befallen the surrounds. Not a car could be seen save those parked at the eatery. Beyond the mowed grass that bordered the crossroads loomed the murky forest. Mills made a beeline for his abused pickup. The woman followed suit into the inky Jaguar. Sutherland was not about to pursue either without a stated plan. He put a hand upon his breast, felt the object that lay beneath, then gave a wave, “Pardon! Where exactly are we going?” “To my trailer … just a couple miles down May’s Landing Road. That’s where your friend was stayin’ when I last saw him.” Sutherland swallowed hard. Good heavens, Osborn, what have you gotten yourself into?”
It was a three mile ride to Mills’s place. His was the very last property down a gravelly way called Cannon Range Road. Sutherland had followed the others in his rental, parking closest to the street as his companions gathered before two trailers arranged side by side. “This one’s where I live,” stated Mills with a wave to the right. “This one here was my dad’s. I was lettin’ your friend rent it, Mr. Sutherland. Said he needed a few weeks to study the forest and such.” Sutherland turned to Junia. For an instant, she seemed distant, lost in some kind of trance. There is an unsettling aura about this woman … “When did you arrive?” Junia focused on the Briton. “This afternoon. I’m staying at a hotel in Millville, just to the west,” she said, hands pocketed nervously as she scanned the area. “I don’t like the feel of these woods … ” Her words echoed the Briton’s sentiment. Even Mills, who Sutherland presumed a native of the area, seemed on edge. “Perhaps you should show me where Osborn was staying.” Mills gave a nod. “Right this way.” The last vestiges of daylight faltered behind a dense stand of ominous evergreens that formed the backdrop of Mills’s property. Its flat, insipid terrain was host to swampy, mushy grass that gave off a fetid stench. It was evident that Mills did little to maintain his land, judging by the rampant, unchecked growth of weeds and sedges that threatened to engulf the very trailers themselves. Fireflies had lingered along with the heat of a summer that seemed unwilling to yield to a cooler season. Their flickers seemed to tease those who dared pierce the curtain of gloom beyond the yard. The Veil is thinner here, thought Sutherland, letting his gaze linger upon the wood. For the briefest moment, a pair of lights not far into the forest’s murk caught Sutherland’s eye. They bore the same yellow glow of the fireflies, only larger, more intense. Strangely, they were unmoving, their hue pallid and sickly. It dawned on the savant that those luminous discs weren’t bugs at all: they were eyes. Captivated, Sutherland stared back, steadfast in challenge. The forest had grown silent. The chorus of crickets and night creatures had ceased, and the fireflies had all but vanished. But still the eyes remained, sinking to the ground, narrowing as they studied him with unnatural intelligence. Sutherland’s heart pounded, his forehead glistening. He could sense the malice that radiated from the unholy lurker in the woods. From it came a terrible disquietude, an aura that cowed the soul … Sutherland froze, a shiver running down his spine. Against his chest, a familiar buzzing suddenly erupted. He made to point … when the eyes suddenly vanished. “What is it, Bill?” Junia said as they approached the trailer. She, too, was unnerved, gripped as if by a sudden chill. “Just my eyes playing tricks on me, I’d wager.” Sutherland shook his head, relieved that the wood’s insect choir had resumed with a vengeance. A shadow darker than the forest’s drear had passed. What he’d seen was no woodland creature. Something haunted the woods around Mills’s lot — perhaps the entire region. It had come from the Outer Darkness, beyond the sphere of mortal experience. He feared for the souls of those taken by the lurker. “Ain’t good to be out and about after dark ‘round here,” said Mills as he stepped gingerly toward Osborn’s transient hideout. “And why would that be, Mr. Mills?” Sutherland asked, wiping sweat from his brow. The rustic did not reply. Drawing a set of keys, he soon had the trailer door open. “Let’s get inside.” “So this is where Osborn was staying?” asked Sutherland as he scanned the living space inside the little mobile home. It was barely wide enough for two to walk abreast, seeming more suited for a construction site than for permanent habitation. “Honest to God, Mr. Sutherland,” Mills said with a rapid nod. “And I ain’t touched his stuff, neither.” That remains to be seen … Sutherland studied the rude little bed that spanned the back end of the trailer. It was unmade. “When did you last see him?” Mills scratched his head, releasing a storm of dandruff