Planet Hate. James Axler
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acknowledgment. Like Grant, Kane wore a shadow suit, which he had chosen to augment with a battered old leather jacket of a worn brown color, its slick surface scuffed and bearing a patch across one elbow. The jacket was still dusted with the soil of the little village between the cliffs where he and his companions had been ambushed by the worshippers of Ullikummis. He also wore his favored black boots—also scuffed—one of the last survivors of his Magistrate days, and dark pants held up by a belt with a large buckle of dull, gunmetal finish.
Kane stood by one of the windows, his broad shoulders leaning back against the frame, his legs crossed at the ankles. Over six feet tall, Kane looked imposing when he stood to his full height, his steel-gray eyes boring into you like a laser beam beneath his dark brows. With his long and rangy arms and legs, there was something of the wolf to Kane’s physical appearance. There was something of the wolf in his nature, too, both a natural pack leader and a loner as the need arose.
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