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“He wanted you to see, to appreciate what was coming
for you,” the whisper informed me. “He said that he’ll be
coming for you soon, but not quite yet. He wants you to
have time to run. He really likes a good chase. I’m very
sorry about all this, but he drew your name.”
“No apologies necessary, little whisper,” I replied. “I
completely understand. But may I trouble you to send a
message to the creature that killed you?”
“Yes, of course,” the whisper said. “What would you like
him to know?”
“He drew the wrong name.”
The whisper, which was quite likely the killer himself—
split personalities were as common as colds after the
Darkness—had already silently departed when I heard the
first sirens. I was surprised to see the throngs of police cars
and other emergency vehicles. I had traveled the wilds
between cities for so long, I’d almost forgotten about the
formal consequences of murder.
As for the whisper, he was no one I recalled, but the sheer
scope of his work spoke to a thoroughly practiced monster,
well versed in the ways of killing and vanishing. And I
must admit that at first, his brushstrokes seemed hopelessly
uninspired, merely the feral craft of a common thrill-killer.
But when I looked out from that high vantage, beyond the
crows and corpses, it all came together into a finely woven
tapestry of death and solidified purpose.
The killer had deliberately recreated a scene from one
of my memories. No doubt the image had been somehow
preserved within the dream the killer had stolen from me.
The memory seemed to be a selection from some portion
of my dimly remembered past, as it possessed no context,
just texture—bodies and ruins and fire. It was a distant and
time-yellowed recollection, and carried with it the smell of
burning flowers.
All that I recalled beyond the image and the fragrance was
that my mother was present in the memory. I could clearly
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