The drag king show ends with Bonnie Prince Harley crowning a new Prince Consort, to general applause. Everyone throws empty BORGs at them like it's rice at a wedding as Psychopompadour plays them out, then a horrible puppet drops from the rafters and starts chattering in a high-pitched synthetic voice as a new band heads for the stage. You recognize the horrible puppet from Lucinda's studio. This must be Scritti Ligotti.
Lil Nas X plays through tinny speakers as the next band gets ready; the metalheads boo theatrically, but younger people hit the dance floor.
It's so nice to be in a warm barn, tail swishing. Wait, those aren't your thoughts.
They're mine. Hello again. It's been a while. Note my grace as I wend through the tall grass to sit before you and lick my paw. I look much better than last time, don't I?
"Winter isn't great up here, you know. I almost died because of you."
"So you got me here, and I've met Elton. You brought me here for a reason. Now what?"
"Can regular people hear you talk? Or think?" I'm trying not to scare people—or reveal the spirit world to them.
"I hear there's a Cult of Fenris problem around here. What do you know about the Cult?"
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Regular people are a house of cards, falling. It takes them seventy or eighty years to fall and in that time they never stop believing that they're making choices and having thoughts. They will hear me if they want to hear me.
If I were you—and right now, I almost am—I would worry about the Cult of Fenris and their mortal allies, not one much-diminished pack spirit.
"Hey, I know you," someone says from behind you.
A kid a few years younger than you pushes through the crowd. Skinny, pierced, dressed in a ratty purple Baja hoodie with buttons that read "They/Them," "Epicycle Bikes: Know the Path," and "Sierra Freak."
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