The sixth Sister, tail upraised, was there at the far end of the alley, and as she began to stalk her way into the second cemetery, the Rebbe’s granddaughter appeared, silhouetted in the road behind her. She was skinny, shivering in her nightgown, nervous, and she hesitated at the end of the long alleyway.

The sixth Sister of the Lileen arrived in the second cemetery and sat softly down at Lilith’s feet.

All was still. The snow had begun to thicken, but in the absence of any hint of wind, the flakes crowded the sky, taking their time swirling down to the ground.

It felt to Bluma as if all the world were holding its breath.

Lilith raised a long finger and beckoned. Somewhere nearby, the wind began to stir.

“Come,” said Lilith.

Bluma could see the Rebbe’s granddaughter stiffen.

In a spasm of light, behind the clouds, behind the veil of shimmering snow, sharp blue lightning split the sky.

And then, from the street beyond the alley, a deep, round voice rang out. Bluma had never heard or even seen the man before, but instantly and without doubt she knew the voice of the Rebbe of Zubinsk.

“Rokhl!” Sharply, the Rebbe’s granddaughter turned her head toward the sound of her grandfather’s voice. “Run!”

Thunder rolled through the sky, low and round, as if in echo of the Rebbe.

“No,” said Lilith, in a voice so sharp and cold that Bluma wanted to check her ears for blood.

Again, the girl at the end of the alleyway stiffened.

And then she turned and ran.

“No!” called Lilith again, like a screeching gale. Bluma looked up. Lilith’s face was terrible and furious and beautiful.

“Go!” cried Lilith. “Bring her back to me!” And with a lurch, Bluma was running again, her feet falling hard and fast against the packed snow, and, all around her, the bounding shadows of six gray cats tore into the town of Zubinsk.

Chapter Nine: The Flight and the Fall

Yehuda Leib was exhausted. Round and round the streets of Zubinsk they had gone, Mammon growing more and more impatient, Yehuda Leib growing sweatier and sweatier. His hands in their mittens were swamped, and he hated sweating under woolens—nothing made him feel more constrained.

“Faster, boy,” snapped Mammon. “If I fail to secure this Rebbe after having made such a show of crossing over…”

Yehuda Leib stopped listening as soon as possible.

He had to think.

If there was anyone who could help him bring back his father, it was the Rebbe of Zubinsk. But how could he manage to consult the holy Rebbe with this little lump of a demon in his hands?

He had to ditch the demon. But how?

He wished his hands weren’t so sweaty—it was just one more distraction, and time was running short.