Where his followers had gone or why his attacker hadn’t finished him, he didn’t know. He lay on his back under the heavy rain, which fell around him and through him and pattered on the grass beneath. The suburban house, normally so mundane, had been transformed by the storm into a looming beacon of light, taunting him now with its pretense of safety. White icicle Christmas lights mesmerized him as they swayed back and forth in the wind and rain. Thorn’s fine-tailored suit remained neither wet nor dry—nor corporeal—as did Thorn himself. The pain was unbearable, and worse, it was unfamiliar. He hadn’t felt such pain in ages. But here he was, the fearsome Thorn, weak, wounded, and shaken. Maybe his followers had seen who’d done this. They’d likely all fled inside, the snakes. They should have defended him, should be here dying with him, their leader, superior to them all. Or perhaps they did this themselves. If that were the case, though, wouldn’t they now be here to gloat?
