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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It was time that my first father be known to the world. I
unearthed the rest of his works and placed them upon the
burning stage of my former home. I took one last look at
the family that could never have been, then replaced into
sleep the family that had taken their place. Of the Prince of
Smoke, there was nothing left save perhaps the stuff of his
namesake. I had given him over to the fire, and his bones I
had smashed to dust.
Throughout the Shepherd’s Game, I’d endeavored to
maintain the dignity and vision of those who had fallen to
me. Never had I reveled in the death of a single artist or
hunter or Wolf, and never had I the desire to do so. This
competition did us all the kindness and decency of placing
its boundaries beyond the world, and as such, I believed it
was our obligation to strive to exhaust those boundaries—
not to settle on keeping the ball, so to speak, in the mud
of the physical realm. I resolved to show no consideration
to those who played the Game for the sake of solidity and
namesake, especially those who would disrespect and
malign its players. Those sorts I would destroy, utterly. And
so the Prince of Smoke’s name was struck from my list and
from the world, as completely as could be managed.
My mood improved once I recalled my next destination—
Willard, where dwelt the skin-switcher, Mr. Hide. I was
relieved to know that my next opponent had both feet firmly
planted in wonder—even if he was a bit caught up with his

262 | Mark Anzalone