For several years, he had preferred to avoid people, except for Buddhist monks in this windswept rooftop of the world.Īlthough he had not killed for a long time, he still harbored the capacity for homicidal fury. A serrated blade of Himalayan peaks, with Everest at its hilt, cut the sky.įar from civilization, this vast panorama soothed Deucalion. In these mountains of Tibet, a fiery sunset conjured a mirage of molten gold from the glaciers and the snowfields. He possessed no psychic power of a classic nature, but sometimes omens came in his sleep. He woke from the dream and knew that it had been prophetic. From behind his mask, the surgeon said, “A messenger approaches. Awake but manacled to the surgical table, Deucalion could only endure the procedure.Īfter he had been sewn shut, he felt something crawling inside his body cavity, as though curious, exploring. He was the spawn of nightmares, after all and he had been toughened by a life of terror.ĭuring the afternoon, napping in his simple cell, he dreamed that a surgeon opened his abdomen to insert a mysterious, squirming mass. Deucalion seldom slept, but when he did, he dreamed.
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