It was perhaps the sixth hour of the evening when he returned to the hovel, bursting through the curtained door, yelling as he came – ‘Jean, we have one hell of a fucking problem . . .’ The Falconer stood in the centre of the little room, smirking at Locke, his hand folded before him. Locke took in the tableau in a split second: Ibelius slumped motionless against the far wall, and Jean at the Bondsmage’s feet, writhing in pain.
CAN THIS DUDE DIE ALREADY JFC
