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Closing the double doors behind me, I could feel the
ample spaces around me piling with an elder time—a
forgotten age of cold stone and burned offerings. Tom
was setting up shop, his ancient props—idols and alters
and antlers—materializing. Prehistoric shadows flooded
the chapel, removing the contemporary darkness entirely,
allowing lost epochs purchase upon the present. This was to
be our last stand—we would finish things here.
My father shook with poorly contained anger as the
leather of my gloves began to smolder. He was still quite
upset over his mistreatment at the secret-seizing hands of
the ancient god.
Tom’s words came from across eons as much as from
across the room. “I’m left wondering, Vincent, if I should
take your secret with me. There’s little flavor to be had in the
eating of a secret that’s not yet ripe. And while most secrets
are tastiest just before the telling, yours seems like it would
be spoiled if eaten a moment before it was told.”
“You speak as though you’ve been given invitation to eat
of my secret, whatever it might be, but I don’t feel inclined
to turn it over to you just yet,” I said. “You may find my
mysteries harder to acquire than those of a dusty folklorist.
But of course, you know this already.”
“Please!” The god shouted. “You face a timeless opponent,
Vincent. Do you truly think my violence your inferior? Your
hands have gripped weapons less than a lifetime. I’ve been
eating secrets long before man had hands.”
I recalled the god’s aim with a gun and chuckled at the
superiority of his violence. “I suppose I grasp some measure
of your problem, Secret Eater, but I can see no resolution to
it, save for the testing of your timeless violence.” I hefted
my father in both hands. “Which, as you can see, I’ve come
prepared for.”
Tom Hush smiled. “Oh, the violence is inevitable,
certainly! I wouldn’t dream of leaving without it! But it’s
the degree to which I should want to apply that violence that
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