The Reapers [antikvár]

Sometimes, Louis dreams of the Burning Man. He comes when the night is at its deepest, when even the sounds of the city have faded, descending from symphonic crescendo to muted nocturne. Louis is not even sure if he is truly asleep when the Burning Man makes his presence felt, for it seems to him that he wakes to the sound of his partner's slow breathing in the bed beside him, a smell in his nostrils that is both familiar yet alien: it is the stink of charred meats allowed to rot, of humán fats sizzling in an open flame. If it is a dream, then it is a waking dream, one that occurs in the netherworld between consciousness and absence. The Burning Man had a name once, but Louis can no longer utter it. His name is not enough to encompass his identity; it is too narrow, too restrictive for what he has become to Louis. He does not think of him as 'Erről', or 'Mr Rich' or even 'Mr Erről', which is how he had always addressed him when he was alive. He is now more than a name, much more. Still, once he was Mr Erről: all brawn and muscle, his skin the color of damp, fertile earth recently turnéd by the plow; gentle and patient for the most part, but with something simmering beneath his seemingly piacid