Cuts concrete

Ghorm’s frigid, syrupy blood pumped through an overworked heart the size of a cantaloupe, which at last convulsed and stopped from fear. Yet before his spirit could flee the dying body, a crack resounded from beneath his chair. “Oh dear.” Something had undermined the floor, and gravity—ever Ghorm’s harshest foe—seized hold, dropping him through the layer of crumbling concrete. He struck one level below, chair buckling beneath his mass.
There she was: perched upside down on the ceiling, the claws she’d used to cut away his floor gleaming in the dim. For eyes there were just two pinpricks of frosty blue light, a stare that was nothing but hate. When she dropped from the ceiling and bowed close, he saw how that light came from her irises. She had eyes of truest black, the rings of blue contracted thin—a sign she’d consumed psilocybin mushrooms, allowing her to spot him even if he fled his body.


Chapter 17, Page 263-264