“Bluma?” said Yehuda Leib.

His keen eyes seemed to look straight through her vague and dreamy face.

Slowly, all the dark eyes of the cemetery turned to fix upon the girl.

“On, boy!” roared Mammon. “On! Now!”

With a jolt, Yehuda Leib pushed the little demon forward, through the gateway and into the territory of the living.

An excited commotion blossomed through the crowd—this was, after all, a practical miracle.

And then, one by one, as grinning Mammon clattered off over the cobbles into Zubinsk, each of the demons in the crowd began to realize that this miracle had been performed by way of a living human child.

And there—just there—was another.

Bluma.

—

Afterward, she could not say who had moved first—her or one of the demons.

All she remembered was running.

Gnashing teeth and grabbing hands, long, scraping claws, voices screaming, yelling, pushing, cursing—she had to keep going, she had to keep moving, running, and she dodged and leapt over headstones, and still they were grabbing on to her, touching her, and there were fingers in her hair pulling her back, and she wrenched forward, but there was no end to them, none, grabbing, their hands, and as soon as she had torn herself away, there were more, and there were more, and there were more, and there were more, and their faces loomed up, twisted and furious, and the monsters beneath, fiery eyes, teeth, gullets deeper than the ocean, talons, barbed, stinging tails, and the gate was just ahead, she could see it, and if she could only make her way through, then they could not follow, but she was slowing, the strength sapping from her legs, encumbered, weighted down by the sheer number of grabbing hands, and now they began to pull her in opposing directions, and she began batting at them, kicking and flailing, and she was sure that they would rip her apart, and her throat was ragged and sore and she found that she was screaming, and she pushed hard against a gravestone behind with her feet, and this was it, she was there, the heavy iron gates looming up on either side, and the warm, silky light of the raging pavilion fell quickly away, leaving only the silent, snowy midnight of Zubinsk to receive her.

From this perspective—from the mortal side—there seemed to be no tent, no crowd, no demons: just a still and snowy graveyard at the edge of the slumbering town.

But as she passed through the gates, a cold, clammy hand closed around her ankle.

Something had her—a snarling, rabid, grasping thing—and she fell on the cold cobbles, and it was pulling its way through, hand over hand up her leg, she could see its eyes, alight with desire, and she kicked hard, once, twice, against its head, and with a yelp, it let go.