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dim and orange across half the world, clean-carved smiles
glowing from every window. Or perhaps it will be a global
art gallery, its exhibits filled to bursting with lost dreams,
spilling weird and wonderful from coast to coast, immortal
and explicit.” I fixed my gaze upon the creature. “But you
don’t care anything about that, do you? Your only concern is
that Nighthead might come under the knife, yes? You don’t
need to say anything, I already know your answer. You wish
to end the game by destroying its players, thereby sheltering
your own wicked industries from the Shepherd’s touch. It’s
the purely logical move for your kind to make, after all. I’m
quite sure that somewhere upon your person, perhaps hidden
in some strange metallic compartment, there rests the kill
lists you’ve taken from the fallen Wolves, players your kind
have hunted down and killed. And now you would have my
list.”
The being rose from the table and pushed a button on his
armored forearm. With a tiny hiss of steam, a compartment
opened on his belt. Out tumbled no less than three kill lists.
I decided to continue honestly. “I certainly don’t hold any
of this against you. And if it makes you feel better about
attempting to impede this wonderful Game, I will tell you
I had no intention of leaving here without first tasting the
shadows swimming through your veins. This could very well
be my last time in your magnificent city, should I fall to Jack
Lantern or some other Wolf. I just couldn’t leave without
showing you my art, and basking in your unsurpassed
darkness.”
My vision of the under-city, the rooftop, and the creature
clad in solid shadow winked from sight, but I had already
memorized my surroundings. Immediately, I roused my
father from red dreams, and while the alien dark was
somewhat constrictive, it was not immovable. With a little
effort, I rose and swung my father where I expected to find
my host.

200 | Mark Anzalone