The Messenger did not bother to look at the crow. “Whom do you serve, demon?”

The crow hopped forward and blinked. “I am the Right Deplorable Carrion of the Cracked and Blasted Wastes of Tehom, Master of Ragged Flesh, Bringer of—”

But the Messenger held up his empty palm. “Spare me.”

The crow preened lightly.

“I asked whom you serve.”

“I am counted, Most Reverend Regent,” said the crow, “among the legions of Lord Pazuzu.”

“Good,” said the Messenger. “Then I charge you, Crow of Pazuzu, in the name of your master, to carry this cargo into the Far Country, to the very gates of my house, and there to wait for me until such time as I shall return to collect it. You shall not tarry in your errand, nor shall you turn to the left or the right. Do you understand?”

The crow nodded. “Yes, Most Reverend Regent.”

“Good,” said the Messenger. “Then approach and take your charge.”

With a flitting hop, the crow rose to perch on the Messenger’s wrist.

And what it did there appalled Yehuda Leib.

With a sharp peck and a toss of its head, it swallowed the bright point of light in the Messenger’s palm.

“No!” cried Yehuda Leib.

The Dark One flinched, as if he had forgotten Yehuda Leib was even there.

“No!” called Yehuda Leib again, and, darting forward, he reached out for the crow, which, with an angry croak, rose from the Messenger’s wrist.

“Come back!” cried Yehuda Leib, but the crow beat the air with its wide wings, rising high up into the sky.

Yehuda Leib could still see the glimmering light, just barely, lodged in the crow’s throat, racing away into the night.

He could not bear to let it disappear.

“Wait,” said the Dark Messenger feebly, but Yehuda Leib leapt off in pursuit. “Wait!”

But it was too late.

The sound of the boy’s thumping feet was swallowed quickly by the thick, skulking trees.

—

Silence fell on the path.

The Dark One turned and let go a heavy sigh. He was tired—so terribly, terribly tired.

He had meant to be in Zubinsk by now. One sweet day of anonymity, one day to walk among others, to join in their celebration and not be reviled for simply existing—was that so much to ask?

And now, on top of it all, he had lost his instrument.

Trusting Avimelekh to a common demon was dangerous—perhaps even foolish—but his light had to make its way into the Far Country, all the way to the House of Death, and without his instrument, he simply could not contain it safely.

He could’ve borne it back himself, it was true. But it was always such a long journey. And he was so tired already.

Besides, he would not have risked missing the wedding in Zubinsk for any price.