The Serpent's Shadow

Chapter Nineteen

IN the end, Peter decided to approach Gupta privately, rather than going through Maya first. If Maya’s chief servant and oldest friend did know something regarding Maya’s safety, he might be more willing, rather than less, to talk to Peter about it without Maya present. If this ploy didn’t work, he could always backtrack and go through Maya anyway.

As a consequence, he shut up his shop during the early afternoon when he knew that Maya would be at the Fleet clinic, and took a ‘bus to her home. There had been a dramatic change in the weather at long last, with much lower temperatures and frequent rains. It was now a normal, ordinary English summer in all respects but one. The heat wave had broken, but now thanks to the rains and coolness, fogs marched through the streets at night, and with the fog, came more of the mysterious deaths. Simon Parkening was still missing, and although Peter would have been perfectly pleased if he never appeared again, his continued absence boded little good. And at any rate, although the man was a bounder and a cad, even Peter wouldn’t wish him dead.

The narrow little street in which Maya lived, heavily overshadowed by the buildings on either side with the dome of St. Paul’s looming over all in the distance, was remarkably quiet today. The only vehicle on the pavement was a milk float returning empty to the dairy. There were some small children, toddlers, playing together on a doorstep, but other than that, no other people were about. There was traffic and the sounds of people two or three streets away, but not here. Peter rang Maya’s bell and it seemed unnaturally loud in such quietude; after a moment, he heard Gupta’s footsteps within, and the door opened.

Maya’s chief servitor appeared within, his white tunic and bloused trousers spotlessly correct, even though he must have been working in the kitchen all morning. “The doctor will be—” Gupta began, and stopped, a look of surprise on his weathered face, when he saw who it was, for Peter should have known (as in fact, he did) that Maya was not in this afternoon.

“I didn’t come to see Doctor Maya, Gupta,” Peter said, before Gupta could gather his wits. “I came to see you. May I come in and speak with you?”

“Of course, sahib,” Gupta said politely, a mask of calculated indifference dropping over his features. Peter wasn’t worried. This was only Gupta’s public face. He thought it was likely that once Gupta was in a place where he felt comfortable and in control, the mask would come off again.

So when Gupta hesitated between going in the direction of Maya’s office and her conservatory, Peter smiled disarmingly, and said, “Why don’t we go to the kitchen?”

The mask flickered for a moment. Then Gupta bowed his head and turned to lead the way to his sanctum.

With the break in the weather, the kitchen was now cozy rather than stifling, and Gupta acknowledged Peter’s appreciative sniff at the scent of baking bread with a slight smile. The mask was beginning to crack.

Gupta nodded at a stool, and Peter sat himself down beside the kitchen table, scoured spotless, scored with the knife cuts and marks of the preparation of many, many meals. Gupta poured two cups of tea from the kettle he always had ready, and offered Peter the milk and sugar, though he himself took neither.

Peter waited until Gupta took a second stool before he spoke; he put his tea down on the table and looked straight into the old man’s eyes, and asked, “What enemy is it that has followed Maya from India?”

Gupta started; the mask shattered. “What is it you know?” the old man demanded harshly—and now Peter saw, thinly veiled, the warrior that hid within the butler and servant—the bodyguard that Peter had always suspected he truly was.

Peter took a sip of tea, as if he had not seen so much when the mask came off. “I know that when she came here—and I discovered her—she had done her best to create defenses against something. I know that you were certain she needed those defenses. And I know—” he hesitated, then plunged in further. “—I know that there is something in this city now, that kills by night, crushing the breath from men. These are all pukka sahibs, Englishmen, many officers of the Army who once dwelt in your homeland and, I presume, did harm to your people there. Or at least, whoever sent this thing to kill them, thought that they had done harm.”

Gupta’s eyes widened at this last intelligence, and he sucked in his breath in a hiss. “And it comes—when?” he asked urgently. “In the hot night?”

Peter shook his head. “In the fog,” he said. “Always with the fog. The fog creeps in, and men die alone, suffocated, as if something had crushed the life from them.”

And that opened the floodgates.

Within the next hour, Peter got all of Maya’s life history, as well as that of her mother and as much of her father’s that Gupta knew. He also got the history of the woman he supposed must be regarded as Maya’s aunt—the devotee of Kali Durga, the sorceress Shivani, who had sworn eternal enmity with her own sister when she married an Englishman, and presumably was still the enemy of Surya’s daughter.

