Saw it enough times as a child, didn't she? The cold granite lying flat in the grass, the name in dark letters: Mary Constantine, born 3 October 1957, died 10 May 1987. Johanna can feel her shock turning into a confused panic, trying to claw its way up her throat like a crab in a bucket. This has to be something new from the City, some fucked up new method of targeting her soft spots, dragging her secrets yowling and spitting into the street.
"But that's not right," she breathes, dark eyes wide and flicking over him. "Why are you off? What's that supposed to do to me?"
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Saw it enough times as a child, didn't she? The cold granite lying flat in the grass, the name in dark letters: Mary Constantine, born 3 October 1957, died 10 May 1987. Johanna can feel her shock turning into a confused panic, trying to claw its way up her throat like a crab in a bucket. This has to be something new from the City, some fucked up new method of targeting her soft spots, dragging her secrets yowling and spitting into the street.
"But that's not right," she breathes, dark eyes wide and flicking over him. "Why are you off? What's that supposed to do to me?"