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short of such a victory was pale glory indeed, an insult to
my truest gifts and those of my adversary. I could only
hope that Hide’s wild anger would render into a leaner and
more capable presence of mind—one that would furnish his
inevitable defeat some measure of respect, and convey to me
a reasonable sense of satisfaction for having felled such a
pleasing opponent.
It was no secret as to why Hide chose Willard as his
sanctum. No sane manifestation of the law would dare come
near the mad city, let alone cross into its deeply despised and
thoroughly haunted interior. Had it not been for his inclusion
within the Shepherd’s Game—and subsequent paring with
myself—Mister Hide would have lasted until his bones could
no longer bear the weight of his borrowed skins, killing and
skin-switching his way into darkest infamy. Yet all good
things must end, the saying goes. Ironically, it was just such
a sentiment that Hide’s death would serve to contradict—
good things would be made to last forever.
Perhaps the current defect in Hide’s temperament would
be offset by my obsession with Willard’s rambling aesthetic.
Even if the insanity that informed it was not as closely related
to dreams as I had always assumed, it was still a marvel to
behold. Of course, in keeping with the justification I have
previously supplied, Hide had chosen the most horrific
monument in the city as his home—or at least the most
horrific monument fit for mortal habitation. Deleriael would
likely have asked a terrible rent for his delightfully morbid
tower—a price greater than any mortal boarder, even a
skin-switching one, was likely to afford. Though, for being
merely the second greatest source of architectural absurdity,
the structure commanded only a slightly smaller share of
awe.
The building had clearly been the product of a prolonged
effort amongst the town’s lunatics, surpassing most of
its constructed peers in both scale and vision. Whatever
the purpose intended for the structure, I was fairly certain
318 | Mark Anzalone