All of this poured forth in a torrent of mixed English and Urdu that taxed Peter’s knowledge of the latter to the limit. Sometimes he had to make Gupta stop and explain himself. But in the end, he knew as much as Gupta did—and had just as much reason to be alarmed.

And yet—“Do you think our defenses have stopped her?” he asked doubtfully. “I’ve taught her all I know about shields, and there are some things that she knows that are as good or better than anything I showed her.”

“That—and the little ones—the pets,” Gupta added, when Peter looked puzzled. “I think—” He hesitated, then plunged boldly on. “I think that they are more than pets.”

Peter waited, keeping his expression quietly expectant. At this point, he wasn’t about to discount anything the old man said. There were long traditions of “familiars” among the families in whom the talent for magic ran deeply, even in this island nation.

Gupta paused for another moment, then continued. “I do not know what they are. They were Surya’s; they were grown when she first obtained them, and I do not know from where they came. So. She was fourteen years then; Maya was born when she was twenty. That is six years. Maya is now more than twenty. So how is it that none, none of these ‘pets’ look more than three or four years at most?”

“Uh—I don’t know.” He wasn’t sure how old Hanuman langurs lived, or parrots—but falcons certainly didn’t live to be more than twenty, nor, he thought, did peacocks. Nor did mongooses. Certainly all of the animals should be showing the signs of great maturity by now, if not of old age! So they were not “familiars” as he knew them. What were they?

“Right. They are not pets, but at the moment, it doesn’t matter what they are, since they are our creatures. But what is killing those men?” That was the important question.

“It must be some thing of Shivani’s,” Gupta replied. “And I think it must take the form of a snake. One of the great, crushing snakes, perhaps?”

Peter nodded. “A constrictor—a python—and that makes sense.”

“The cobra is holy,” Gupta agreed. “I do not think she would risk invoking the form of a cobra by magic, just to slay a few sahibs. But even a python would not dare to cross paths with Singhe and Sia—for surely they are as magical as it is. If Shivani could have attacked Maya in this way, it would have happened some time ago. So Maya is safe from it.”

“Even if Maya is safe in here,” he asked, urgently, “What about when she’s out there!”

Gupta could only shake his head.

Shivani ground her teeth in anger, and paced back and forth in her room, her bangles and anklets chinking softly with each step, her sari swishing around her feet. She was so enraged she could not have spoken if she had tried. It hadn’t worked! All that effort, all the preparation, all the hours spent in extracting the tiniest atom of power from that wretched man Parkening, and it still hadn’t allowed her Shadow to penetrate the girl’s defenses! Now the Shadow was spent, unable to go forth even to replenish itself from other sources, and still the girl’s very existence mocked her! All her carefully laid plans were stalled, because of this one miserable girl!

She could not get near the girl, either directly or indirectly by means of her dacoits, without alerting her to the peril she lay in and probably causing her to bolt for yet another far country. That would spell the end to all of Shivani’s plans; she could hide herself and her men in London, but not in barbaric New York! Who had ever heard of Hindus in New York? No, above all else, the girl must not know how close Shivani was to taking her!

So close—so agonizingly close, and yet no closer than before. The traitor was protected physically and magically within her dwelling, and she never ventured out of it alone—by day she was in the protection of crowds, and on the rare times when she traveled by night, she was with cab drivers, other doctors, or that man. That man, mostly. And he, he was fully protected by magic she did not understand, and was wary of. It would be one thing, were she to deal with him on her terms; quite another to attempt to take him on his.

No native could get within striking distance of the girl without her noting and probably reacting before a strike could be made, for she avoided the presence of her own countrymen—other than her personal servants—as if she knew that those of the homeland could be dangerous to her. Oh, perhaps one could simply kill her with an English gun, at a distance—but that was not the point! The point was for Shivani to recover the power this girl had, and to add it to her own, so that she could continue to wreak vengeance on the sahibs! Even more to the point would be to enslave her spirit so that Shivani could force her to help in Shivani’s crusade! To merely slay her would be sheer futility and criminal waste!

She stood up, and paced the floor. If she could get a drop of the girl’s blood—or if she could somehow get one of several special potions into her—the girl could die however she died, and it would still be possible to steal her spirit and power. But how could that be accomplished? Her dacoits had tried, and failed, to invade her home. She guarded every hair that fell from her head with obsessive care, and she never ate or drank anything that was not from the hands of her servants or prepared in English kitchens by English cooks.

