A deafening crack rent the brumal silence beneath the Clybourn Station Bridge. The vagrants who lived in its shadow were accustomed to strangeness, but the furious sound sent even the most street-hardened scurrying from their whiskey and warm fire to the sanctuary of deeper darkness.

  A crackling wind tore through the viaduct then faded with a sizzle.

  The vagrants watched the site with skilled eyes. Spotting and avoiding trouble was how they stayed alive. The viaduct remained unchanged: littered with trash, bordered by a broken chain-link fence, scattered with furniture. A lone drumfire defiantly pushed against the cold.

  One of the younger ones, Manny, stepped into the open, drawn to the fire and the whiskey bottle lying beside it. He was new to the streets, too green to know the danger in moving blind through the dark.

  The others hissed at him to hold back, their veteran instincts sensing something off in the rhythms of shadows — something dangerous stirring in the gloom.

  But Manny was either too drunk or too determined to listen.

  The entity emerged from the darkness as if slipping out of night's womb—pale, slender woman with long black hair, towering, unsettling frame. The drum fire's light caught on her skin, casting glittering orange shards. She moved with eerie grace, using her unnaturally long arms to seize the shadows, covering her nakedness in their abyssal silk.

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  Her yellow eyes watched Manny pick up the whiskey. Oblivious, he unscrewed the cap and slugged the fiery liquid, releasing a hoarse sigh of satisfaction. At last, he noticed his companions — their stricken postures and terrified eyes.

  Frowning, he scratched his head. "What's with you guys?"

  He followed their gaze, turning slowly. His gaze traveled upward—sinewy legs, a scarred torso, and then a pale face with burning yellow eyes that seared into his own.

  The air thickened, pressing in with unbearable. The dark angel spread its arms and purred.

  "Who among you knows the whereabouts of Dynamos Lathe?" The angels rough voice was like sand scraping over canvas.

  The bottle slipped from Manny's fingers, shattering on the walkway in a tinkling cascade.

  The she-demon sniffed, glaring at Manny. A sharky grin of tombstone teeth spread across her features.

  "What of thou?" it purred. "Can you lead me to Lathe?"

  Warmth spread across Manny's pants. Trembling, Manny managed to shake his head.

  The assassin known as The Little Knife’s eyes gleamed, her fingers twitching eagerly as she loomed over her prey, a dark artist poised before her canvas. In the hours that followed, with each cut and every inch of flesh peeled back, her victims would swear to know Dynamos Lathe. Later, when their fingernails were stripped away, they would insist they were more than friends—closer than brothers.

  Eventually, as the Little Knife severed appendages and dangled them with the giddiness of a kid opening their Christmas presents, each man would claim intimate knowledge of Dynamos Lathe. Their agonized screams filled the air.

  But these were lies trumpeted in the madness of suffering, which did nothing to quicken their death or dim the fires of the Little Knife's sadistic enthusiasm.

  She was thorough, her blade slow, and she enjoyed her work.