In the center of the circle, the Rebbe of Zubinsk saw him: long, thick beard blacker than the night, caftan blacker than the darkness hidden inside your eyes.

The Rebbe of the Dead.

—

“Rebbe?”

Yehuda Leib was enfolded in snow that fell thicker and thicker by the minute. “Rebbe, I need your help.”

He could see so little now. The street seemed like a wash of featureless white. Was he even headed in the right direction?

“Rebbe, please!”

But there was no answer.

Carefully, foot over foot, Yehuda Leib moved forward. Every now and again he heard a hint from the road ahead: murmuring voices, shuffling feet, snatches of a bony rhythm.

“Rebbe?” he called, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper.

He had seen the holy man. He knew he had.

Gradually, his tenuous steps slowed and then stopped.

Now that his feet were still, he was sure he could hear something else—something ragged.

Something near.

Yehuda Leib turned his head and squeezed his eyes shut. Sure enough, there it was, clear and close:

Breathing. Raspy, reedy breath.

“Hello?” said Yehuda Leib into the gloom.

For a moment, the breathing broke off.

And then, all of a sudden, Mammon struck, a furious, snarling tangle of sharp teeth and tearing fingers, and he was on Yehuda Leib’s back, smashing him into the ground, bashing his face against the snowy cobbles, twisting and tearing at his hair, spitting venomous words like cheating and thief and show you and pay, and Yehuda Leib elbowed and pushed and kicked, and somehow he managed to throw the demon from his back, but the little glowing glass bottle slipped from his fingers and flew across the snowy street, and he was scrambling, he was so cold, chasing its light into the darkness, but again Mammon pounced and hit him hard, and his sharp teeth drove into Yehuda Leib’s shoulder, and the boy cried out and rolled, throwing his weight atop the demon, and he was free again, and the light, the light, he had to get to the light, but now Mammon saw it and recognized it, and in a tight, rasping snarl, “Mine,” he said, “it’s mine, it’s mine!” and swiftly he scuttled over the snowy road to scoop it up in his grasping fingers.

And at the sight of Mammon’s sick little smile, his dark eyes glowing in the light of his departed father, Yehuda Leib’s fury stirred and rose.

“Get your hands off him,” he said.

And Mammon began to laugh.