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steal a man’s skin in as little time as it took to bleed. “I’ll not
waste any further words on you, mongrel,” he hissed, slowly
stalking toward me with blades in both his hands. “I’ll let
my actions do the talking,”
“Indeed,” I said, marching to meet him with my own
blades at the ready. “Let’s have a conversation.”
Sparks danced as we came together in steel, muscle,
and dream. We locked our blades together as anger poured
from his bloodshot eyes. I could feel the raw power of the
dream guiding him. His was a quest to perfect the collective
body—a skin for everyone and everyone in their proper skin.
He was a corrector of botched geometry—not some simple
exchanger of skins. He was disgusted that the world had
failed to be honest with itself, concealing vice under virtue,
hiding ugliness beneath beauty, smuggling death behind the
veil of life. He would strip the earth of its dishonesty and
reupholster it with sewn-together skins cut from raw truth.
I felt as though I were pushing against a brick wall—
as did Hide, no doubt. Perhaps it was just a figment of my
own vanity, but I thought I began to feel his wall cracking.
Inopportunely, before our contest could conclude, we were
interrupted by a tumbling beast-head one of my sisters had
delightedly liberated. The bloodied weight of it collided
with our knot of blades. We stepped back from each other,
evaluating.
The atmosphere had become fire and fierceness and
screams. I felt as if we were standing within the very eye
of a tempest, yet my opponent seemed as placid as a puddle
after the rain. He was reassessing me, no doubt—just as I’d
hoped he would. He would take no chances when next we
met, for he would remember my strength and the willpower
that funded its fire. He would remember my eyes, for they
had shown him the darkness I concealed—and they dared
him to cut it from me. For my part, I learned that I was
wrong about the man. There was no vanity within him, just
the desire to put the world right. He was built from the stone
212 | Mark Anzalone