looked around at the pipes and their tangled feet. "I can't for the life of me tell what it's meant to do, though."
"Can we get back to the dead guy at..." I stopped, because something tapped against my foot. I looked down to see a ball of twine, sticky with spittle and blood. I looked over at the body. It was looking at me, running a dry tongue over its lips. Gray's lifeless, bloodless lips.
"You have forgotten so much about us, Veridon," it said. "What we are. What we do." The body struggled to one elbow, it head lolling across its chest. "How we do it. I am disappointed."
The pipes behind me jangled as I backed into them, my hand clenched around Wilson's shoulder. He shrugged me off and shuffled around the perimeter of the room. The body followed him with one lazy eye, then turned back to me.
"Although I hadn't expected to see you again, Jacob Burn. I really thought the river would take you. Appropriate, I suppose. Unexpected." It coughed, and dryness filled the air, like a tomb unfolding. "Your friend can stop that."
I looked up at Wilson. He was fiddling with the pipes, though he didn't seem to have much direction. Just pulling on tubes, rattling brass. He shot me an angry look and kept at it.
When I looked back at the body, something had changed. The face was bulking up, the skin blossoming in a frost that spread until the skin was pale and bright. The skull lengthened and became narrow. I was reminded of The Summer Girl, the child becoming the woman becoming the singer. The body locked eyes with me and smiled.
"He doesn't have to. It was just advice." The voice expanded, filled the room, the words resonating through the air and into my bones like lightning, close and dangerous. "Something to keep him from hurting himself."
Wilson stumbled back, falling over, his head coming to rest against the body. That heavy voice rolled with laughter, and the legs began to twitch. Wilson jumped up and circled back to me. He gave a meaningful look at my hand. Of course. The revolver. What was I thinking?
I raised my iron and sighted. The body watched me do this, calmly, appraising each action. As I cocked, it nodded once, the smile unwavering. The report shook the room, flash and bang washing out the spiritual whirlwind of the pipes. When I lowered my hand, part of the body's face was missing. I watched as it grew back, like water closing over a blade. The edges of the wound skittered as they sealed shut.
"Just so, Jacob. Just so." He pushed himself into a sitting position, all his weight on one thin arm. He looked at us like a drunk, fallen in the street and propped up, his legs numb on the ground. "So much has been forgotten. Cut out from the history books. Much like the Burns, yes? Much like the many fallen families."
"I know you," I said, recognizing the long face, the narrow mouth. "Ezekiel Crane. I know who you are."
"You do and you don't," the body answered. The voice seemed to vibrate out of the pipes around us, music from an organ, and descend upon the body. I felt like I was hearing the voice in my bones a half breath before the dead man's mouth formed the words. "Your father may know me, but again. Not really."
I fired again, because I'm an optimist. Bullets sometimes work the second time. This one passed through his arm and dented a pipe beyond. The voice warbled for a second, then came back, louder than ever.
"I meant for the river to have you, Jacob. But it might be better this way. More honest." Struggling to his feet, the body hunched forward as he addressed me. "This way, maybe you can be more than just a joke I tell myself." Straightened up and looked me in the eye. "Maybe this time around, you'll be the one wearing the mask."
Wilson jumped forward and put his knife once, twice, three times, fast, into the chest. The body laughed, staggered, and then swatted the thin anansi aside. His knife clattered between the pipes, out of reach.
"I'm not going to kill you. Tried that, and it didn't work. So maybe
"Can we get back to the dead guy at..." I stopped, because something tapped against my foot. I looked down to see a ball of twine, sticky with spittle and blood. I looked over at the body. It was looking at me, running a dry tongue over its lips. Gray's lifeless, bloodless lips.
"You have forgotten so much about us, Veridon," it said. "What we are. What we do." The body struggled to one elbow, it head lolling across its chest. "How we do it. I am disappointed."
The pipes behind me jangled as I backed into them, my hand clenched around Wilson's shoulder. He shrugged me off and shuffled around the perimeter of the room. The body followed him with one lazy eye, then turned back to me.
"Although I hadn't expected to see you again, Jacob Burn. I really thought the river would take you. Appropriate, I suppose. Unexpected." It coughed, and dryness filled the air, like a tomb unfolding. "Your friend can stop that."
I looked up at Wilson. He was fiddling with the pipes, though he didn't seem to have much direction. Just pulling on tubes, rattling brass. He shot me an angry look and kept at it.
When I looked back at the body, something had changed. The face was bulking up, the skin blossoming in a frost that spread until the skin was pale and bright. The skull lengthened and became narrow. I was reminded of The Summer Girl, the child becoming the woman becoming the singer. The body locked eyes with me and smiled.
"He doesn't have to. It was just advice." The voice expanded, filled the room, the words resonating through the air and into my bones like lightning, close and dangerous. "Something to keep him from hurting himself."
Wilson stumbled back, falling over, his head coming to rest against the body. That heavy voice rolled with laughter, and the legs began to twitch. Wilson jumped up and circled back to me. He gave a meaningful look at my hand. Of course. The revolver. What was I thinking?
I raised my iron and sighted. The body watched me do this, calmly, appraising each action. As I cocked, it nodded once, the smile unwavering. The report shook the room, flash and bang washing out the spiritual whirlwind of the pipes. When I lowered my hand, part of the body's face was missing. I watched as it grew back, like water closing over a blade. The edges of the wound skittered as they sealed shut.
"Just so, Jacob. Just so." He pushed himself into a sitting position, all his weight on one thin arm. He looked at us like a drunk, fallen in the street and propped up, his legs numb on the ground. "So much has been forgotten. Cut out from the history books. Much like the Burns, yes? Much like the many fallen families."
"I know you," I said, recognizing the long face, the narrow mouth. "Ezekiel Crane. I know who you are."
"You do and you don't," the body answered. The voice seemed to vibrate out of the pipes around us, music from an organ, and descend upon the body. I felt like I was hearing the voice in my bones a half breath before the dead man's mouth formed the words. "Your father may know me, but again. Not really."
I fired again, because I'm an optimist. Bullets sometimes work the second time. This one passed through his arm and dented a pipe beyond. The voice warbled for a second, then came back, louder than ever.
"I meant for the river to have you, Jacob. But it might be better this way. More honest." Struggling to his feet, the body hunched forward as he addressed me. "This way, maybe you can be more than just a joke I tell myself." Straightened up and looked me in the eye. "Maybe this time around, you'll be the one wearing the mask."
Wilson jumped forward and put his knife once, twice, three times, fast, into the chest. The body laughed, staggered, and then swatted the thin anansi aside. His knife clattered between the pipes, out of reach.
"I'm not going to kill you. Tried that, and it didn't work. So maybe
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