Demonic, laconic, a certain slant of a sparkling, bejeweled crown on the brow of a mad wolf as it glitters canted. He speaks in tongues to pears, bares his fangs to those who say they care, sees spirits in the clear and cool autumnal air. He's been known to sit in a garden for hours, surrounded by Aspens, counts each falling leaf as frost burnt perennials wilt. Twelve thousand and two maples stolen by the wind, and as for you, as for who-
The worst of it is when you try to meet that gaze. It seems to hate everything.
No mirrors in the mansion either. Sometimes I wonder-
The sun is setting again. Guards with guns make us all leave, and then it's just him I suppose. The snow starts to fall and I see his shadow up there, on the fourth floor balcony of the rural villa, overseeing the forced exodus.
I fight a shiver, force my hackles to smooth.
He's sick, I guess. That's all it is. Of course it is.
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