a skull so large and jagged it could only be a Black. Clay paused for a closer look, eyes tracking over the many teeth to the gaping nostrils and eye-sockets until he found a single ragged hole in the centre of the beast’s forehead. “Is this . . . ?” he began, causing Braddon to linger on the stairs. “That’s him,” he said. “Harvesters made a gift of him a couple of years back, part-payment for a hefty consignment of Green and Red. Finest shot I ever took.” Clay found himself unable to look away from the skull’s empty eyes, imagining what they must have seen that day. You killed my mother, he
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