Page 189 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

the sprawling city, the echoes of painful light still rang within
my ears and burned beneath my seared skin. The antlered
god’s half-finished meal of dark secrets still lay upon the
floor of my mind, spoiling.
I confined my wanderings to those streets caught in the
melting ocher of twilight. As one who had tasted some
small flavor of my dreams, Marvin could reasonably expect
to find me in such places. At one point, I found myself on
a stretch of street that seemed impossibly narrow, capable
of admitting only the slimmest cars and thinnest crowds.
It seemed oddly comforting, however, like warm blankets
pulled thick and close on a cold winter’s night. I gazed
upward, and the gestating night sky appeared pinched by the
closely crowded rooftops, resembling a star-flecked creek
pouring infinitely overhead.
There were others walking the street as well, barely
perceptible beneath the ripening darkness. They conducted
themselves like cold draughts of wind, drifting aloofly,
slaves to their darkest selves. Nighthead had always been
a darling of the dark, sheltering more shadows than sunset,
and I was almost overwhelmed by my swelling curiosity to
know even one of the stranger’s stories.
It was sometime after midnight when I detected a familiar
whisper, wandering lonely and soft across a thickly trash-
lined lane. “Hello,” came the little whisper, almost lost to
the rustling wind and the crackle of urban decay.
“Hello, Marvin,” I said. “I’m pleased to see you again. I
was hoping we might suspend our obligations to the Game,
if only for a moment, so that we might chat.”
“Actually,” said the whisper, “he’s of no mind to hurt
you, and we’re happy to see you, too. We’d love to chat, but
I’m afraid that we’re both very, very hurt. Since there’s no
longer a chance for him to win the contest, he wanted me to
find you and wish you luck. It seems likely that you and he
share some history, or at least a relative. He knows what you
saw in that dream from so many nights back.”
192 | Mark Anzalone