I love this place. It's a shame I might have to burn it to the ground.
As the locals lead Imago and me to the chief's hut, I steal a glance at the glowing tracker display on the blade of my scythe. The signal from the proto-Christ's unique DNA doesn't move; it's coming from somewhere in this village, and it's staying put.
I lean over and whisper to Imago. "She's waiting."
He whispers back. "Preparing to ambush us, no doubt."
I nod. "She knows what I'll do to her." I give my scythe a meaningful flick. "Same thing I did to the other eleven."
"Yes," says Imago as we bend down to enter the low doorway of the hut.
"Father!" Suddenly, a tiny man with shaggy gray hair and a beard leaps up in front of us. He wears a loincloth like the rest of his people and a feathered cloak besides
