“Arthie Casimir.” The voice was modulated, muffled by something in front of the speaker’s mouth. Like a mask. “And there’s the first reason I should kill you,” Arthie said. “You’ve been following me since Ivylock Street. What do you want?” “You have something of mine,” said the voice. Arthie tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “You’ll have to be more specific.” She heard a shuffle and the figure leaned into the moonlight, illuminating a gilded mask, shadows pooling into the pits of its eyes. The Ram. Fear dropped like a stone inside of her.
