His legs care little for that plan. They’re weak, wobbly like those of a newborn fawn, and he falls. The Red Rage has left him: the fires have gone out. He tries to say something, but his throat is dry and feels like he’s gargling cut glass. All the fight goes out of him. He doesn’t know where they are – he sees a dim orange glow not far away like the way a sunset comes up through a line of trees, but everywhere else is dark, dark but for a few pinpricks of purple like a wall of stars, and way up there is the gate from whence they came, a burnished bronze disc cut from the darkness, an upside-down pit–

–and it’s then Mookie gives up. He crawls to Nora and curls up next to her – she moans, mutters something, “Pattern of dots, blast, bone dry.” The words mean nothing; he’s not even sure she said them. Maybe he’s hallucinating. All he can do is hold his daughter close as he lapses into something that resembles death more than it does sleep.

Words slither into his ear, wind around his mind, words that make no sense–

Morquin

Hyor-Ka

Vithra

Uthuthma

Mathokor

Pelsinade

Lith-lyru

His eyes shut tighter. A wind whips over the contours of his scalp – it’s cold in one instant, hot in another. He pulls his daughter to him. Keeps her close. Keeps her warm.

Then he hears Nora’s voice: Pattern of dots. Blast. Bone dry.

Then voice: Hi, Daddy.

Candlefly: Roots that drink from the oldest bloodlines.

More words-like-worms, these sung as a swift song:

Candlefly Woodwine Glasstower Bellbook Gravehorse Hogstooth Lambskey Wormsong

Pattern of dots.

Blast.

Bone dry.

A scuff of sound nearby.

Mookie startles awake.

A gobbo stands only ten feet away. Paunchy belly hanging over a maggoty white penis. It watches Mookie with bulging eyes as it scurries up to what looks to be a flat stone carved with symbols. It lays upon them a spool of thread, a handful of coins, and a bundle of dead, dry marigolds. It hisses at Mookie before hurrying away.

It doesn’t attack.

Thread. Coins. Marigolds.

Like those left behind on the corpse of Casimir Zoladski.

What was it Burnsy said? Ofrendas. Offerings.

Mookie checks on Nora. Her brow is feverish. Her breathing, shallow.

He needs to know where they are. The way out has to be near.