Fluke

He was a stringy mongrel, wandering the streets of the city, driven by a ravenous hunger and hunting a quarry he could not define. But he was something more. Somewhere in the depths of his consciousness was a memory clawing its way to the surface, tormenting him, refusing to let him rest. The memory of what he had once been. A man . . .

‘The author has an undeniable knack for thrilling, as few other writers have . . . he sure can tell a devil of a story’ Literary Review