and several fleas. “Must’ve been three days ago. He didn’t talk much. Seemed really focused on whatever he was doin’, which wasn’t nothin’ good, I’d say.” “Well, what was so bad about it?” persisted Sutherland. He noted the absence of a telephone. Mills shrugged. “I … can’t say as I know for sure. He just didn’t seem right after a while. Can’t put a finger on it.” “Well he couldn’t have come all the way here on foot,” said Junia. “Where’s his car?” “He came in a taxi,” said Mills. “Part o’ his rent was for gettin’ rides from me. Heck, I ain’t got much to do these days anyway, so I figured, why not?” “Here’s his suitcase,” said Sutherland as he rummaged under the bed. Drawing the luggage into the light, he noted that most of his colleague’s clothes were still neatly arranged. “This is strange. Didn’t he change his clothes after all the days he was here?” Mills looked up at the ceiling as if searching his mind. “Come to think of it, he had the same khaki shorts and shirt every time I saw him. Didn’t think much of it.” “Was he acting at all strangely?” said Sutherland, who sensed that Mills wasn’t being totally forthcoming. The man seemed wary, conflicted. Aside from that, he was quite dimwitted. Sutherland’s brain was in overdrive. It was uncharacteristic of Russell to be caught in the same clothes for even two consecutive days, let alone five; the man was obsessively hygienic. Furthermore, it was most unlike him to be out of touch after agreeing to check in at a given time. “Here,” said Junia from the other end of the trailer. She stood in a tiny kitchen, her elbow on a swiveling counter that held various documents. “I think this is some kind of journal.” Three long strides rushed Sutherland to her side. “Indeed,” he said as he pored breathlessly over a notebook titled “Dark Arts of the Tuckahoe Wolf Clan and the Worship of Zefonith.” “Who’s ‘Zefonith,’?” asked Mills. Sutherland winced in annoyance. “Do not invoke that name again.” “There must be days worth of entries,” Junia said after staring fleetingly out the uncovered window. Sutherland nodded. “Notice, though: with every page, the writing becomes more deteriorated … as if he was not himself. Here’s the very first entry.”
September 11 - I have combed the surrounding woods for almost 2 days. From the moment I arrived at this lonely cul-de-sac, I knew something of import lay not far within the encircling forest. It is a special place, littered with tribal relics of the Unalachtigo: arrowheads, gorgets and intact pottery - a remarkable discovery that suggests little human or animal traffic in these parts since the days of the Indians. The Minsi division definitely roamed these woods. But there is more - something that I sense was a part of their culture and yet wholly alien. I have found several objects bearing carved markings that are highly uncharacteristic of Lenape art. Pipes, prayer beads, even banner stones - all remarkably intact - are etched with a design that bears an irrefutable resemblance to ancient Persian amulets of protection against Zefonith. I sense that the existence of the Minsi of this immediate area was defined by something threatening. I will get to the bottom of it. Since I arrived yesterday, I cannot stop thinking about this puzzle. I have spent the entire night and all of this morning roaming the woodland. Now I will sleep.
Sutherland turned to the rustic. Mills had become fidgety. He sported an ill-favored look that the Brit simply could not get used to. “Were you with him during his wanderings?” “Not at all. I mean, I took him to Millville once, a few days back, but I ain’t never been in those woods, no further than you can throw a football, anyway.” “How long have you lived here?” Sutherland asked, his unease growing even greater, if that were possible. “All my life, Sir.” Sutherland folded his arms stiffly. “And even as a child, you never had the urge to explore this tract of forest? I find that most interesting, Mr. Mills.” “Oh, I did,” Mills said. “But my dad said I should never walk past sight o’ the trailers. My grand-dad too. He knew these woods. Told me once about ‘em, said it was very bad to disturb the Indian places. He spoke their language … somethin’ about those woods scared him.” Sutherland shook his head in dismay. The whole of the Barrens was suffused with a residue of negative energy that he had sensed from the start. It carried a taint, an aura of desolation the likes of which he’d never encountered — and Mills’s land was at the threshold of its epicenter. Osborn had spent entire nights within the forest, alone. What had gotten over the bloke? “Why don’t you read on, Bill?” Sutherland nodded. Junia seemed no less off-kilter than he, and yet her eyes sparkled with … was it curiosity?
