“Like a drum,” said Mammon. “Bum-bum, bum-bum, bum-bum.”

Yehuda Leib cast his eyes quickly downward to avoid Mammon’s gaze.

The steward shook his head. “I hear nothing, my lord.”

“Never mind,” said Mammon, turning his attention back to the calipers.

But then he stopped.

“Huh,” he said. “That’s strange.”

“My lord?” said the steward.

“Only by the barest increment, but…” Mammon switched spectacles and peered down at his calipers. “Why, yes: this nail is longer now than it was just a moment ago.”

Mammon’s eyes began to widen.

“Longer?” said the steward. “I don’t understand.”

But Mammon did.

“Steward?” called Mammon, a sharp smirk on his lips.

“Yes, my lord?”

“We’ve had a change in plans.”

“Oh?” said the steward.

Mammon stretched his smile wide, showing more teeth in one place than Yehuda Leib had ever seen.

“Oh yes,” he said. “This boy is alive.”

—

It is often repeated that the night is darkest before the dawn. This is plainly false. The night is darkest in its precise midst.

What is true, however, is that it is hardest to breathe just before one surfaces from the deep, and in the same way, it is hardest to bear the cemetery as one draws closest to the territory of the living.

Zubinsk was near, and the demons were swarming.

The first came up slowly, heavily, from behind: a looming thing, a shadow shaped like a man, dark and ragged, three times as high as the tallest tree Bluma had ever seen, and as it came striding over them with its long legs, it peered down and stared at her with eyes like drowning stars.

A stooped old lady with hairy, twitching spiders instead of hands moved to the side of the road when she saw Lilith approaching, curtsied, and lowered her eyes, but as the Lileen went by, she lifted them up again—glossy, perfectly black—to peer at Bluma.

Bluma couldn’t be certain, but it seemed to her that the lady was hiding a smirk.

Now more came, and more: a flock of bat-winged creatures cackling and diving, a huge serpent slithering languidly beneath the accumulated snow, the figure of a man so covered in sores and boils that he cracked and oozed with every little movement of his body.

Every one of them turned back to gaze at Bluma’s face.

Slowly, nervously, Bluma began to chew on her lower lip.

What were they looking at?

More and more demons crowded in around them—scales and claws, murmurs and whispers—and Bluma grew more and more nervous. Little by little, she began to imagine she could feel something tugging at her hair, and she ran her hand back over its surface to ensure that it was free.

They were all looking at her. Why were they all looking at her?

With every little worry, Bluma gave a gnaw at her lower lip. Slowly, without even realizing, she brought herself to bleed.