Fletcher blanched and scrambled backwards, pressing his back into the broken gravestone. In turn, the creature screeched and scampered behind the stump, bounding sinuously as its tail switched back and forth. Fletcher noticed a sharp spike on the end of it, like a slim arrow-head carved from deer bone. The graveyard was silent, not even a breeze breaking the hush that had settled over Fletcher’s world like a blanket.
The yellow sphere of its eye peeked suspiciously over the lip of the stump. When their eyes met, he sensed something strange on the edge of his consciousness, a distinct otherness that seemed connected to him somehow. He felt an intense curiosity that was overpowering in its insistence, even as he was suffused with his own desire to flee. He sucked in another deep, sobbing breath and prepared to run.
Suddenly, the demon darted over the stump in a languid leap and on to Fletcher’s heaving chest. It peered up at him, cocking its head to one side as if examining his face. He held his breath as it chittered incomprehensibly then patted him with a foreleg.
Fletcher sat there, frozen.
Again the creature trilled at him. Then, to Fletcher’s horror, it continued its climb, each claw digging through the fabric of his shirt. It wrapped itself around his neck like a snake, the leathery skin of its belly smooth and warm. The tail whipped past his face, then continued to encircle his nape. Fletcher could feel hot breath by his ear and knew that it would throttle him in that instant, a painful death that Didric had already tried to impart on him. At least they wouldn’t have to cart his body very far for burial, he thought morbidly. As the grip began to tighten, Fletcher closed his eyes, praying it would be quick.
10
The minutes ticked by at a snail’s pace. The third morning bell must have rung by now and dawn was just a few hours away. Fletcher was beginning to get cold, but resisted his compulsion to shiver for fear of startling the imp. Twin plumes of steam flared to his left with every exhalation from the demon’s nostrils. Its chest rose and fell in a continuous rhythm, and he could hear a gentle susurration as its hot breath tickled his ear. It was almost as if . . . the demon was sleeping! How that had happened he did not know, but he was glad he was still breathing.
When he tried to pull it from his neck it growled in its slumber and tightened itself, the claws clamping down near his jugular. He removed his fingers, and it relaxed again, chirring contentedly. It reminded him of one of the village cats that would sneak into his room during a snowstorm, refusing to leave the warmth of his lap and hissing when he tried to get up. The imp was a possessive little thing.
He got up and walked to the book, keeping his neck still, as if he were balancing a jar of water on top of his head. Crouching with difficulty, he picked it up, slid the scroll between its pages, and clutched it to his chest. If he was going to take command of this demon, he would probably need it.
It was then that he heard it: the sound of loud angry voices. He turned and saw a flickering light at the end of the graveyard. How had they found him? Perhaps a local had heard the noise, or seen the light from the orb earlier. This was unlikely: he had chosen the graveyard because it was located on a small outcrop to the north of the main village, accessible only by a treacherous goat path and almost a half-mile from the nearest dwelling.
He looked about in panic, before spotting a crumbling mausoleum in the corner of the graveyard. It was the size of a small cabin, surrounded by ornate columns and embellished with carvings of flowers, though the rain had worn away the detailing long ago. He crept up to it and ducked into the low entrance, sinking into the darkness and hunkering behind the block of stone that covered the crypt at the very end of the chamber. Fletcher knew that an ancient ossuary lay just a few feet below him, the bones of villagers from generations ago stacked like so many pieces of kindling.
He was not a moment too soon, for the glow from the burning torch tinged the ground outside his hiding place a few seconds later.
‘I am beginning to think you have led us on a fool’s errand, wandering around this graveyard,’ came Didric’s voice, thick with frustration.
‘I’m telling you, I saw him walking up through the back gates of the village.’ Fletcher recognised the voice as that of Calista, a newer guard and one of Didric’s drinking companions. She was a hard-faced girl with a sadistic streak almost as bad as Didric’s.
‘Surely you understand how absurd this is,’ Didric scoffed. ‘That he would be wandering around the graveyard, of all places, in the dead of night. He’s got no family to speak of, who would he be visiting?’
‘He’s got to be here. We’ve checked the orchards and the storehouses, and he’s not in any of them. This is the only other place north of the village,’ Calista insisted.
‘Well, search the place. Maybe he’s creeping about behind some tombstones. Come on, you too, Jakov. I’m not paying you to just stand there,’ Didric commanded.