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not alone. I had calculated the absence of Doctor Coldglow
and his protégé as soon as I gazed upon Hide’s art, that
beautiful thing partaking in equal measure from myself
and the spoiling giant nearby. Yet it was not the hypnotist
or his companion, but the very Angel of Madness itself, the
irrepressible Deleriael. I denied its presence for as long as
I was able, though I wanted nothing more than to converse
with the thing. But ultimately, I knew it would be to my
mind’s peril. I understood that the real failure of insanity
lay in its false victory against the Deadworld, its host made
to believe they’d burned it down, when in fact they bore
only the smoke of a great fire—none of its heat. And yet, the
very thought of conjuring such phantom flames, however
illusory, was extremely tempting to me. Too tempting. It
was because of such thinking the angel chose to speak with
me, or possibly because it realized I’d recently regained the
use of my speech, my lips having finally returned.
I watched as one of the skinned lunatics broke from his
circle of dancing White Wigs, a blazing laughter of light
forming a strange, wheeling design above his head, its
brilliance throwing the shadows of the skinless dancers
upon the wall, where they silently twirled and pirouetted and
leapt. Deleriael’s host calmly walked to where I stretched
out upon the floor. He sat down and joined me as I marveled
at the shadow show. After a few minutes, without turning
away from the darksome sights, Deleriael said, “There
is strength in numbers, Vincent. You would not be alone.
We would be with you, sharing an interim world of finest
foxfire until finally, inexorably, we grew the real thing. A
fire made from fever dreams and dragon’s breath, enough to
burn down heaven and hell both, leaving nothing behind but
the souls they’d stolen away. All of them—us—now free to
wallow in a world without walls. Is that really so bad, my
stubborn friend?”

354 | Mark Anzalone