Acausal Demonology
Or: What They Want You to Think
Prologue
(Anticipation.)
He stared at the forest. At this point in his life, his mental defenses were mostly reflexive—hopefully, he could control them enough not to make a mess of things.
“Drat,” he said aloud.
The blasted ewe had run off again, spooked by something. Its own shadow, no doubt.
Yes. That was it.
With a final sigh, he readied his mind, hefted his staff, and stepped through the treeline.
The Test
Myran stepped through the Barrier. It parted around him like a soap bubble, offering no resistance yet providing a distinct sensation. It moved over him, and he felt a tremor run through his mind. His protection—the protection he’d enjoyed his entire life—was gone. He was exposed.
Exposed to the demons.
No—not entirely exposed. He had his mental defenses, built over a lifetime of careful training, instruction by the Sages. It had been a lifetime that felt somehow both longer and shorter than his sixteen years, but the training he’d been given was worth it. He had to trust in that training. If the First Sage had been able to raise the Village overnight, as the legends said—Barrier and all—then the mental techniques he passed down had to be powerful, had to be effective.
A hollow breeze played over them (Curiosity), as if in imitation of the infernal whispers they would have to contend with once inside the Forest. They set off towards the grey-green line on the horizon, not looking back. There was only forward, now.
They walked in silence, conversation unnecessary. There was nothing more to say—the Test was behind them, and their destination now was the City, and Forest before it, barely four miles away. The Test had required talking; the City, only walking.
“Wait.”
(Irritation.) Myran glanced at his brother. He had been throwing worried looks all around them for the past half hour, as if making sure the Village, and everything else, was still there. The state of the world was such that Myran couldn’t blame him, though he did not share his brother’s anxieties.
Villages were disappearing, as the demons’ numbers grew and they spread from the crossover points. But the Village of the First Sage was different. The First Sage had developed powerful techniques, specialized thought forms—mental defenses against the demons’ trickery. He’d taught those techniques to others, raising a Village as close to the City as possible while still being outside the range of the Forest. Too close, and human refugees wouldn’t have been able to approach the Village for safety; Myran and his brother wouldn’t have survived past infancy, when their parents had brought them there.
Now, though, armed with the First Sage’s techniques, they could traverse the Forest itself, holding against the demons’ attacks long enough to make it through to the City, the last bastion of human resistance.
That was the hope.
“We’ve only just started,” said Myran. Or at least it felt that way—the Sages said that outside the Barrier it was difficult to keep track of the minutes and hours. Time is a dream we cannot wake from. It was a favorite refrain of the First Sage.
“Stop,” he heard from behind him. Then, belatedly, “Please.”
He stopped. His brother was standing still a foot or two back, staring at him with a look of intense concentration.
(Frustration.) “What is it?”
“This is a lie.” His brother’s mouth moved like that of a puppet, words wooden.
“What? What is?”
His gaze roamed their surroundings, searching, then returned to Myran. “Everything.”
Myran looked around. “What everything?”
His brother’s eyebrows came together as if conferring. “Everything you learned in the Village. The Sages are wrong. There is no City. The Forest is a death trap. The thought-forms won’t save you.”
Myran was sure he wasn’t understanding—the words had meaning, but there was no context in which they made sense. They floated in a void, a cloud that held the shape of nothing in particular, or maybe the head of one of those blasted wolves, if you really squinted.
“What in the name of the Unholy Wraith are you talking about?”
His brother’s expression stayed frozen for a moment, as if he’d only just finished speaking. Then he relaxed, offering a sheepish smile. “Just messing with you. Gotta keep you sharp.”
(Relief.) Myran shook himself. “Right. Well, keep walking while you do that.” He turned and walked on, the Forest growing upon the horizon.
It felt like only minutes later when they stopped again. “I have something I need to tell you.”
(Exasperation.) Myran tried to keep his sigh inaudible.
“It’s important.” His brother met his eyes; the stern look was back, this time accompanied by something more, a hard resolve he couldn’t recall ever seeing in those eyes. “I’ve been trying to think about how best to tell you. I say best because there really isn’t a good way. But I need you to trust me.” His brother’s words held no levity—there was a vacuum of it, sucking any ambient humor out of the world around them. His vision narrowed to a point: the familiar eyes of his brother, staring into him, reflecting what felt like his entire self.
