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CHAPTER EIGHT

It wasn’t the moonlight that alerted me to the fact that the
man wore another person’s face over top of his own. The
precision of the mask’s fashioning was clearly exquisite,
even superhuman—but the fit was too perfect. It was as if
the victim had been genetically designed to blend into the
features and nuances of the killer’s face. But I knew the
artist known as Janus the Two-Faced had been host to many
faces, and the mask’s fit was likely due to the skill of its
designer, not some shared biological element.
The dagger that deflected my sister quietly tore through
the headrest of the seat in front of me, stopping just beneath
my chin. The dead skin of the mask smiled at me, somehow
obeying the movements of the living skin beneath. The
mask only slightly betrayed its inanimate nature via a small,
solitary crease from the right corner of its pale lips to the right
eye-hole. Visible only when the wearer smiled, I assumed
his smile must have occurred in quantities sufficient to cause
the crease in the first place.
“Cleverness is an admirable attribute,” Janus said, “but
speed is no less essential. Now tell me, Family Man, what do
you know of all this monkey business?” His blade remained
still as he peered at me over the headrest, cocking his head
to one side. “Try as I might, I’ve only heard from this person
or that of a weird little Shepherd who has an affection for
herding wolves. The general thrust of the title suggests the
Shepherd is some kind of master of murderers, and we’re all

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