“Welcome to Ambergris, John Finch,” his father whispered in his ear.

3

Still dark when he woke, except for the lanterns. Except for a hint of gray from the window. He lay on the floor. Felt hungry. Thirsty. As much as he’d ever felt in his life. Hollow, too. As if he were made of spores. Would blow away. Over all of that, the constant complaint of his nerves. Reporting pain. Everywhere.

The Partial lay facedown beside the gray cap. Arms out to the sides. On the table, the bloody knives, the pot of water. The empty vial.

He sat up and saw himself, naked, propped up on two elbows opposite. Feet almost touching. Shock. Sudden horror. Even in the dim light, the same dark hair. The rakish yet thickening features. The solid build on the edge of fat. But Shriek’s features rose out of his own. The cheekbones a little higher. The eyes different. This other Finch had green eyes. This other Finch had a strange smoothness to him, a blankness. None of Finch’s scars had manifested on him. Few of the wrinkles. Finch shuddered. Shriek-Finch looked like a man who had reached middle age without the physical signs of experience.

“The resemblance will fade,” Shriek said. “I’ll be able to take any form I like, soon.” A scratchy voice. As if getting used to his vocal cords.

Shriek rose, and Finch rose with him. An imperfect reflection. Shriek held himself differently than Finch. Shoulders hunched from some invisible weight. A stare less guarded. More expressive hands. Light gathered around Shriek in unnatural ways. A gentle iridescent strobing rippled across his body. It reminded Finch of the starfish in the cavern by the underground sea.

“How do you feel?” Shriek asked.

“I feel light … and yet heavy,” Finch said. Could sense Shriek’s overlay lifted from his mind. Its presence only confirmed by absence.

While all of those things he’d thought himself numb to came rushing back in with a near-fatal intensity. Sintra. Wyte.

Teetered on the edge of an abyss.

Shriek’s voice brought him back: “Let it wash over you. Let it wash out of you. It’s not real. It’s like a dam breaking.”

Finch nodded. Vague resentment: How could Shriek know how it felt?

Shriek wrapped his nakedness in the blanket. Muted the strobing. A shimmer across the face. The arms.

“What now?” Finch couldn’t stop staring at himself.

“Just what Bliss gave you. Just that.”

The piece of metal was still in his jacket pocket. He handed it to Shriek.

Shriek nodded. “Perfect.”

Perfect for what? An unease in Finch. That he hadn’t thought it all through. An urge to pick up his gun and shoot Shriek.

A spark in Shriek’s eyes that originated there. Not a reflection from the light.

“What are you?” Finch asked.

A low, wheezy laugh from Shriek. As if his lungs were filled with spores.

“Just someone who knows too much.”