Page 275 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

list, from A to Z, of every Wolf left in the contest, written in
the rigid script of a corpse, the neatest of lines crossing out
the names of the dead.” Among the other unusual features of
the monster’s itinerary, there lurked a stark departure from
any murderer’s catalogue he’d ever seen before—there was
one name which wasn’t crossed off, but only had a question
mark next to it. He only glimpsed the first name. Vincent.
Entry 3
My captor has taken to calling me by a new title, and
I have to admit, I really like it—the Grey Scribe. I feel it
somewhat dignifies an otherwise undignified station, as well
as an otherwise undignified person.
Today I’m writing to you from the top of a ruined church,
balanced quite precariously between two jutting turrets.
Mr. Grey has insisted that I accompany him on his newest
dalliance with death. I’m none too thrilled to be here, but
I must confess, the view is quite amazing. The wind up
here feels like God’s breath whispering across my body,
the Lord’s face just barely discernible within the gathering
darkness, slowly disappearing behind the herd of clouds
presently lumbering overhead. I forget too often—especially
of late—that I’m a writer, if not a particularly good one. Yet
even I prove capable of a few decent sentences, now and
then, and this place seems to be facilitating their creation.
My owner explained to me—earlier this morning, while I
made him eggs and toast—that there’s been much ado about
this new player in the Game, having killed quite a number
of its participants. “The contest itself has become a hunted
thing, and each Wolf that falls to the interloper will bring the
dream closer to waking. This cannot be allowed. But while
the beast has all our names, we know nothing of it. Some of
us, those who are disposed to speak, have suggested hunting
it together. You must bear witness to this, for the Wolves
shall become a great ravening pack, and we shall taste the
blood of this trespasser.”

278 | Mark Anzalone