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"You think you got away with something, don't you? But your time has go out. We know what your location is. And we are approaching." The man on the display screen says this in Russian. "Who are you?" The man smiles, but it isn't a pleasant smile. The image freezes. The celluloid uses up wherever his mouth area is, uses up in the almost chiseled U of his smile. His eyes lose, too. The man fades, departing the using up smiley face smoldering on the display screen. "Oh Christ," Andrew says. The tv set catches fireplace. Andrew Ranulf Blankenship is a good looking, stylish nonconformist with wry wit, a classic Mustang, and a massive library. He is also a recovering alcoholic and a training warlock, in a position to speak with the dead through film. His house is a maze of sorcerous booby traps and get away from tunnels, as yours might be if you were seated on the treasury of Russian magic taken from the Soviet Union thirty years ago. Andrew has long known that magic was a brutal game necessitating blood sacrifice and a determination to confront loss of life, but his a long time of tranquility and comfort have gone him smooth, more worried about maintaining false children than with experiencing to his own protection. Now a monster straight from the pages of Russian folklore is approaching for him, and frost and loss of life are approaching with her.