Steve Shell

He might still be driving half-starved hill folk to madness with a whisper, but he'd long since grown too weak to affect her.

His days on this plane were numbered.

EP's voice echoed from the depths, harsh and resonant, as his children flinched, snapping to attention.

Yes, sir.

Conrad rose to his feet, gesturing to the heavy crate that Polly had noticed when she entered the sanctuary.

Polly strolled over to the crate, resting a hand lightly against its surface as she examined it.

The wood was cold to the touch, but seemed unremarkable otherwise.

You'll see.

Polly knelt down to peer inside through one of the holes carved into the black walls of the box.

Her eyes widened in surprise.

I'd be happy to take it off your hands.

Polly narrowed her eyes and shot her brother's a poisonous smile.

Crane and Churchman rose to their feet and dutifully hoisted the unwieldy crate between them.

She headed for the door, footsteps echoing on the stairs, and the two hollow men followed.

Polly had learned long ago what could happen if you turned your back on Benuel Barrow, and she didn't think it wise to underestimate Conrad either.

It paid to be cautious.

The two clerks occupying the front desk in the lobby snapped to attention as soon as they saw her, one holding her coat for her while the other held the door open for her companions.

Polly put on her coat, hat, and gloves and followed the two men outside.

They had already loaded the crate onto the back of the car, and Mr. Churchman was sliding behind the wheel.

Mr. Crane awaited Polly, holding the back door open for her.