(Anger.) “You’re freaking me out, Nyram.” His voice shook; his brother’s name felt strange on his tongue, never before spoken in such a tone of confusion and apprehension. Always they had been on the same page, on the same thought, taking the same steps in the same direction. Now it was like he had tripped—like the world had tripped him—and thrown them suddenly out of harmony.
“Good.” Nyram breathed out, slowly, watching him. “I’m a demon.” (Confusion.) Words, floating in a void. They were too alien—but too heavy, too intentional, to brush aside. And too impossible to take in.
“You…what?”
“I’m going to explain everything,” said Nyram quickly, calmly. “All you need to do is listen—actually listen.”
“I—” (Frustration.) There were so many objections that no single one stood out, just a general flood of protest washing through his mind. Then his brother’s eyes caught him, and the sincerity there brought him back. A mind he knew as well as his own; he couldn’t dismiss it all before giving a chance for explanation. “Okay.”
Nyram nodded, gathered himself, and started talking. “I’m a demon. Most of what—”
(Bewilderment.) “I’m sorry, Nyram, I don’t know how I’m supposed to be taking this seriously. We’ve been in the Village since we were babies—demons can’t possess babies, and there’s no way they can reach through the Barrier, or humanity would be history. If this is some final training exercise or thought experiment, you’re going to have to try harder.” (Amusement.)
“I know this doesn’t seem like it makes any sense. But you have to let me explain. Much of what the Sages taught you about demons is wrong.”
“They’re not cunning spirits from a neighboring reality bent on taking over our own by possessing our minds?”
“Oh no, they’re definitely all that. But—”
“They can possess babies?”
“Well, no, not generally, but—”
“Demons really do sleep?”
“No, that part’s true too—just let me finish a blasted sentence! The reason demons can’t possess babies is because in order to possess any human, the human’s mind needs to look sufficiently similar to the demon’s home reality in order for the demon to successfully make the jump. Like a flower being replanted, the soil has to be hospitable. The Sages didn’t teach you this for a very good reason: they’re also demons—” (Shock.) “—and it was their job to raise you and teach you so that your mind would be shaped as closely as possible to their reality—that way, when you entered the Forest, it would be easy for a demon to jump right in and take control.”
(Confusion. Panic.) A memory surfaced, brushing forcefully past a presence Myran only then became aware of. It was of one of the early lessons from the Sages, about the nature of knowledge.
Myran was seven, sitting on the grass before the First Sage, who legend said had raised the Village himself over seven days. The Village was a forest repurposed, magically shaped into rooms, walls, and tiered clearings, as if it had grown right out of the ground.
“Young Myran,” said the smooth voice of the First Sage, reproachful. He sat cross-legged, worn wooden staff resting across his knees. “Your attention wanders.”
Myran blinked, seeing the old man’s stern expression, and tried to recall what he’d just been told. He’d always been able to remember the lessons, even if he wasn’t paying attention the whole time. “Knowledge leads to reason, not the other way around. You can’t use reason to establish knowledge and expect to end up with anything useful.”
Knowledge was solid, dependable; reason was amorphous, ever-changing. One could always find a line of reasoning that led to a given conclusion, just as one could find reasoning that showed precisely the opposite.
“You’re trying to have me reason towards knowledge,” he said to Nyram. “Not to mention that your ‘story’ doesn’t even square with itself—since babies don’t understand language, you can’t shape their minds at all, or at least not nearly enough to mirror some infernal plane of
reality.” (Satisfaction.)
Nyram nodded. “You’re right. It’s not possible. Which is why instead, I reshaped my own enough to better match this reality.”
(Disgust.) “Why in the name of Reason would a demon do that?”
His brother shrugged sheepishly. “I’m not all that powerful, as demons go—I stood no chance of possessing a mind that put up any sort of resistance, not to mention the fact that there was even less of a chance of me ever being able to push my way past the blasted Prime Demonic
Presences.” (Bemusement.) “That’s why it’s usually only the most powerful who make it through, unless one of us weaker demons gets lucky and finds a human wandering into a crossplane area without any mental defenses. But that doesn’t happen much anymore. So I had no choice, really, if I wanted to make it over. But reshaping my mind also meant losing my demonic abilities, as well as the inclinations—I really am your brother, and I care about you. And I don’t want to see you walk into the Forest and be instantly possessed. Or possessed at all.”
Myran mulled this over. “But I do have mental defenses. Strong ones.”