Perhaps—perhaps she was not studying her enemy thoroughly enough.

She stopped pacing, and strode instead to the table on which her mirror rested. The mirror-slave was so much more tractable now that Shivani kept the mirror completely unshrouded. As tenuous as his grip on sanity was, she deemed it prudent not to push him any nearer to the brink.

She picked it up and retired with it to her favorite corner. Curled up among her cushions, with insect netting shielding her from flying pests that came in the open windows and a cool breeze to calm her and set the wind chimes singing softly, she spoke to the eager face, changing with the swirling darkness in the glass, that looked up into hers.

“Show me more of the girl,” she commanded. “What has she done today and yesterday, outside of her house?”

She didn’t have to be any more specific than that. The slave knew very well who she was, and immediately showed her the girl walking out of her own doorway, perhaps to get a cab or find a ‘bus.

But this time, Shivani paid no attention to the girl herself; now she concentrated on her surroundings. She ordered the slave to show her the street where the girl lived.

Not a wealthy place, though not quite as impoverished as this slum where Shivani had hidden her people. Narrow buildings of brick and stone, gray and brown, crammed together, three and four and even six stories tall—the girl’s little white-stone house seemed shrunken by comparison. The men here wore rough, workingman’s clothing, dungarees and flannel shirts and heavy, laced boots. The women, with their aprons and shabby little straw hats, their checked shirtwaists and skirts worn shiny in places, were well enough off to show no visible patches or mends, but clearly did not often see a new garment. Working poor; hoping for better, but not likely to ever see it, and far too foolish-proud to turn to charity or crime to save themselves.

So, so, so. This situation had some promise. She wasn’t protected all the time. “Show me the next portion of her day,” she directed. The slave showed the girl catching the ‘bus which took her deeper into the slums, to the place where her clinic lay. Shivani shook her head when the path led there. There was no hope of getting at her in that place. She had already tried to send her dacoits to the neighborhood of the clinic, hoping that among the thieves and bandits, they would be, if not invisible, at least inconspicuous. A vain hope; the thieves and bandits were fiercely territorial, the beggars acting as their eyes and ears, and the dacoits were swiftly driven out of hiding places and sent off with a pack of brats in full cry at their heels. In the teeming warrens where the girl had gone in her foolish quest to help the poor, there were no unclaimed hiding places, and any interloper was assumed to be another bandit trying to cut out a territory for himself. Shivani had not appreciated until that moment how lucky she had been to find this habitation in the quarter where the immigrant Jews had collected; there were few outright thieves here, and one set of foreigners was invisible in the midst of the hordes of villagers uprooted from places like Russia and Belarus, Slovakia and Serbia. Most here were Jews, who were incurious about any other race. Her people were no darker in complexion than some of these, nor were their accents and customs any stranger. So long as they kept to themselves, the neighbors did the same.

But in the realm of that clinic, not only did the bandits drive out anyone perceived as an interloper, they watched over the people who worked at this clinic. Even as Shivani watched, several apparent loafers moved in at the sound of a raised voice, and threw a troublemaker out into the street. No, there was no hope of coming at the girl in her own place. The people there were as fiercely loyal as her own servitors. The very footpads saw to it that she was left unmolested, curse her.

Shivani followed the girl’s progress throughout her day, paying careful attention to her surroundings and the people she came into contact with. The hospital? Hopeless; there were far too many English, and not even the lowliest scrubwoman was of any other color than white. Going to and from the hospital, the girl took public conveyances. The dacoits were skilled, but not at driving English cabs, and Shivani’s kind were not welcome on English ‘buses. She was not going to make even the ghost of an attempt in the presence of the Man.

But the street just outside the girl’s own door—now that had promise…

Once more she called upon the mirror-slave. “I wish to see the girl’s street—just the street, as it is now, and continue to show it to me as the day moves on.”

