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"That's suits me fine," he said, then spit into his hand and thrust it in her direction. "Put 'er there and it's a deal."
Before she could respond to this rustic closure custom, the shop bell tinkled. She half-expected it to be Van Richten again, come back with the payment or some other excuse. Instead, a tall man in a long ash-gray cloak stood in the doorway. Though dressed well enough and neatly groomed, he possessed a gaunt, starving look about him.
"Yes, sir? May I be of service?" she said, more from habit than from conviction. When the man's gaze-his flat, expressionless eyes were as ashen as his cloak-fell upon her, she felt her throat dry up. A shudder ran through her whole body, as though from a blast of winter cold air, but despite the still open door there was no wind. All was deadly silence in the little shop. He stared at her and dismissed her, shifting his full attention to her other customer.
A great change had come over Milos. His blustery confidence was altogether gone, along with all the color in his weathered face. He looked positively ill-ill to the point of death. His pupils had shrunk to pinpoints and his jaw sagged, but no speech came forth.
The tall stranger's thin red lips parted like an open cut. He breathed in through his mouth, then exhaled softly. As his breath sighed past, Mrs. Heywood fell back a few steps to her counter, suddenly nauseated. It was like walking past the butcher's lane on a hot summer day, but a hundred times worse. The terrible cold seized her again, and this time she found herself sliding slowly to the floor, quite helpless. It was like one of her nightmares made real.
"No," Milos whispered far above her. "Please, lea' me be."
"You have something which does not belong to you," the stranger stated, his words sounding like shards of ice grinding together.
She saw Milos retreat, putting the table between himself and the tall man. " 'M sorry-I din' mean nothin' by it, just-here-here it is, take it 'n lea' me be. Please!" With shaking hands he lifted the book up like an offering.
So quick that she could scarcely follow the movement, the stranger's arm shot out from the cloak and seized the book. His thin, pale fingers greedily caressed the covers, but he never once took his gaze from Milos. "My master has but one fate for thieves," he murmured.
Whatever that fate was, Milos was evidently aware of it. Sheer panic consumed his features as he fumbled to pull a large knife from his belt scabbard. This only inspired his adversary to soft laughter, and what an awful sound it was, like a dying man's last stuttering exhalation. Milos sobbed in response. It was too much for him. He darted past the man and threw himself out the door with a cry. His ru
Mrs. Heywood became aware of the stranger looming over her. She still could not move, only stare into his eyes. They pierced right through her, seeming to burn and freeze her all at the same time. He reached forth one hand and drew a slow finger across her forehead, then down her temple, and past her jawline. He lingered at the pulse point in her throat and smiled. Her scream dribbled out as a tiny whimper.
"On behalf of my master, I thank you for delaying that fool for the day," he told her. "He shan't escape me now that I've got his scent. Then shall I truly sup."
She wanted to faint or wake up-anything, if it only freed her from his unbearable presence.
"Sleep, woman, and forget all that has passed here," he said, delicately drawing his fingertip over her eyelids. "Sleep instead… and dream. Dream of me."
The last thing she heard as she slipped into a freezing red darkness was his death-rattle laughter and the whisper of his cloak as he drew away.
The bell rang briefly over the closing door, then fell still. For several moments the shop was silent as a grave. Silent… until the woman on the floor feebly shifted and moaned as the first of her nightmares battened hard and hungrily upon her soul.