September 12 - I discovered a wealth of information at the Millville Library. Historical records dating back to American colonial times. Now things begin to make sense. There are several notes regarding the Unalachtigo in this region. According to these notes, the Indians had largely migrated west by 1700, when Dutch settlement around the Delaware Bay was at its peak. A small tribe remained - an offshoot of the Tuckahoe clan. They were Minsi, but unlike their brethren, these folk never moved far beyond their territory. They were secretive to the point of isolationism. They were given to religious practices shunned by other clans. Unalachtigo superstitions passed down the generations and eventually conveyed to the colonials detailed horrific rituals performed by the Tuckahoe Clan, many involving human sacrifice, cannibalism and infanticide. From what I could gather, an eldritch evil was said to hang over the Tuckahoe such that no clan dared attack them. I suspect that their perverse religion was to blame. Just what role the worship of Zefonith played in all of this is uncertain, but the implications are disturbing. In ancient Mesopotamia, cult worship of Zefonith involved ritual sacrifice. But I am not yet satisfied with what proof I have. That is all for now. I am exhausted. I have not slept in two days. And I have developed a curious tremor which is likely related to my insomnia. The woods are restless at night, and very strange sounds have tormented me since my arrival. Hopefully tonight I shall be able to ignore them.
Sutherland shifted uncomfortably. Part of him did not want to read on. Whatever Osborn’s sentiment, his proof was good enough for the savant. “I wonder what devilry he’s unearthed,” Sutherland said with a glance at Junia. The woman looked askance. “I suspect the answer lies in the rest of his notations.” “Then you would be stating the obvious,” Sutherland said unabashedly. “But what I’m really wondering is what brought you here all the way from Massachusetts. I don’t imagine it was out of the goodness of your heart, now, was it?” “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Junia said, her eyes widening. “But if what you want is an honest exchange, let’s start with why you’re wearing gloves in the middle of September.” Mills shrank back as his guests squared off for a war of wills. Sutherland’s gaze could have drilled holes into the lady from Arkham. His Gift allowed him to read the auras of others, but his attempts to pierce the shroud of mystery around the woman had failed miserably. He was at a loss, and the very notion angered him to no end. “Mr. Mills, I’d like a word with Junia here … privately.” Mills gave a sharp nod and slinked away, head bowed low. However simple his mind may have been, the man knew not to get caught between a hammer and anvil. “Sure enough. I’ll be in my trailer … call if you need anything.” Sutherland waited to hear the door slam. “Let’s do away with the charades, shall we?” “Why don’t we?” said Junia sternly. Sutherland chose his words carefully. “It would be helpful if we could … pool our talents to solve this mystery. There is more at stake here than academic recognition … ” “Is that why you think I’m here?” balked Junia. “How amusing. I know what is at stake, and I will admit to you that for weeks I have been drawn to this very locale. There is psychic energy here — more than I have experienced in a very long time — and it is growing.” “Then you are a Sensitive,” said Sutherland. “You … have the Gift. As I suspected.” “Correct. And I dissuaded your friend — and I am assuming he was your friend — from coming here. This is an evil place. It was been so for millennia. A ley line nexus lies very near, and whatever abominable practices took place on these grounds has tainted it. The cycle of the nexus dictates that very few centuries, its aura waxes to full blossom, stirring the terrible evil that lies deep in the forest.” Sutherland put a hand to his face. A ley line nexus. It explained much. Such places were rare indeed. Ley lines, he knew, were psychic phenomena, linear fields that traversed the earth at specific points, along which the Veil was thinnest. From such lines emanated ethereal — psychic — energy. Such emanations were beacons of sustenance for the formless hordes that lived beyond mortal perception. “But what could your presence here have accomplished?” “Nothing. But I was afraid that Osborn’s meddling might awaken whatever terror lies in the wood. It is guarded by a watcher. I sensed it even as you did. I also guessed that you, too, have the Talent.” Sutherland nodded begrudgingly. “I am retro-cognitive. I’m also adept at psychometry; I learn of things through visions that come to me by reading the aura of objects.” “I know what psychometry is,” said Junia. “That explains your gloves. But what do you hide beneath your shirt?"
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