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the scuffle had also compromised my secondary target—the
breathing hose of his mask.
I rushed forward, my remaining sister laughing as his
machete tried once more to taste my blood. She leapt into
the oncoming blade, sliding merrily down its length, turning
it away. Once deflected far enough, my sister reversed
course and hissed across his fingers, sending at least one of
them and the machete tumbling to the floor. In an effort to
pull away from me, his bloodied hand thrust the stun gun to
the wound in my side. But I was no longer in the mood for
falling and writhing. Despite the truly exquisite explosion
of pain, I crushed the stun gun and the hand holding it. His
breathing was heavy beneath the mask as blood loss and his
own knock-out gas sipped leisurely at his consciousness.
I tore the mask from his face and held him close to my
ear. “What did you see in that place that should not have
been? Tell me quickly, so that I might put the memory to
good use after you are gone.”
The mercenary wrapped his crushed hand around the back
of my neck and pushed his lips close to my ear. “I saw a place
that couldn’t quit the Darkness. It . . . downright refused ta
go. I wanted ta stay forever, but the things living there told
me ta leave and never come back. They were so incredible.”
The memory seemed to renew him as he continued. “They
were in love with the mystery of things. Some of ‘em just
sat at tables, all huddled together in the dark streets, sippin’
cold drinks . . . watchin’ and applaudin’ the gigantic freakin’
things that floated around the sky, blottin’ out the colored
stars that zipped around in all directions. Others were just
lyin’ in the trees, gazin’ without eyelids at things that were
never meant to be seen all at once. You would’ve loved it . .
. I know you would’ve. I dreamed yer dream, remember? I
needed ta get back there, but the only way back was ta win
this freaking game. Ya see, they want me to help their little
parcel of unreality spread—that’s the only way they’ll let me
come back. But fer them ta stretch out, they need the world
102 | Mark Anzalone