by xpoison
Some miracles are grown. Hellblooms are not flowers in the natural sense. They are rare, volatile, impossibly powerful. Those who consume them gain abilities shaped by something deep within themselves: anger, faith, obsession, will. The power lasts, but not forever. Toussaint learned that on a battlefield where he should have died. He has been living on borrowed time ever since, moving through the margins of a world that prefers not to see what its miracles cost. Now hunters compete in the open. Governments study what they cannot control. Entire communities build systems around belief. Because Hellblooms expire. And no one who has tasted one wants to return to being ordinary.
