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leader, he stood there waiting for me to marvel at the fact
that he was one of an identical triplet. These three were in
the habit of surrounding themselves with admiration, so I
gave them none—not that I truly had any to give.
The third continued. “You don’t recognize us, do you?
Pity. The glory of being three men sharing two singular
identities is obviously lost on you. Or perhaps you’ve been
lost to the wild too long to recognize the fabulous David
Shadowes, the greatest living illusionist this side of the
Great Darkness.
“Still nothing, eh? Well, maybe you might know us by our
second name, The Prince of Smoke—the killer who vanishes
with the night, leaving no trace of himself behind, who has
been likened to a monstrous combination of Houdini and
Jack the Ripper.”
I squinted. “Yes, the last one, perhaps. I may have heard of
you, once or twice. But even Jack the Ripper—or Houdini,
for that matter—is no Jack Lantern or Dooley Hines. Or
even, dare I say, the infamous Family Man.” The trio’s
weakness was quite obvious, so I decided to toy with it.
The third sneered. “You think you’re a match for us, you
shambling pile of mindless muscle? Why then, pray tell,
have you fallen victim to us? Clearly, you’ve been oversold
by the press.”
I shook my head, smiling. “I didn’t say you were my
match. I implied you were my inferior. It would seem that
in this case, three minds are not better than one.” The three
men barely contained their rage. I had high hopes for how
that anger might serve me.
The third clapped his hands, ushering in several
mercenaries. “Well, I suppose at the end of the day, it makes
little difference what a dead man thinks. Fortunately for me
and my now frantic need to see you suffer, you needn’t be
entirely whole for my clever plan to work. You’re going to
wish you were nicer to us, you monstrous oaf.”

238 | Mark Anzalone