Page 243 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

buckle my powers. My hands instinctively went to the space
where once dwelt my father, finding only air. Having no
apparent route to victory, I sought out the silence beneath
the fire and guns and smoke. I felt the soft cold of the hidden
quiet splash over my broken body, repairing me, if only
slightly.
I breeched the darkness within a large cluster of
soldiers. Disappointingly, the circumstances allowed little
opportunity for art, so I dispatched the armed assemblage
with little gusto, replacing flourish with brutal minimalism.
It was a quick piece, but it had the desired effect upon my
intended audience—a renewed fear.
Before I could exploit the fruits of my labor, the Prince
was upon me. Where he came from I cannot say, but his
blade turned crimson cartwheels in my guts. Had it not
been for the timely intervention of a brick I’d pulled from
the wall, I might have been emptied there on the spot. The
magician reeled from the blast of my crude weapon, but did
not fall—he seemed to melt into the piles of bodies that lay
all around me, as if matter were no more restrictive to him
than mist.
I speculated that the brothers were dressed alike, attacking
at different times from different directions. After all, they
had bragged to me about how they all shared a single
identity. Publicly, they played at being the illusionist—
David Shadowes. Privately, they assumed the mantle of the
deadly Prince of Smoke. And while I could not speak to the
persona of David Shadowes, the Prince of Smoke seemed
more like a complete entity, replete with a cultivated skill
for killing, and not simply a single trick played by three
brothers. I had paid careful attention to the brothers over
the course of my stay in their castle, and never did I detect
anything that might have passed for even the slightest sign
of a killing grace. Something wicked and truly wonderful
was afoot with them.

246 | Mark Anzalone