“The air itself is filled with monsters,” she says. I wince and shake myself. My knees and neck are locked in place; I crack them open patiently and painfully, and moan, and stretch, and the warm stillness of the room is filled with voices.
“We must have a long talk, and then I have an important call to make.” His voice is smooth and shiny and rich in malice. It is ichorous and venomous. It has ugly secrets.
I swim up into the light and shake a smoke out of the pack. I am dry and sore, and he is pouring a drink. “Do you like gin? It is my only weakness,” he says.
I exhale and scratch my head. I rub my eyes against the sun and cough. I need some sleep, I think. “Work, finish, then sleep,” he says, and waves his hand, and the motion is somehow both menacing and dismissive.
I reach for my drink, and he raises his glass. “To a new world of gods and monsters,” he exults, and I swallow.
No comments:
Post a Comment