Nyram shook his head. “The thought-forms the Sages taught you are just exercises that further shape your mind for possession.”
Myran felt chilled. If that were true… (Frustration.) Another of the Sages’ lessons came to him, this one about repelling attempts at prepossession hallucinations.
“There are no other students here to distract you, young Myran,” said the exasperated voice of the First Sage. “Any lack of attention is your own fault. No more excuses. Now recite the three basic thought-forms for reinforcing mental defenses against illusory identity attacks.”
“Null-abstraction arithmetic: One plus one equals two; one plus one equals three; one plus one equals four; and so on. The falling rock: recognize that reality does not conform to our expectations, nor our beliefs. And, umm…”
The First Sage sighed, and knocked a knuckle against the length of his staff. “Non-orthogonal syntax: ‘Flies winding bird the noon over vines the hungry at.’ These simple exercises confound the demons’ strictly logical view of reality, and will prevent any from successfully implementing one of their common strategies—convincing humans that we are other people, namely people who do not have the proper mental defenses to rebuff an attempted possession.”
It wasn’t exactly the same, but it seemed possible that…
“Nyram, repeat after me: One plus one equals two.” Nyram rolled his eyes, but repeated the words. “One plus one equals three,” Myran continued.
His brother quirked an eyebrow. “No it doesn’t.”
“Please, Nyram, just say it.”
“But it’s not true. Another lie to—”
“Blast you, just say it!”
Nyram paused, then stooped and plucked a handful of grass blades, letting most of them drop. “One,” he held up a single blade, “plus one,” and another, “equals two.” He brought them together.
“There is no real connection between physical objects and mathematical abstractions,” said Myran. “We can say whatever we want.” If he couldn’t—wouldn’t—say it… (Enthusiasm.)
“Look!” Nyram shook the two blades of grass, which swayed back and forth. “Two!”
“All you’ve shown is that when you have a blade of grass and another blade of grass, you have both blades of grass. Assigning meaningless abstract concepts to the instance is not necessary! Say one plus one equals three!” Beware abstractions, the Sages always told them. Abstractions are not reality. If you couldn’t recognize that, you wouldn’t be able to construct effective mental defenses.
“It’s not a meaningless abstraction!” shouted Nyram. “That equation describes two single units, and then names the collective!”
(Satisfaction.) It was clear to him now. Nyram was currently the victim of an illusory identity attack—he was being made to believe that he was a demon. The only question was: Why? What did the demon mounting the attack gain from this, as opposed to simply having Nyram forget his mental defenses and walk into the Forest?
“Come back to the Village with me,” said Nyram. “I’ll prove it.”
“Back to the Village?” (Surprise.)
“Once you leave the Village barriers, you cannot return,” intoned the First Sage somberly. “There is no way to be sure that you have not been possessed.” Myran knew all of this, already. Any returning Villager would be riddled with arrows before they got within a hundred feet of the walls. “That is why it is imperative that your thought-forms and mental defenses are perfect before you set out.” He felt not the least bit of worry—his had been perfect for years. No demon would be able to even breathe in his direction until he was right up against the first trees of the Forest.
Myran recalled the first rule of the Test. There was no going back. Not if they didn’t want to be turned into bloody pincushions.
But…if Nyram was claiming to already be a demon, what would be the point of getting them both killed? Even from the perspective of Nyram as being demon-addled, his identity under attack, it would be a waste of a potential possession for the demons.
Nyram was staring at him, studying him. His brother quickly shook his head. “Wait, we can’t go back. Some other way, then?”
Ah. The demon was having trouble accessing Nyram’s memories. That explained the slip-up. (Satisfaction.)
Abruptly, Nyram sat. As Myran watched, his brother grabbed a rock and hefted it. “This rock will fall down.” He was perverting the thought-forms. Was the demon trying to increase his level of control? It already seemed sufficiently strong enough to get Nyram into the Forest with his defenses down. “Are you watching, Myran?”
Ah—it was trying to affect Myran’s defenses. “The rock will fall up,” he said confidently. They stared at the rock. Nyram let go.
The rock hit the grass with a muted thump.
“See?”
Myran shook his head. “Observation Bias. All we know is that we saw the rock fall down this time. It could have actually fallen up, and there’s no telling what we’ll see next time.” Beware abstractions. That had been a simple enough lesson from the First Sage. (Satisfaction.)
