Page 24 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

and silence belonged to someone who had cultivated it,
trained it, cared for it.
I had carelessly allowed a white blade of moonlight to
slice past me when I opened the door. The cold light cut
into the subterranean depths, stabbing deep into the cellar.
Quickly and quietly, I closed the door, repairing the dark,
but the master of those deep places would now be alerted to
my intrusion. I pressed on.
It was clear what I stalked was no mere human, but a man-
of-prey. Whether he was a true artist, however, remained to
be seen. I joined my silence with the hunter’s, and I moved
through the gloom to the bottom of the stairs. Deep in the
underground, a weak light flickered—candlelight. This was
either a distraction or a signpost. The smell of burning wax
hung thick. The candles had been lit long before my arrival.
I moved closer to the dancing radiance, wary of surprise.
Somewhere, wrapped in obedient shadows, was the other.
He would be waiting for me to make a mistake. I would
make none. The darkness was not my own, but it would
serve me nonetheless.
I slipped behind the flitting shadows of the candlelit room,
touring as much as stalking. Even in such circumstances,
I would spare nothing my wonder. The next chamber I
entered was large and crowded with the forgotten ornaments
of faith, and as I rounded a stack of boxes, barely touched by
the trembling light, I was confronted by the bodies of over a
dozen crucified men. They were arranged in no discernible
order, most little more than crumpled paper dolls. All of
them rotting upon crosses beneath the dimmest light, arms
wide—welcoming the flies that wreathed them. Hayden Trill
was indeed an artist.
Death had frozen horrified and pleading expressions to
their faces, save one. The most recent victim, a corpse less
than a week old, wore a death mask of an entirely different
disposition—rage and indignation. This man was fierce even
in death, his sunken eyes still holding echoes of a terrible
The Red Son | 27