Lamia crouched next to him and touched his pack. “That’s what you’ve been carrying. The pages of your poem. The Cantos.” “Of course,” he said. “And you still think that proximity to the Shrike will allow you to finish it?” Silenus shrugged, feeling the heat and dizziness whirl around him. “The thing is a fucking killer, a sheet-metal Grendel forged in hell,” he said. “But it’s my muse.”
