I wasn’t afraid, but to another woman his heavy cold hand would have been terrifying.
As he ushered me into the room I kept my eyes lowered and my thoughts to myself.
“The place of books.”
His oddly sibilant voice echoed through what instinct told me were locked bookcases. The lectern in the centre of the room with its single open volume called my feet and we walked.
Before I stopped, I knew what I would see. Emptiness. Hungry, impotent, emptiness.
“Touch it.” My escort sounded oddly desperate.
I turned to face him and made my voice mildly incurious. “What is today, Messire Scarlett.”
“It is Thursday the forty-third of Summer, my lady.”
I turned back to the book, and, even as my escort made to press my hand to the vellum, I moved, snake-quick, so his own hairy palm kissed the blank page.
And the moving finger writ.
Marmaduke Scarlett – born Monday the fiftieth of dark winter, deceased Thursday the forty-third of summer.
Scarlett screamed as his body decomposed around him until there was naught left but an evil smell.
It is hard to be afraid when there is nothing out there more terrible than you…