A Rope of Thorns (2011)
“Next, however, he found himself sat up alongside Reverend Rook in one of a matched pair of chairs cunningly cobbled together from what looked—and felt, horribly—like bone: slim, slick, yellowed like ivory, bound haphazardly together with sinew and hexation alike.
What hit Morrow like a knife through the gut, though, was the where of it all: a wide plain, acres in size, wheat rippling like a wind-tossed sea. At the far edge, Morrow knew, a zigzag splinter-board fence divided their lot from its neighbour; a tall man silhouetted against the sunset light was using the day’s last hours to continue scything there, slow and steady. Morrow felt the land’s faint slope under his feet, rising gradually to the three-roomed farmhouse and silo behind him. The air smelled of grain, woodsmoke, and autumn.
Rook breathed deep, smiling. Huge, black-clad, framed in jagged yellow bone, his very presence made a tangible hole. “Now this,” he said, “is a place for the righteous, Ed.
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