They stared at each other. Nyram grabbed the rock, lifted it, and dropped it again, all without breaking eye contact. Thump. Nyram raised an eyebrow.
“You’re trying to reason towards knowledge,” Myran said in frustration. Had his brother lost all contact with the Sages’ lessons? Myran realized he should probably be feeling more saddened by this turn of events—he would likely never be getting Nyram back, his brother was simply too far gone—but what he mostly felt was tired, like he’d spent all day doing those complicated, convoluted mental exercises the First Sage had given him.
“Don’t you find it suspicious,” said Nyram, “that no one has ever seen the City?”
“Well, someone’s seen it, otherwise we wouldn’t know about it.”
“I mean no one from the Village.”
Myran barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “If the Sages had gone to the City instead of staying and founding the Village, there would be no Village, and you wouldn’t be here asking these questions.”
“But how do they know there is a City?”
Myran sighed, and cast back for something that was tickling the edges of his mind, something from the Sages’ lessons on the state of reality. “Karter’s Exoanthropic Standard: mundus talis est, ergo causa—the world is such as it is, so there must be a reason that it is this way. If there was no City, what would be the point of the Village?”
“To get you to walk into the Forest and be possessed!”
Myran paused. (Tension.)
“But why would the demons care about us going through the Forest unless the City was on the other side?”
“To possess us!”
Ah-ha. “Us? Aren’t you claiming to already be possessed, or rather to be the possessor, and thus unpossessable?”
Nyram groaned. “I meant you. Us as in you.”
“Why would ‘us’ mean ‘you’?” The demon had slipped up again. (Exultation.)
“I didn’t— I wasn’t—” Confusion etched across his face. “You may be the one at risk here, but you’re my brother. We’re a team.” Even he seemed unconvinced. Maybe there was something salvageable after all.
“Repeat after me,” said Myran. “If my defenses hold true, the demons cannot touch me.”
“I don’t need defenses, I’m already—”
“If you want me to listen to another word you say, repeat after me. Otherwise I start running.” He pointed to the treeline, stark against the evening sky. Nyram exhaled, considering. Myran waited. If Nyram was telling the truth—or wanted to look like he was—he wouldn’t want Myran going into the Forest. If Nyram was being influenced from afar, he still wouldn’t want Myran leaving, but he also wouldn’t agree to speak any of the Sages’ thought forms. For whatever reason, the demons weren’t taking him for possession just yet, instead focusing their efforts on Myran.
“If my defenses hold true,” said Nyram in a clear voice, “the demons cannot touch me.”
Myran blinked. What? Was it possible that Nyram… The thought was absurd. What was going on? (Exasperation.)
He spoke the next line of the Tautology of Tarsky, mind whirling. “If the demons cannot touch me, my defenses hold true.” Again, Nyram repeated the words.
He spoke the final line, and listened to his brother recite it back.
“Let me not be ruled by the limits of causality.” Nyram gave him a slight smile. “Can you repeat after me, now?” He seemed hopeful. It told Myran nothing.
“No.” He needed to think. Reevaluate. “One more.” It couldn’t really be possible.
“We can do as many as you’d like,” said Nyram. “But when we’re finished, it’s my turn.”
Myran nodded. “Fine.” He lost nothing by agreeing to the deal—if Nyram proved beyond saving, he could always just leave without subjecting himself to the demon’s own corrupted thought-forms. The question was why the demon influencing Nyram was letting Nyram subject himself to thought-forms that would loosen the demon’s hold. Unless the impossible was true.
Unless Nyram wasn’t lying.
He tried another thought-form, and Nyram repeated it willingly. He tried another, and another, all the basic ones and half a dozen alternates.
This wasn’t how today was supposed to go. The rules of the Test replayed in his head, a long list of ceremonial traditions, precautions, and advice. (Frustration.)
“You cannot return to the Village once you have crossed through the Barrier. Keep your defenses strong even before nearing the Forest. Reach the City by nightfall, or risk possession.”
Myran nodded—he knew all this. Once outside the Village, there was no way to verify someone’s possession status, so no one could be allowed back inside. Though the Forest itself was where the demons crossed over, and thus where they were most powerful, their influence extended beyond its borders, especially that of the strongest among them. Lastly, the Test had to be completed—the City reached—by nightfall, because once the sun set, the demons’ influence grew tenfold—and they didn’t sleep. Anyone within sight of the Forest come nightfall, even far outside of it, would be instantly subsumed.
