Deadly Measure of Brimstone

Prologue

Every time it was the same: almost midnight and the only light a quarter moon, bleary as a lamp on the last of its oil through the clouded glass of the window far above. Even that dimmed as the vapours shifted, stirred by movement, but was still enough to see by for someone who knew the way.

The thick steam muffled breathing and footsteps so there was near perfect silence, nothing but the occasional plink as a drop of water formed and fell, rippled and slowly calmed again. In the dream just as in waking life, to enter the water when it was still was a ritual. To shed clothes and shoes and slip under without a sound was a sacred thing.

Then came the perfect moment, floating in silence, in moonlight and cold still water. But in the dream something was wrong. The water should have been silken but felt sluggish, sucking and clinging instead of parting clean and clear. How could water be heavy?

Before the thought was fully formed, the touch came. Slow and bumping, far below the surface, a heavy object, rolling now, turning, until a cold soft arm and the trail of caressing fingers could not be denied. It was open-mouthed, tangle-haired, its limbs waving, dirt lifting off the skin. There was not the faintest gleam in its milky eyes, but in the morning and all through the day, when the rest of the dream had faded, those eyes kept staring.