Rasta man gone astray, the devout artist had adopted flesh for his canvas.

Everything about him was dark, the curl of his brows, and even his countenance when he eased back and stood, studying his handiwork.

The silent woman in the claw-toed tub sat leaning forward. The thick braid of her hair was twisted into a knot. Like his hand, the bathwater was muddy with her blood and neat little slivers of her skin.

The pattern three quarter ways carved into her back was Yggdrasil. Gnarly roots coiling deep...