Zora stepped out of the midnight fog like a question no one wanted to answer. Moonlight traced the curve of her cheekbone as if trying to read the history written there: centuries of exile, a handful of broken promises, and a hunger that was as much for meaning as for blood. The cobblestones remembered her steps; the city did not. It was easier that way. She slipped between shuttered storefronts, a silhouette that did not quite belong to any era. Streetlights hissed and guttered, and a ragged alleycat hissed back as if recognizing kin.