She seemed to us to be barely more than a child as she leaned hip-shot against the perimeter fence in the sickly light of a dying lamp. We didn’t think she’d be making eating money that night. But then he came. He was tall, big, and warmly wrapped against the cold.
His hand found the girl child’s throat and he dragged her into the darkness. There was one agonised scream.
The girl sauntered out into the fitful light and the red eyes of a golem looked up at us.
“That’s one-nil to justice, should you be keeping score.”
Art by Ian Bristow.
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