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Summary
Watching the dying woman’s slowly rising chest with your hands upturned on your thighs, you vaguely feel like you’ve been sat at an altar of worship, to take part in communion of a different kind – the kind that Nadja beside you knows as well as a dead man’s flesh on her tongue.
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There's no worse (or better) day to work a night shift than when Nadja of Antipaxos arrives in London. She is bound to be angry, and very, very hungry.