The sun hung low in the sky—when had it gotten so late? He glanced at Nyram, sitting patiently, waiting for the next thought-form. There had been no change to his demeanor, nor his story.
A chill that had nothing to do with the setting sun stole over Myran, and he realized there was a third possibility he hadn’t considered: Nyram was a demon, who had laid low for their entire lives, in order to sabotage Myran’s Test, right now, and lead him to possession. (Excitement.)
“Should we try the Orison of Gendlyn?” said Nyram, titling his head.
He was calm, collected—unhurried. Myran’s blood ran cold.
Nyram was stalling.
The blood rushed loud in Myran’s ears. What to do—what to do?
Thought-forms would clearly have no effect. Could he run? He tried to remember if demons in human bodies had physical powers as well as thaumaturgical ones. (Frustration.)
Something else itched at him. How had he forgotten such important information, even temporarily? True, under normal circumstances— without Nyram’s defenses being woefully insufficient—it never should have mattered. They would have reached the City with hours to spare. But the fact that nightfall brought certain failure, certain death, should have never left his awareness. He recalled the alien presence he’d detected earlier, when struggling to remember something else. And now this. There was only one explanation.
Something—someone—was trying to suppress his memories. (Worry.)
He groped around, mentally, for scenes from the Village, more of the Sages’ instruction—what other information was being hidden from him?
He encountered resistance. It was like moving through sap, each inch of progress taking disproportionate effort. He got flashes, still images only—
—staring out past the barrier at twilight—
—the First Sage, frowning—
—someone, maybe his mother—
—did he have a mother?—
(Panic.)
He gasped for breath, lurching. Nyram half-rose, reaching out a hand. “Myran?”
He ignored the hand and dove back in.
Memories rose to greet him. (Glee.) First came the ones he’d already had a hold of—the ones that had slipped past the demon’s interference.
There was an uncomfortable sensation of gross incongruity, like waking up and knowing that something was off, but not yet realizing that the roof was gone, or that you didn’t have any legs. Myran unfocused his mind’s eye, trying to take in all of the freed memories at once—
—Myran, dragging his feet on his way to another lesson—
—holding his father’s hand as they danced to his mother’s singing—
—falling from the roof of the First Sage’s meditation hut—
There was something right in front of him, like a riddle half-remembered. He dug harder.
—Myran, being scolded for throwing a pinecone at the First Sage while he was meditating—
An answer, if only he could see it.
—memorizing mixed-up sentences for the third basic thought-form—
A hole.
—grumbling about always having to be the one to fetch water from the well—
Every hair on his body stood on end.
The world began to tilt, and he fought to keep his balance.
No. (Zeal.)
With increased fervor he reached back in time through his own mind.
Time is a dream you cannot wake from.
He’d had dreams before where he’d known he was dreaming, and been able to control things.
He dug, tearing into himself, hauling shreds of memories out by the fistful.
—Myran, washing clothes with his mother—
No.
—Myran, sucking on a bone and tossing it into the fire—
No.
—Myran, wishing there were other novices to take the First Sage’s ire—
NO!
His knees hit the ground. He stared at the grass, the tilting world making him feel like he was falling down into it as it turned from him.
He looked up, fighting nausea. Nyram was staring at him, concern etched deep into his face.
“Myran, take some deep breaths. Count to ten.”
“…not…real,” he gasped. He gulped air and pressed his hands into the dirt, trying to steady the ground beneath him.
Nyram sighed in obvious relief. “I know. It’s a lot to take in all at once. I’m just glad you—”
“No.” Myran lurched to his feet, stumbling backward. Away from the thing in front of him. Away from the thing that called itself Nyram. “You,” he wheezed, lifting a shaking finger. “You’re not real.”
“What?” The expression was real enough, full of confusion.
Myran swallowed the reality-sized knot in his throat, and heard himself speak.
“I don’t have a brother.”
(Relief.)
He stood there for a few minutes, catching his breath, trying to remember what he’d been doing to lose it so badly. Running? The Forest looked a couple of hours away, still. He must not have been running for long. But the sun— He lifted a hand to shade his eyes. Noticed his fingers trembling.
Demons.
Myran curled the hand into a fist. He must have been under mental assault, and fought off some manner of hallucinatory attack. That explained his physical state, and the memory gap as well; when the hallucination disappeared, the whole incident went with it.
