His face a singular mask of malevolence, the coolie loomed closer. McCollister sank back into his bedclothes. Rage fired the apparition’s eyes. As if he’d been the one who cut the coolie. As if he’d bound the book.
He’d only wanted to use its power.
Reaching out, the coolie placed his palm against McCollister’s cheek in a strange and gentle caress.
McCollister whimpered. Flesh met flesh, and molten pain spread through his chest. Blood marked the sheet above him.
The coolie laughed.
He took the Testament from beneath McCollister’s pillow and held it before him.
“I am like your god,” he said. “Vengeance is mine.”
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