It was not the most fascinating of studies. People came and went, greeting each other, and parting. No hope of blending in among these, for they all knew each other. Children looked up with recognition at their neighbors, or with suspicion at strangers, and if the latter appeared to pause for a moment, ran into their own doors to bring out a mother or an older sister. Sellers of various items called at houses—milk floats, men with blocks of ice, vendors of vegetables and fruit, men with the bits and scraps of meat sold for feeding cats. Women with baskets of bits and pieces; lace and ribbons, needleworking tools, trinkets, apples, strawberries, cherries or pears—

Shivani felt a surge of interest. The men with the pushcarts were all young and vigorous, like her dacoits, and also like her dacoits, they were not native English. Some were Jews like those in her neighborhood, some were Irish, there was even a single Chinaman. And the women with their baskets—

Even more interesting; these were not young, and they also were not all native English—but it was difficult to tell just what nationality they were. Old women, wrinkled of face, weatherbeaten, gray or white-haired, looked very much alike. Bundled in multiple skirts and petticoats as they were, bent with age, they were shapeless, unidentifiable. And their baskets could hold anything, anything at all. A plan began to form in her mind.

But first, she would need something from the hospital after all. Or—wait. Perhaps not the hospital.

Putting the mirror down, she summoned a dacoit with a sharp double clap of her hands. One arrived within moments, abased himself at the doorway, and crawled on hands and knees to her feet.

“You have been among the English as they disport themselves in the places of pleasure?” she asked, intending to have him summon another, if he had not. “I have, Holy One,” he replied from the floor without looking up. “As you ordered, seeking there the items you required to make the trace for the Shadow to follow.”

“Good.” She leaned forward. “Then, have you seen the thorn of steel and glass that the English use to put drugs into their veins? Not opium, but the other, that makes them excited?”

“I have, Holy One.” Now the dacoit raised his dark head, cautiously; she recognized him now. Not one of her chief men, but one of intense devotion and ambition. “Do you wish one of these instruments?”

“Yes, clever one!” she applauded, greatly pleased with him. “I do. Can you obtain one?”

The dacoit did not snort, but he made his contempt for their enemies plain with a twitch of his lips. “Nothing could be easier. When darkness falls, one will be in your hands, Holy One. Do you wish the drug also?” She shook her head. “No, the instrument only, my faithful and cunning one. Go, and bring me this thing, and you may take yourself out of my presence on your feet.” He put his forehead briefly to the carpet. “I go,” he said, then rose and backed out, making little bows with every other step.

Shivani watched him go with intense pleasure. This was a good omen, that what she needed would fall so quickly to her hand. There was no doubt; Kali Durga must favor this plan. All would be well—

All would be well for Shivani, at least. As for the girl—Well, she would serve her purpose at last.

Maya looked up in triumph, holding up the results of the last test that Peter had given her, a glowing sphere resting in the curl of her upturned palm. This had been very much in the way of a test—a little, steadily burning blue “witchlight,” set inside a shield, which in turn was inside a bubble that would protect it physically from anything trying to interfere with it. The whole was tapped into the power Maya herself controlled, energy supplying bubble, shields, and the light itself. It had been a neat little problem, and Peter had hoped it would give her at least a moment’s trouble.

It hadn’t; she’d frowned over his description for a moment, then conjured the thing up with a deft touch he envied.

“Well, there isn’t a great deal more that I can teach you,” Peter said regretfully. “You’ve just proved that. I’m going to have to find you a real Earth Master to teach you now. You don’t need me anymore.”

And that will mean one excuse fewer to see you, he thought glumly. One less reason to come here of a night.

“I suppose that’s true so far as it goes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need you!” she retorted, her eyes going wide with surprise. “Peter, one never stops needing one’s friends just because some minor connection with them ends, or turns to some other course! Why, outside of my household, I can count the real friends I have in this place on the fingers of one hand! Of course I still need you!”

He felt his spirits rising a little. “I should think you’d have gotten weary of seeing me so often,” he replied, fixing his gaze on her face and searching her expression for some hint as to her feelings. “I should think you’d welcome a bit of a rest from my presence. Oh, don’t think I won’t leap to help you, if you ran into some difficulty! But I thought maybe you wanted some time to yourself, or to see other people.”

She laughed, but he thought there was a strained quality to it, as if she was afraid of something.

Perhaps afraid that I am tired of her? Oh, I hope so!

“If anything, I would like to have you here more often,” she said softly. “Truly. And it would be very pleasant to simply sit and talk with you, or go to a music hall or a concert, or just do the other things that ordinary people do, instead of always worrying about magic and power and all the rest of it. I sometimes wish that I was one of them, out there—” she waved in the direction of the world beyond the walls of the conservatory. “—and that I could go about my business in blissful ignorance. Life would be so very much easier.”

“It would, but you and I would be able to do less good,” he pointed out. “Would you wish your ability to heal your patients to be gone?”

