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The Mother of the Dead looked on from behind her copse
of whited trees, her empty eyes showing wild and worried,
my killing smile butchering her confidence in bestial sons
and the diablerie of wicked mothers.
The Eater of Idols howled as once it had when we first
met, and as before—it charged. But unlike our last contest,
I did not move. We collided like a thunderclap, muscles
tearing and bones creaking, hands threaded in massive
knots. The creature should have overcome me easily, given
its immense size and supernatural pedigree. But I would not
allow it. I crushed its giant hands like eggshells underfoot,
the corded muscles of its claws becoming viscous beneath
my grasp, its bones grinding to dust. I inhaled the Eater’s
screams as they escaped its mouth and spat them back in
its face. I pulled the monster closer, whispering beneath the
din of its pain, “Once I’ve consumed you, I will piss what’s
left of your soul into a hole in the ground. This I promise
you, Usurper.” My grin transformed into flashing jaws as
I ripped out the creature’s lashing tongue and swallowed it
into my guts. I could feel it convulse at its first taste of my
stomach’s bitter acids. The Eater of Idols struggled to free
itself from my grip, but I only put it to its knees, laughing as
thunderously as ever my father had.
Just beyond the glen, straddling the lines that marked the
boundaries of worlds, I sensed another presence—cold and
lean and endless. The Shepherd of Wolves was with me. He
had come with purpose. Here was vengeance.
Sickly yellow clouds began to wheel overhead, and the
air began to sour into a graveyard mist. Forks of lightning
shot from gathering storm clouds as a worried mother tried
to save her lamb from the wolves.
Thunder smashed down upon my mirth, failing to quell
the flood of laughter that overflowed me. Out of sheer
desperation, the Eater lunged at me, its gaping maw trying
to engulf my entire head. I thrust the monster’s own arm
deep into its mouth, my laughter dancing with the fury of
290 | Mark Anzalone