Werth mumbles something in the affirmative, steps away from Mookie while pocketing the teaball. Mookie’s head lolls on his shoulders, the red powder mingling imperceptibly with the blood already on his face. But nothing happens. Not that Werth knows what should happen, exactly, but the Red Rage is legendary for the anger and strength is places upon those it affects. And yet, Mookie still sits docile as a trussed lamb.

A shadow passes. Werth jumps, startled.

One of the reaper-cloaks is here. Appearing out of nowhere. A flutter of black and–

It moves toward Mookie.

No, no, no.

“Come,” Candlefly says.

“But…”

“Let the Vollrath have its meal.”

Werth realizes he’s not sure how you gain the effects of the Red Rage. Cerulean, that goes on your temples but who’s to say the Red Rage shouldn’t be eaten? Or cooked and injected like heroin, or smoked like a couple sugar cubes of crack? These are esoteric occult drugs, maybe you burn it in a pyre with three dead rats and inhale the fumes – could be anything. Could even be that the drug is fake. Why wouldn’t someone sell Mookie a measure of fake Vermilion? Good money. Easy money.

It’s over. Done. His one chance, lost.

Candlefly gives Werth a nudge up the steps.

The shadow rises behind Mookie. Shiny eyes gleaming.

Its fingers drive into the man’s bald scalp as if his skull is as insubstantial as fog.

Werth heads upstairs, tasting defeat and pondering the future.

He sees nothing but the strange refraction of light and the watery shimmer in the air. Then Werth and Candlefly head toward the steps as something cold drives down deep through his head – no, his mind. Then another set drives into his heart, into his soul, and every synapse lights up, a switchboard of sadness and sorrow and death. Images flit by like fast hands flipping photos: Mookie bouncing Nora on his knee, Jess throwing a plate at Mookie’s head and Mookie breaking a chair on the kitchen counter, Mookie hiding in the back at one of his daughter’s school plays and leaving just before it ends, flip, flip, flit, flit. And then it all burns up: an image like spilled blood, a sheen of oil, a strike of a match and a crackle-whoosh of flame–

Red bleeds in at the edges. Blood and rust and magma.

His heart kicks into high gear. From zero to tachycardia with the flip of a switch.

A buzz and a howl in the hollow of his head–

The knives exit heart and brain, soul and mind–

An empty vacuum. Fire fills it. Anger blooms like a plume of acrid smoke.