He smiled. He’d known his mental defenses were good enough, but it was still immensely satisfying to have that confirmed in such certain terms. He waited another minute until his breathing steadied, then started jogging towards the treeline, stark against the evening sun. He didn’t look back—there was only forward, now.
It took him just over an hour to reach the edge of the Forest. The trees were exactly as he had imagined them, their needles such a deep green it was almost black, their wide trunks rough and gnarled. He didn’t stop to drink it in. The City awaited, and nightfall wasn’t far off.
One plus one equals two. One plus one equals three. One plus one equals one.
Myran stepped into the Forest.
Interlude
He took a step—fell. Beside him lay a worn wooden staff. He used it to leverage himself to his feet, and thought hard about moving his legs forward.
How did they work these things?
He tried to smile—succeeded. That one was easy, apparently. He tried it again. It felt good, washing away the last vestiges of alarm that had taken him at various points throughout the confrontation. He could already feel what some of the others had described: a sea of emotions lapping at the edge of his mind, wider in range than anything he had experienced, with nuance like nothing he’d known. Alarm tinged with fear, and some sort of discomfort; the humans had come far closer to the truth than his kind had suspected. He had made his move none too soon.
There was no doubt that things had gotten shaky when the old shepherd’s defenses had manifested as the brother. But what kind of parents would name their twin sons Myran and Nyram? He was almost insulted the gambit had worked as well as it had. Almost.
Merely having the manifestation inform one’s higher consciousness that everything one believed to be reality was a lie would have it dismissed in an instant—the mind had to come to that conclusion on its own or not at all. In order for the defense to work, enough doubt in the formerly accepted state of reality had to be created that, by the time the manifestation and the accepted reality were shown to be mutually exclusive, insofar as the truths they presented, there would be at least an even chance of the conscious mind ruling in favor of the manifestation. It was a risky setup, and Thrajkadanovrenijtigatn couldn’t help but admire the shepherd—the old mind had constructed it on the spot and, after almost failing the initial rebuff, had adapted, coming perilously close to working. Against many other of his brothers and sisters at the Forest crossplane, it would have been enough. Against a Prime such as himself, however, it could only come close.
Natural mental defenses had little hope of overcoming the ingrained lessons of the Village—and no amount of closeness ever arrived at the thing itself, as described by Zeno’s Law of Proximity. You either succeeded, or failed in totality, for no amount of fractional-measures would ever equal one.
But Thrajkadanovrenijtigatn’s measure had been full, his victory total—and so he had one. It had been, of course, a foregone conclusion.
He stretched his new muscles, getting used to the way they creaked and pulled, and awkwardly walked a short ways, until he stood perhaps four miles from the edge of the Forest. The sluggish body felt a great weight upon him—a few fixes and augmentations would be needed, later—but his mind felt wonderfully limber. He cast about, getting a feel for the terrain.
Yes. This was it. He sat.
Thrajkadanovrenijtigatn concentrated for seven days, and raised the Village where the old shepherd whose body he now wore had, as a child, learned every thought-form and mental exercise that had made it so easy to slip into his otherwise strange, alien mind.
For time is a dream we cannot wake from—but demons never sleep.
Epilogue
They waited for the figure to settle, laying down its staff; for its eyes to close; for the first shift of the earth and the first bud to push up from the soil.
Then they rose from where they’d lain in the tall grass, closed on the figure, and swiftly beat him to death.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” said one of their number.
Another was bent over, holding no doubt about potential inclination towards being sick.
“It only looks like Myran,” said the third. “He gave his life to trap that thing.”
“And we owe him ours.”
“And so much more.”
The third wiped a sleeve across her mouth. “Gods know how he was able to trick this thing; they’re supposed to be uncannily suspicious.”
“No more Primes, now.”
“How do we know?”
“Same way we knew it was going to be here, and fall for this.”
“Can’t say the old guy didn’t creep me out, but I’m sad to see him go.”
“We’d better get going, too.”
“To the City?”’
Heads nodded, then turned to the twisted corpse at their feet. “How do we know this time’s for real?”
“Another of Myran’s visions.”
“Do you think it’s true?”
“That he was a demon?”
“Heard he came over when the host was an infant, and that’s why he’s with us.”
There was silence among the group. “Does it matter?”
It didn’t.
They left, and didn’t look back—there was only forward, now.
Finishing this story felt like coming down from a crazy psychedelic trip.