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The Carver of Souls, as he was also called, had come
for Janus. I was somewhat disappointed the pumpkin-faced
killer had not come for me. But when our eyes had met, I
became certain that he was not averse to killing out of order,
so there was no telling his intentions.
Janus snaked his response through the shifting arms
of darkness between the weak beams of cold moonlight,
careful to keep his words from giving away his location.
“Oh, please! Spare me your pretentious yammering about
Halloween, and let’s just get on with it. And by the way,
those masks of yours are the height of amateur hour. Such
hack jobs could hardly manage to conserve more than a
mere crumb of chaos. Just look at all the precious potential
you’ve left to spoil, you blithering dimwit! It looks as if I’ll
have to show you how the make a proper mask, and how to
do so without spilling so much as a single drop of distilled
chance—though I’m afraid you won’t long outlive my
lesson.”
Slowly, I made my way into the slightly inferior silence of
the unknown killer. A gruff voice dragged against the quiet.
“For such a big fella, you’re plenty vigilant, aren’t ya? As I
speak, you’re sneaking sideways inta the shadows, all quiet
and lethal. Yer almost graceful—or just a bit more delicate
than you look. I haven’t decided which. Either way, a big
dude like you squirreling around just doesn’t seem right, ya
know? I can picture you slipping behind a light post with
nothing of yer giant body stickin’ out, like some big dumb
cartoon character. Now, that’s your ‘sister’ you just put in
yer hand, right? I can see why you like her smile so much,
but ya really oughta think about gettin’ her teeth looked at.
They look a bit worn down.”
I inched closer, testing my tendrils of silence, homing in
on the newcomer’s location as he continued. “By the way,
I caught a dream of yers the other night. It was interesting.
But it spilled some big fat secrets about some of yer favorite
huntin’ techniques and whatnot, so I came prepared. Oh, and
98 | Mark Anzalone