“Leo,” she said. “I knew you’d come left.”
“Light the lantern,” he gasped.
She was alive. Kneeling on the stone floor, the massive lantern beside her, unlit. In her hands, she held a match. Her face was calm, almost serene, as if she’d been waiting.
In pitch black, one light rules. Two lights make war. Choose your hunger. Into pitch black
“The small light. The dying light. It offends us.” The creature tilted its head 180 degrees. “The other one. The woman. She brought the proper light. The long beam. The hungry one.”
The sun had set. But the stars were out. Thousands of them. Billions. All that ancient, scattered, peaceful light.
“Great,” he muttered. “Fifty-fifty.” “Leo,” she said
“Trust me.” Her eyes were wet, but her voice was steel. “The dark wants a single source. Give it the dying one. I’ll give it the living one. And you—” she smiled, “you run straight.”
“Mira?” His voice came out flat, absorbed instantly by the void. No echo. As if the darkness was a sponge.
Behind them, the crack in the earth sighed shut. And the pitch black, for now, was full again. Kneeling on the stone floor, the massive lantern
“Next time,” he agreed, “I’m staying home.”
He understood. Not everything, but enough. The dark wasn't empty. It was hungry . And it could only digest one light at a time.
It wasn’t the soft dark of a bedroom or the blue-black of a stormy night. This was pitch —absolute, solid, velvety nothing that pressed against his eyeballs. He tried to wave a hand in front of his face and felt only the resistance of cool, still air. No breeze. No scent of soil or rot. Just the sterile, suffocating taste of absence.
“What? No!”