The Acolytes stood in the middle of the road. They peeled back their hoods in tandem. Despite their differences in height, all three wore Funelli's grin, his curled Dali mustache, and gleeful dark brown eyes. A chorus of voices said, "Hello, Jack. Lovely to see you." "Can't say the feeling's mutual, Nick." The dark druids shrugged. "You might want to scrap that draft, Jack. It's boring." Breathing heavily, Jack looked for his pages he'd written in Harlan's absence on the bench. His shoulders further slumped when he saw them in a puddle of brown water, the ink smeared and running. "Son of a..."
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