Dead Harvest

  "This vessel suits you, Collector – we could have had such fun with it, don't you think? It's a pity they will flay it alive for what you've done. And who knows? Perhaps I'll see you then. One way or another, I think I'd like to hear this body scream."

  Then, suddenly, she was gone – and with her, her warmth, her dizzying scent. I stood shivering in the darkness, alone.

• • • •

A frost had settled across the cemetery, the blades of grass crunching beneath my feet as I trudged back to the treeline, and to Pinch. He paid me no mind as I approached, instead staring at the spot from which I'd come. He stood wide-eyed and mouth agape, his forearm streaked with blood. The kerchief lay forgotten at his feet.

  "Who was that?" he asked, his voice small and faraway.

  "Nobody. We have to go." I crunched past him, into the forest. He didn't budge.

  "She was beautiful," Pinch said. "Bring her back."

  "Maybe later. Right now, we have to move."

  "I could give her more blood," he said. I watched in horror as Pinch fetched Anders' knife from his pocket and dragged the blade once more across his forearm. Fresh blood welled, glistening black in the moonlight.

  I grabbed him by the wrist, trying desperately to still the blade. He struggled against my grip. That's when I hit him. A backhand blow across the face, hard enough to knock him down. Pinch glared up at me from the ground, eyes full of cold fury. At least it beat the moony stare of a moment before. I extended a hand to help him up. Reluctantly, he took it.

  "Her name is Lilith," I said. "And believe me, you want nothing to do with her."

  "Lilith," he repeated, in the reverent tone of the devout. "Who is she? What is she? Is she a god?"

  "A god?" I laughed. "Pretty fucking far from. As to what she really is, that's complicated. Some say that she's the night. The southern wind. Some believe that she was the first woman to walk the Earth – that she was cast out of Eden because she refused to be subservient to Man. There are some who say she is the mother of demon and djinn, to incubi and succubi – to all the creatures who walk the night, and prey on your kind."

  "So which is it?"

  I shrugged. "Who knows? The books were written long ago, most by folks like you, struggling to make sense of things we weren't meant to know. Not a one of them is right, or maybe they all are, I don't know. Either way, the lot of them, Christian, Egyptian, whatever – they're all just dim reflections of the world beyond, offering nothing but distorted, funhouse images of what they attempt to explain. What I do know is that Lilith is powerful, a creature of great influence and even greater beauty. Which is to say she's dangerous. You felt what her presence was like, and that was from forty feet away. Up close it's even worse. You'd do well to stay away from her – she's corrupted even the bravest and truest of souls, and she'll try to do the same to you, if you give her half a chance."

  "Why doesn't she affect you?"

  I laughed. "Believe me, she does. But in my case, it's only incidental. See, I've got nothing left for her to take. Now come on – we've got to go."

  We set off through the woods. My muscles ached from exertion and from the cold, but still, I set a brisk pace. Pinch struggled, panting, to keep up. The path was lazy and meandering. I had time for neither. I left the trail behind, plunging into the forest proper. I hoped to God I was headed in the right direction. Now was not the time for mistakes.

  Sneaker scraped against wood, and Pinch yelped, tumbling. A tree root, thick and gnarled, had blocked his path, sending him to the ground. Reluctantly, I stopped and gave him time to find his feet.

  "Jesus, Sam – where's the fire?"

  "No fire – we just have to go, is all."

  "This about that Bishop guy?"

  I pondered lying. I figured – what's the point? "Yeah," I said. "It's about Bishop."

  "What kind of a name is Bishop, anyway?"

  "What kind of a name is Pinch?"

  "Fair point," he said.

  "Anyways, it's not his name, it's his title. Was, anyway. Word is, he was a powerful man in the church during the Middle Ages. Had himself a school. Problem was, his students – young boys, all – had a habit of turning up dead. He took their eyes, their tongues, their hands. Other things, too. Of course, he had the protection of the church, so there's no telling how many boys he killed, and nobody knows what he was doing with the bits he took – although if you heard the speculation, you'd likely cry yourself to sleep."

  "And now he's after us?"

  "Yes."

  At that last, Pinch sat down hard and put his head between his knees. His face looked pale and clammy by the light of the moon, and he gulped greedily at the cold night air like he was going to be sick.

  "You OK?" I asked.

  "Fine," he said, raising his head after a moment and climbing unsteadily to his feet. "Just wondering what I've gotten myself into, is all. So what do we do now?"

  "We get the hell out of here, for a start. Find someplace crowded. Someplace public."