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hope, in amalgam, that powered the undead giant known as
the Missing Child.
Lilly placed her blackened, twisted hand to my face. “You
poor, poor monster. So broken, so beautiful. Go to them.
We will tend to these fools for as long as we are able. Find
your family, Vincent, and avenge us all for being so rudely
awoken from such a beautiful dream.” I kissed her upon her
spoiling forehead and rose from the gathering of children,
changed.
My tears held the smoke from my eyes as I strode through
the fire, crushing the fools who rose against me. I now moved
through the hordes of soldiers with a new conviction, a new
burning dream—dead children lifted from grave to glory,
thrilling through black skies, with bits of rolling thunder
surging through their hopeful hearts.
I reached the last door—a fabricated drawbridge, barred
shut by a length of red-hot iron. Standing before it was the
Prince of Smoke, holding a dagger in each hand, laughing.
However, the laughter was not the property of any one single
triplet, but rather the conjoined cackling of the lot of them.
“I see you are finally coming to understand things, Family
Man—if only slightly. Yet secrecy is ever the magician’s
prerogative, is it not?”
I clenched my fists, every fiber of them aching from the
absence of my sweet sisters. “I’m rather relieved to see
you’re not nearly so dull as I had been led to believe via
our many conversations together. Regrettably, like the many
interesting individuals before you, I must remove you from
my kill list. And because of what you have done, you will be
removed with great and painful prejudice.”
The Prince twirled a dagger and smiled. “Out of respect for
the Game—and no small amount of fear of consequence—
I’ve not inspected your kill list. However, I’m certain it
isn’t nearly so extensive with crossed-out names as mine.
Soon, you will discover why that is.” I hoped his surprise
was more than the realization that the Prince of Smoke was
250 | Mark Anzalone