bothering me,” he said.
"Look,” Tark said reasonably, “he doesn't seem special. You can't just go around killing people because they look sort of like the guy that attacked you."
The look he got made should have made him thankful Sabin wasn't still holding a shovel.
"Do you know what it's like to have electrical current run through you?” Sabin spoke calmly, almost off-hand. “To lie there in pain, unable to let go and let death take you? Feeding yourself only enough magic to stay alive and hoping you'll heal naturally, not daring to use the magic to heal yourself because it might not take and then you'd have no life support? He nearly killed me, and nothing before has ever come close to doing that. Not my wretched uncle, not the years of being trapped in that damn stone, nothing."
Tark was silent. “Well, you could have just slashed his throat and been done with it,” he muttered. Sabin's eyes widened, and Tark ducked his head. “Sorry."
"I was bored,” Sabin growled.
Tark froze again, thinking of past victims and Sabin's ways of dealing with them. He shuddered then started shoveling with renewed enthusiasm.
"He's special,” Sabin continued. “Fate has spared him, and at the hands of our lovely Libby. I want to know why."
He'd tied the man up near Libby's house so that when she found out and was told what the man looked like she'd be frightened and realize there was no escaping him, that no one could save her. Then, the train scheduled to kill him well before Libby would have been out and about had broken down. It intrigued him that some force had intervened to save this one's life when none of his other victims had been given such treatment.
Sabin looked down at the stone, ran his fingers over the delicately done characters. The engraved roses felt satiny, if stony cold.
"Rita Halstead,” he whispered as his fingers traced the words. “1973-1996. Beloved Daughter and Sister. Hush, the princess merely sleeps."
"Is that what it really says?"
"Oh, yes. Our Libby had a hand in that. Ever the poet, our pretty Libby."
Sabin watched Tark's awkward movements. The creature had possessed that body for a few years now but had not yet gotten used to moving about in it. He panted as he worked, like the middle-aged man his body once belonged to, his eyes, gold like Sabin's, alone betraying that he was special.
The shovel thunked against the coffin lid, and Sabin set to again, helping his servant clean the dirt off.
"I can't believe it,” Tark said. “All that money on an expensive stone, and they just plunked the coffin into the ground."
"From what Lib's told me about her family, I can.” Sabin laughed, and jerked the lid open.
"Oh, God!” Tark gasped when the smell hit him.
"Hey, Rita, baby. I've brought you a little prezzie."
He took a bottle from his pocket.
For the past several years, Sabin had been soaking Rita's eyes in one of his jars of magic. Just before going to bed this morning, he'd taken them out and placed them in a small plastic container. He opened this container now, and an eerie green glow illuminated his face. It was a crue* * * *ight, and showed the scars from burns that would not heal.
He took one eye out and carefully pushed back the remains of her eyelid—they'd been sealed shut over a fake eye. He fished for the glass ball and threw it over his shoulder. Tark ducked. Sabin placed the real eye back in its socket.
"I hope I guessed right, yes, I do,” he told her as he repeated the process with the other eye. “I'd hate to have put the eyes in the wrong sockets. It'd really mess up your sense of perspective.” He paused then stuck his finger deep inside the second socket, feeling around. “Ah, there it is,” he said. “I hope I didn't scramble your brains up too much looking for it.” He looked over at Tark. “But then, she wasn't really all that bright anyway, so a little brain damage won't hurt her."
He slid the eye into its place and began chanting under his
"Look,” Tark said reasonably, “he doesn't seem special. You can't just go around killing people because they look sort of like the guy that attacked you."
The look he got made should have made him thankful Sabin wasn't still holding a shovel.
"Do you know what it's like to have electrical current run through you?” Sabin spoke calmly, almost off-hand. “To lie there in pain, unable to let go and let death take you? Feeding yourself only enough magic to stay alive and hoping you'll heal naturally, not daring to use the magic to heal yourself because it might not take and then you'd have no life support? He nearly killed me, and nothing before has ever come close to doing that. Not my wretched uncle, not the years of being trapped in that damn stone, nothing."
Tark was silent. “Well, you could have just slashed his throat and been done with it,” he muttered. Sabin's eyes widened, and Tark ducked his head. “Sorry."
"I was bored,” Sabin growled.
Tark froze again, thinking of past victims and Sabin's ways of dealing with them. He shuddered then started shoveling with renewed enthusiasm.
"He's special,” Sabin continued. “Fate has spared him, and at the hands of our lovely Libby. I want to know why."
He'd tied the man up near Libby's house so that when she found out and was told what the man looked like she'd be frightened and realize there was no escaping him, that no one could save her. Then, the train scheduled to kill him well before Libby would have been out and about had broken down. It intrigued him that some force had intervened to save this one's life when none of his other victims had been given such treatment.
Sabin looked down at the stone, ran his fingers over the delicately done characters. The engraved roses felt satiny, if stony cold.
"Rita Halstead,” he whispered as his fingers traced the words. “1973-1996. Beloved Daughter and Sister. Hush, the princess merely sleeps."
"Is that what it really says?"
"Oh, yes. Our Libby had a hand in that. Ever the poet, our pretty Libby."
Sabin watched Tark's awkward movements. The creature had possessed that body for a few years now but had not yet gotten used to moving about in it. He panted as he worked, like the middle-aged man his body once belonged to, his eyes, gold like Sabin's, alone betraying that he was special.
The shovel thunked against the coffin lid, and Sabin set to again, helping his servant clean the dirt off.
"I can't believe it,” Tark said. “All that money on an expensive stone, and they just plunked the coffin into the ground."
"From what Lib's told me about her family, I can.” Sabin laughed, and jerked the lid open.
"Oh, God!” Tark gasped when the smell hit him.
"Hey, Rita, baby. I've brought you a little prezzie."
He took a bottle from his pocket.
For the past several years, Sabin had been soaking Rita's eyes in one of his jars of magic. Just before going to bed this morning, he'd taken them out and placed them in a small plastic container. He opened this container now, and an eerie green glow illuminated his face. It was a crue* * * *ight, and showed the scars from burns that would not heal.
He took one eye out and carefully pushed back the remains of her eyelid—they'd been sealed shut over a fake eye. He fished for the glass ball and threw it over his shoulder. Tark ducked. Sabin placed the real eye back in its socket.
"I hope I guessed right, yes, I do,” he told her as he repeated the process with the other eye. “I'd hate to have put the eyes in the wrong sockets. It'd really mess up your sense of perspective.” He paused then stuck his finger deep inside the second socket, feeling around. “Ah, there it is,” he said. “I hope I didn't scramble your brains up too much looking for it.” He looked over at Tark. “But then, she wasn't really all that bright anyway, so a little brain damage won't hurt her."
He slid the eye into its place and began chanting under his
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