“No. But then I run right up against my limitations,” she sighed. “I see so many things that I wish I could cure, and I can do nothing about them.”

“This magic is a tool, and nothing more, Maya,” he said, putting his hand atop hers for a moment. “Like a stethoscope or a scalpel. You can’t use a scalpel to listen to a heartbeat.” He smiled into her eyes. “Some people can’t use magic, and some can’t use medical instruments either. Everything has its limitations. The real answer is to use what you have right to the edge of its limitations.”

He thought that he detected a kind of flinch, and took his hand from hers. Too soon, too soon, and never mind that kiss—That was his thought, but as soon as he removed his hand, she seized it in both hers.

“I want you to keep coming here of an evening, Peter,” she told him intently. “I do. I would miss you very, very much if you skipped so much as a single evening.”

He almost said something then—almost asked her, Will you marry me?

But he didn’t dare; he couldn’t face the possibility that she might say no. So he simply smiled back into her eyes, promised that he would not skip so much as a single evening, and turned the conversation to something else, he didn’t even recall what, later.

And later, on his way home, he cursed himself for a fool and a coward, and vowed that the next time the opportunity showed itself, he would seize it, and let come what may.

“Mem sahib,” Gupta said, in a tone of great seriousness, as he set Maya’s breakfast before her the next morning, “Sahib Scott has spoken with me, yesterday.”

She looked up, a bit startled at both the words and the tone, and wondered, for one wild moment, Spoken about what? Had he a complaint? Did he disapprove of the way that Maya made these faithful friends more than servants and more like family? Surely not—he seemed to approve very much of just that—

Good heavens, he didn’t ask Gupta for my hand, did he? He had come close to declaring his feelings last night—he was so cursed reserved! There was no mistaking the way he looked at her, the reasons he concocted to be in her presence. Oh, the English, the English, why were they so frightened of their feelings?

“Sahib Scott told me about the deaths of other English sahibs,” Gupta continued somberly, “And how the one who brought you distress has also vanished. It is your enemy’s work, mem sahib. It is the work of Shivani, sister of your mother.”

She felt keenly disappointed. Only that? The threat of Shivani seemed a distant thing, compared to the intensity of her affection for Peter Scott. “Is it? I suppose it must be—” Her attention sharpened again. Peter would not have approached Gupta unless he was worried. “There is reason to be concerned?”

“While you are within these walls, we think not,” Gupta replied, wrinkling his brow. “But once you are without—yes, there is danger. His people will not help; he has asked, and they will not, other than a friend or so.”

Maya fancied she knew who that “friend” was, and in spite of Gupta’s worried expression, she smiled a little. It was no bad thing to have Lord Peter Almsley on your side. Still, if Gupta and Peter were both worried, it didn’t bode well.

“I will be careful,” she promised. “I won’t go anywhere other than the hospital or the clinic alone, and I’ll make a point of renewing and strengthening the house defenses every night. And I pledge you, I won’t go anywhere after dark.” She paused for a moment, then added, “I do not think that Shivani will be able to pass the protections I have put on the house, even in person, but I believe that I can make certain of that.”

Because I believe, if I petition him, Charan will speak for Hanuman and the others, and they will help me in this. She had done some long thinking on the subject, and it seemed to her that she had a basic grasp of what was possible and what was not. The others would not wage a direct conflict with Kali Durga; gods evidently no longer warred with gods, no matter what was in the legends and sacred texts. But they would help her with passive defenses.

That would have to be enough.

“I think that is all we can do,” Gupta admitted. “Perhaps she will give up—”

“And if she does not—we will leave,” Maya said firmly. “We will go to America, and live among the Red Indians if need be. Surely she will not follow us where she is in danger of being scalped.”

Gupta smiled weakly at that. “You will be wise, I know,” he replied, and stood up. “And you have your duties. What would our lives be worth, if we allowed fear to keep us pinned within our own dwelling?”

Gupta’s words were on Maya’s mind as she finished her breakfast, and the more she thought about it, the angrier she became.

What have I ever done to this woman that I deserve to be so persecuted? she thought hotly, stabbing at her eggs with her fork. What have I done to anyone? Father and I treated hundreds of my people without ever asking to be paid—and if I had ever done anything to offend any priest or temple, why is it that I have the help of seven gods? What is wrong with me, that this is happening?

