She flew across the room, hit the ground, and her broken ribs jangled and she screamed so much she thought she might pass out.

The Shining Demon gazed at her, and smiled.

“There you are,” he said.

Chapter 57

EDISON’S SHARD JUTTED OUT high over the old quarry like an accusatory finger, pointing to the mountains in the west. When Virgil had first moved into town, he had held the notion that the highest point in Desolation Hill had been named after Thomas Edison and his work with electricity. He’d been living there five years before someone, he couldn’t remember who, told him that no, it was named after Edison Samuels, a young man who had hurled himself from its heights a hundred years earlier. As Virgil climbed, using the trees for purchase, he couldn’t help but re-evaluate his assumptions about young Mr Samuels. Perhaps it hadn’t been a maudlin disposition that had sent him plummeting to his doom – perhaps it had simply been an unwillingness to live with the things he had done during Hell Night – or the things he was about to do.

Virgil leaned his shoulder against a tree and angrily sucked in air. His body was failing him. His stupid old muscles weren’t up to the task anymore. His lungs were capable of only the shallowest of breaths. His legs burned and his hands shook, and his heart …

He pushed himself upright. His heart could wait. His pain and discomfort could wait. There was a boy up here and a monster chasing him. The ailments of an old man meant nothing compared to that.

He heard a shout. There. Beyond the trees. Movement.

He adjusted the overnight bag on his shoulder, and moved onwards. One foot in front of the other. Funny how difficult the simple things could get, like walking. And breathing.

He reached the last of the trees. Austin had backed himself on to Edison’s Shard, where the wind alone might have been enough to pluck him away. Stalking him was the Narrow Man, his too-wide smile spreading across his face.

Virgil fumbled in his pocket with shaking hands, pulled out the mask and used it to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Then he looked at it, at the empty eyeholes, and, while a part of him felt ridiculous, another part, a larger part, felt right. Felt good.

He pulled on the mask, and it fitted just like it had forty years ago. Then he put on his hat, tilted it just right, like all the best crime-fighters did, and straightened himself the hell up.

“Hey,” he shouted. His voice was lost to the wind, so he shouted louder. “Hey! Come and pick on someone your own size!”

Javier was right. Virgil’s dialogue was pretty dreadful without a scriptwriter.