Scythe turns to the eagle on my left, a middle-aged guy with a black receding hairline and pale skin that’s happily familiar. My brother’s voice bears his signature rasp—a predator made into something worse. “Good afternoon, Dirk Halfeather.” “Y-you should be dead,” Halfeather stammers. I chomp down on my prey. Blood bursts in my mouth as I tear out his throat and throw him to the floor, where he thrashes like a fish. I swallow most of the blood, but the crimson liquid of life spills down my chin to my bare chest, mingling with the dried blood already there. This is why shirts are useless. Two
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