She lost her appetite, poked at the cooling remains of breakfast for a moment, then gave up. I have done nothing, she decided. It has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with her. And I doubt that after all this time anything is going to make a difference in what she thinks. She took up her tea and drank it down, forcing it past the angry knot in her throat. She felt curiously adrift as well as angry; she didn’t even know what this woman looked like! She wanted to hate her, but how did one hate someone who was faceless?

Oh, to the devil with it, and with her! she decided, all but slamming her cup down on the saucer—in fact, she “put it down” so hard that it cracked. Curse it all!

She has killed—what?—a dozen people thus far? Maybe more? She wants to kill me, and maybe all my people into the bargain! She’s a vicious animal and I will not let her drive me into a hole to cower like a rabbit!

She got up abruptly, shook her skirt out, and headed for her office. She packed her medical bag, putting everything else out of her mind. She owed it to her patients not to be distracted by this.

Or at least, she had to try.

She put on her hat, took her bag in hand, and went out into the street, pausing to close the door of the house behind her. It was a slightly overcast morning. Blue sky showed between the slatey clouds, and there was a hint of damp in the air. She took a deep breath of cool air to steady herself.

Somehow nothing had changed, not here. Not in this calm and peaceful street, narrow and shabby, but now become home through some strange alchemy of time and circumstance. And the ordinary, homely sights of men on their way to work, women sweeping their steps before going on to their own tasks either here or elsewhere, and all the other bits of everyday life somehow steadied her as nothing else had. She even smiled at an old apple seller who approached her with a matching smile on her wrinkled face.

The woman looked like a withered old apple herself; shrunk and bent beneath her layers of skirts, smocks, and shawls. Maya had seen her sort a thousand times in this street—and hundreds of times in the Fleet, poor things. But this one looked in good health, moving spryly enough. She wouldn’t be showing up in the Fleet any time soon.

With hair as silver as a new-minted coin under her shabby little black hat, the woman was obviously old. Maya wondered what it was that made her so healthy that her stride had the bounce of a much younger woman. Perhaps she wasn’t really a Londoner. Perhaps she came in from the country just outside the city. Maya had heard it claimed that people of country stock were hardier.

And perhaps it is just that she is the best customer for her own apples. They do say that “an apple a day keeps the doctor away,” she thought, with better humor than she had felt since Gupta approached her this morning.

The old woman continued smiling at her as they neared one another. Maya smiled back, and felt in her skirt pocket for some change. No doubt the dear old thing expected her to buy an apple or two—and why not? They’d make a nice little present for Nurse Sarah.

But just as the old woman came even with her, the poor thing suddenly seemed to lose her balance. She stumbled, the apples tumbling out of her tray, and she fell heavily into Maya.

The woman was much heavier than she looked. She clutched desperately at Maya, clung to her, and pulled her off her own feet. And as she did so, Maya felt a sudden sharp pain in her side.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, in surprise as much as in pain, and her legs gave way under her. She landed heavily on her knees and hands. But the impact of landing hurt quite as much as that odd pain, and drove it right out of her mind. A scattering of street urchins appeared from out of nowhere and began snatching up the rolling fruit, shouting with glee and greed.

“Curse it!” she swore, and looked up. Somehow the old lady had managed to remain—or struggle—upright, probably because it was Maya who had taken the brunt of the collision.

The old woman shook her head, looking remorseful, and made a helpless gesture with both hands.

“Oh, dear—are you mute?” Maya asked, mouthing the words carefully so that the old woman might be able to make out what she was saying if she was also deaf. The old woman nodded sadly.

“I’m sorry. It’s all right, dear, it wasn’t your fault. Here, let me help you—” She groaned a little for her bruises as she levered herself up off the street, then stooped to help the old lady gather up the scattered fruit and replace it in her tray. They weren’t able to gather anywhere near as much as had fallen—the little brats had stolen half of them and carried them off.

“Here you are—and here, dear, this is for the apples that were run off with—” Maya said, giving her a handful of random coins. The old lady nodded, and patted her hand, then turned to go back the way she had come.

Sudden dizziness overcame her, and she put one hand against the wall to steady herself. A second wave, more powerful than the first, struck her, and she had to cling to the wall with both hands.

What—

The old woman turned around and looked back at her—and smiled—and held up a syringe filled with red, filling her sight, red, filling her mind with red—

Then black, black, black came up and filled mind and eyes and everything, and she slid down the wall and knew nothing more.