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Lost But Not Forgotten, From The Dark Heart Of A Dream
“Hello,” John Yearlate called, squinting his way through the shadows of the murky hallway. “Jackson? Are you in here?”
If he was, the bard didn’t answer. Out of the corner of his eye John kept thinking he saw human shapes, but whenever he turned his head to look there was nothing but shadows. It wouldn’t, he had to admit, be the first time he’d gotten in over his head. Without meaning to he slipped his fingers under his shirt to the place Frankie Roberts had stabbed him, fingered the scar.
And then three of the shadows resolved quite suddenly into the staticky image of an old farmer, tall and lanky. “Jacob?” John said, startled.
“What have you c... here f... Jack Paris,” said the apparition in a crackling voice.
Jack Paris. It traveled up his spine like an electric shock, a staccato burst of imagery. “Parises stick together,” said the donkey. “Promise you’ll never tell,” said Lita Paris. “Bite me, Paris,” Crandall laughed. “You’re the sweetest, most dependable person I’ve ever met, Jack Paris.” Valende’s trembling green eye. He had to sit down. “I... I don’t,” said John, or Jack, or whoever the hell he was. “Where am I?” he asked the image of Jacob Gallowsdance.
“...Hotel,” said the staticky voice. “...belong here... destiny lies elsewhere... Jack Paris. You must... way out. ...too late”
“But I,” Jack tried again.
The apparition rippled and was gone.
“Flark,” muttered the carpenter, and put his head in his hands.
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