One of Belial’s attendants giggled and rolled his eyes on the far side of the cordon of cats.

“No, Belial. It is the same as ever. What have you come to say?”

“It’s only that we’re unaccustomed to seeing you attended,” said Belial. “I was under the impression that you didn’t hold with rank and hierarchy. All are equal in the Sisterhood of the Lileen, is it not so?”

Lilith sighed. “What are you talking of, Belial?”

“Why,” said the florid demon, “this little maidservant of yours.”

It seemed to Bluma now that every single eye in the universe was turned upon her.

Her face was burning.

“Bluma? She is not my maidservant.”

“No?” said Belial demonstratively. “A prize, then? Or perhaps one of your projects?”

“She is nothing that you need concern yourself with.”

“Your Bluma is very fragrant, Lilith. If you are entertaining offers for her…”

“That will do, Belial,” said Lilith sharply, and like a flash the Lileen had separated the smarmy demon from her. “She is not for sale.”

“You surprise me, Lady Lilith,” said Belial. “I have always thought you a very reasonable woman—insofar as there is such a thing.”

A gout of pretentious laughter rang out from Belial’s attendants.

“Goodbye, Belial,” said Lilith, but as they made their way forward, Bluma saw him bend to whisper to one of his followers, pointing a long, manicured finger at her face.

Slowly, the word Bluma passed from Belial’s lips and disseminated itself throughout the little clutch of hangers-on. More fingers were pointed, grins suppressed.

There was no mistaking it.

Her name was racing through the swarm.

Bluma began to chew idly on her bleeding lip.

The closer they drew to the Zubinsk cemetery gate, the thicker the scrum became—and the richer and more prominent the demons.

Near the outskirts of the swarm, the goblins and imps were unmistakable—all slavering maws and leathery wings—but here they’d begun to arm themselves with the leavings of human life: pale, flickering memories at first, of shabby dresses and threadbare coats, and then things that were more substantial. Bluma saw a demon with only one expression to her name—a wide smirk—and she wore it, thick and motionless, everywhere she went. Another demon had managed to lay his hands on a grubby toe-holed sock, and he was busy auctioning it off to a fierce crowd of bidders.

But soon the simulacra became more refined. There were demons here that Bluma might very well have mistaken for living people if, every so often, the moonlight hadn’t cut through their skin, showing the ragged, ravenous things beneath.