“Greg said. “Yep,” I confirmed from my place within the bathtub full of ice. My torso looked like something Van Gogh might’ve painted on a dark day: black and blues swirled and intermingled across my ribs, chest, and shoulders, blending with the faded yellowing bruises from my encounter with the Rakshasa in Las Cruces. Looked a little like Starry Night, which was both cool and esthetically pleasing. Also asstastic, did I mention that? “What’s the end game?” Greg asked. “Long term, where is this ...thing going?” “Like I’ve got a clue.” I shrugged my shoulders and immediately regretted doing so. “Greg, I’ve been playing some hunches and following a few leads, but mostly I’ve been bluffing so far. You know that planning and forethought aren’t my strong suits.” “You’re right—better to give the dyslexic kid the road map than ask you for insight and direction.” “Why are we friends again?” I splashed some water at him, drawing minutely on the Vis to make sure he got a face full of freezing human-soup.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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