Even now, as he returns home, he knows there’s no night of R&R awaiting. His daughter Cassie is off at NYU, but he could call her, could have her come over. They’d eat some ice cream from the corner store, maybe watch a movie. Maybe Die Hard. It’s his favorite movie – how could it not be? She pretends it’s hers, too. Maybe it really is, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that she does it to make him happy. Even says all the lines along with him. Such a good girl.

But tonight’s not about the R&R, it’s about more work. They’re coming up on the blasting radius for the nexus of the three tunnels. He’s got to sit and work on the blasting pattern. It’ll come to him. How to open up Water Tunnel #3 without bringing the other ones crashing down on their heads – drowning his crew and drying up the city.

He steps into the house. Peels off his boots. Roots through the fridge for a beer.

“Daddy.”

He turns. “Cassie!” There stands his daughter. His baby girl. His heart swells.

“Look at you, girl. Surprising an old man like that.” He winks and points the beer at her. “You should be more careful. Could give a fella a heart attack.”

She smiles. “Can I have a hug, Daddy?”

A hug? That’s not like her. She’s not the huggy type. Not after their mother passed. Still. NYU’s been hard on her. He sets the beer down, steps forward–

Her eyes.

Oh, god, her eyes.

Those aren’t her eyes.

Move you old bastard.

He turns, throws the beer bottle–

Already “Cassie” is ducking it – brown bottle pops, foam everywhere – and she moves fast. He grabs for a French knife out of the block next to the toaster, but it’s too late – Cassie spins him around, wrenches his head back. He feels his vertebrae pop. He sees her mouth open: foul teeth descend. Snakeface, he thinks. Which means Cassie is dead. Or bled out somewhere.

He brings the blade up into Not-Cassie’s gut.

Then teeth tear into his neck.

The world lifts upward as though pulled on strings.

Darkness launches forth to replace it.

Sorago stands over the miner’s body as the Vollrath slithers forward and plunges its blade-fingers into the corpse’s head and heart.

Then it begins to noisily drink from the body. Not blood. But information. Knowledge. Memories.

The Naga presses his tentacle-hand against the wound in his gut. It comes away sticky with smoldering blood. The human wounded him. Disappointing. It’ll heal because he’ll make it heal. The medicine lies there on the floor before him, after all.

“Do we have what we need?”

A LIFE OF PAIN AND LITTLE PLEASURE.

“That is not what I mean.” Then he adds: “Dread Chevalier.” An unpleasant honorific, but the Vollrath seem to prefer it.