Page 367 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

The cameraman’s expression finally changed, and a
hissing chorus from under the endless bars begged me to
spare the device. Slowly, with visibly restrained resentment,
the photographer reached out his hand and offered me the
picture.
The second the picture was in hand, the scene vanished
from sight. But the eyes of the photographer—the Spirit
Photographer—stayed with me long after, a pleasantly
haunting recollection. When the world reappeared, I found
myself next to the rock where the theft had occurred, the
black and bleached remains still present.
The Wolf was the albino, Edith Suggz, otherwise known
as the Salt Witch. She earned the name due to her many
victims having been discovered in a particular salt marsh,
and the presence of strange sing-song lights whenever she
was about her terrible work. A celebrated monster, her
exploits were given to much fear and wonder, cementing her
invitation to the Game. And here she was, the sum of her
life’s presence and purpose, small and delicate in my hand,
one merciful gesture from oblivion. It seemed a poor end for
one so wonderfully wicked.
I could feel the frigidity of her hateful soul through
the slight contact my fingers exercised upon her laminated
spirit. Unsurprisingly—and in keeping with the nature of
the Game—just when I’d resigned myself to committing
only one last kill, the Shepherd called upon me to end yet
another Wolf. This time, I would kill without the pageantry
or ceremony of a proper confrontation. I knew I had only to
tear the photo in half. There was no other way. Apparently,
the Shepherd required a player of his Game to perform the
deed, however unfairly. I did not want to dwell on the reason
why. I softly whispered my apologies and tore the picture in
two.
There was a brilliant flash of cold white light and the
sound of stone cracking, followed by a scream, wet and
painful, and perhaps a small growl of outrage at the tail end.
370 | Mark Anzalone