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so overwhelming that it destroys conscious thought with the violence of a bomb blast. This is a rage of insanity, the total darkness of an underground cavern. An eclipse of the soul.
    I screech like an animal through my gag, the kind of screech that should make your throat bleed and your eardrums explode, and I slam against my bonds so hard that the chains cut into my skin. My eyes bug out, trying to burst from their sockets. If I were a dog, I would be foaming at the mouth. I want only one thing: to snap these chains and kill the demon with my bare hands. I don’t just want it to die—I want to eviscerate it. I want to tear it apart so that it is unrecognizable. I want to split the atoms that make up the demon and turn it into mist. But the chains stay strong. They don’t break. They don’t even loosen. Through this, the demon watches me in bemused fascination, one hand resting on the top of Matt’s head, a monstrous parody of a fatherly gesture. The demon laughs and shakes its monstrous head, causing its mul- S H A D O W M A N 23
    tiple mouths to mew in protest. Speaks again with that voice that doesn’t match its form.
    “There we go! Cook and baste, bake and broil.” It winks. “Nothing like a little despair to bring out the taste of a heroic soul. . . .” A pause, and then the voice goes serious for just a moment, fills with a kind of perverse regret: “Don’t blame yourself for this, Smoky. Even a hero can’t win all the time.”
    I look at Matt again, and the look in his eye is enough to make me want to die. It’s not a look of fear, or pain, or horror. It’s a look of love. He has managed, for just a moment, to push the demon out of the world of this bedroom, so that it’s just he and I, looking at each other. One of the gifts of a long marriage is the ability to communicate anything—from mild displeasure to the meaning of life—with a single glance. It’s something you develop in the process of mixing your soul with your spouse’s, if you’re willing to mix your soul. Matt was giving me one of those looks and saying three things with that one, beautiful eye: I’m sorry, I love you, and . . . good-bye.
    It was like watching the end of the world. Not in flame and fire, but in cold, drenching shadows. Darkness that would go on forever. The demon seems to sense it as well. It laughs again and does a little prancing dance, waving its tail and dripping pus from its pores.
    “Ahh— amore. How sweet it is. That’ll be the cherry on top of my Smoky sundae—the death of love.”
    The door to the room opens, closes. I don’t see anyone enter . . . but there is now a small, shadowy figure at the periphery of my vision. Something about it fills me with desperation.
    Matt closes his eye, and I feel the rage again and tear at my bonds. The knife goes down, I hear the wet, cutting, sawing sound, and Matt screams through his ruined lips as I scream through my gag, and Prince Charming is dying, Prince Charming is dying—
    I wake up screaming.
    I am lying on the couch in Dr. Hillstead’s office. He is kneeling next to it, touching me with words, not hands.
    “Shh. Smoky. It’s okay, it was just a dream. You’re here, you’re safe.”
    I’m shaking hard, and I’m covered with sweat. I can feel tears drying on my face.
    “Are you all right?” he asks me. “You back?”
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    C O D Y M C F A D Y E N
    I can’t look at him. I bring myself to a sitting position.
    “Why did you do that?” I whisper. I’m done with the pretense of being strong in front of my shrink. He’s shattered me, and he holds my heart, still beating, in his hands.
    He doesn’t reply right away. He stands up, grabs a chair, and brings it close to the couch. He sits down, and though I still can’t look at him, I can feel him looking at me, like a bird beating its wings against a window. Tentative, persistent.
    “I did that . . . because I had to.” He’s silent for a moment. “Smoky, I’ve been working with FBI and other