THWACK.
The barbed Clause-Pulp harpoon slammed into the heavy canvas of Thomas Vance’s right lapel.
The sheer kinetic force of the compressed air shot drove the tall inspector two full paces backward into the flooded street. The back of his heavy trench coat hit the cast-iron municipal lamppost with a dull, hollow clang that rattled the glass globe high above his head.
The razor-sharp point had punched two inches through the dark wool, piercing the stiff layers of 1996 linen beneath.
Gray paper fibers, fine as spider silk and cold as grave dust, leaked from the puncture wound like dry, powdery blood.
“Dad!” Clara screamed.
She broke away from the sidewalk before Mac could catch her coat. Her boots splashed through the standing water as she reached her father’s side, her hands reaching out toward the torn fabric of his chest.
“Clara, don’t touch the loose fiber!” Elena barked, dropping to her knees in the flooded street beside them.
