Steve Shell

The air inside that place grew unaccountably cold, far colder than the snow that fell on the mountains around Coal Hill dread voices.

echoed up from the places below in a language that even Conrad and Benuel could not understand, and E.P.

's sons quaked with fear.

And then, on a bleak night in the heart of winter, beneath a moonless, empty sky, the heavy chains rattled and clanked again as E.P.

's box emerged from the depths.

and unto him was born a daughter.

Holly Barrow was everything the Barrow patriarch could have desired in his progeny.

Brilliant, beautiful, and strong.

Oh, so strong.

Her particular talents began to manifest at the tender age of three when a well-meaning nanny clasped the hand of the fussy toddler who wanted to stay outside and chase lightning bugs around the family's sprawling country estate rather than come inside for dinner.

The young woman had only meant to draw the little girl alongside her into the house, but Polly responded with force.

Her tiny hand morphing subtly into a huge gauntlet armored with plates of bone, and little Polly had simply crushed the bones of the nanny's hand.

And then her mutant paw returned to its normal dimension, slipped free of her pulpy grasp, and returned to trailing her new glowing friends around the manicured lawn.

EP could not have been more proud.

His daughter's strength was matched only by her relentlessness in pursuit of her aims, and E.P.

set about honing her into a weapon that could be used deftly in any number of situations, depending on his need.

E.P.

needed a tool that was versatile, adaptable, and above all, ruthless.

And Pretty Polly more than fit the bill.

Were their palms to be greased in the halls of government?