The Dark One stood at the edge of the circle, stock-still in the falling snow. In the shuffle, somehow, he had ended up with the bottle. Red-faced Fishl looked over his shoulder now and saw it in the Dark One’s hand, and he gave a great whoop and a laugh that called down the shushing from five different windows.

“L’chaim, my friend! L’chaim!” And he mimed swigging from the bottle.

It had been quite some time since someone had offered the Dark One a drink, and it took him a moment to figure out how it was done. Soon, though, he swigged and coughed and found himself smiling. The drink tasted like sorrow—but then again, nothing like sorrow at all.

“L’chaim,” said the Angel of Death.

To life.

—

Bluma turned her face sharply toward the ground and shuffled backward, hiding herself in the press of demons all around her.

Something was wrong.

When she looked up again, she could see Yehuda Leib scanning the crowd, his brows low.

He knew he had seen something.

Fortunately, he did not seem to know what.

“Lord Mammon,” said Belial, stepping forward. “What a pleasant surprise! We had not expected to see you here.”

“Ah,” replied Mammon. “Belial.” With a motion of his hand, he signaled Yehuda Leib to stop. “I am afraid I cannot say that your presence here is particularly surprising…”

Or particularly pleasant was the implied conclusion.

Belial stiffened. “I am rather more generous with my time than some, it is true.”

“Oh yes,” said Mammon. “Nearly as generous as you are with other people’s money.”

A titillated buzz ran through the crowd. Belial, it seemed, was rather in debt to Mammon.

“Now, now, Lord Mammon,” said Belial. “It is not the done thing to discuss such matters at parties. You might’ve been sensible of that if you’d ever been invited to one.”

Mammon let out a demonstrative sigh. “Oh, very clever, Belial. But I shan’t deny it—I am, alas, far too often taken up with serious matters of business to spend much time in company. Even tonight, I cannot stay long. I am afraid I am only passing through.”

Belial showed his teeth in a smug grin. “Passing through? Found the odds a bit daunting, did you, my lord?”

Now Mammon frowned in mock puzzlement. “Hmm? Odds, you say? I do not play the odds. Or, to put it rather better: once I have begun to play, the odds are irrelevant.”

At this, Belial gave a derisive snort. “Lord Azazel has surrounded the gates, Mammon. Not even you could be arrogant enough to think that you can beat him to the Rebbe once the morning comes.”

Mammon laid a hand on his chest and bowed his head in an exaggerated show of humility. “Of course not.”

Belial began to chuckle exultantly, but he was cut short when Mammon continued:

“I shall beat him to the Rebbe tonight.”