Tales of the Unquiet Gods by David Pascoe Page B

roar of whatever it was that chased him, but Vincent detected a note in it he hadn't heard before. Anger. The abomination of man and beast his mentor had become was angry, and Vincent realized he was somehow leaving it behind.
    The world around Vincent snapped back into focus, the darkening shroud dropping away. The sounds of the metropolis rushed into blasting volume from the overbearing stillness that held reality momentarily at bay. Sour sumac and auto exhaust crowded into his nostrils, and the sheer, vibrant life of the city was enough to pull a cry of relief out of Vincent's abused throat.
    Both his cry and the background noise cut off again as he fell headlong through an open doorway. One which snapped shut as he fell in a heap on the scarred, wooden floor. For a long, quiet moment, Vincent simply lay on the floor and shook. When cruel claws and savage teeth didn't close on his flesh, his heart began to slow from the brutal pace to which fear and action had driven it. Vincent sobbed quietly from reaction, his abused mind barely active.
    "Not many are that desperate to get into my shop, youngster."
    Vincent rolled to a sitting position, still panting, and looked up at what he presumed was the shopkeeper. And stared. The man who leaned on the polished countertop smiling down at him must have been nearly seven feet tall. He looked like a cartoon caricature. A feathering of raven-black hair that stuck out nearly around his shiny, bald crown. His lined skin was the yellow of aged ivory Vincent saw in the antiquities section of the museum, and looked to have the texture of fine vellum.
    Vincent focused on his face and almost gasped. Air whistled into his nostrils as the muscles along his jaw bunched. The man's gazed at him with black eyes. A bare second later, Vincent castigated himself. The skeletal shopkeeper possessed heavy eyelids, and his smile gave the impression that he had little in the way of whites to those  watching eyes.
    Besides, this man's eyes were full of life, bright with personality and interest. Not dead and soulless like whatever had been chasing him. They sat close to a nose that should have dwarfed every other feature the man owned, as it swept out and down from his eyebrows in a smooth curve. It fit, though Vincent wasn't certain how.
    "Ah, I-" Vincent began, and realized he had no idea how to make what he'd experienced sound at all possible, let alone plausible. Not to mention sane.
    "Mmmmm. There is licorice and mint tea in the carafe," he gestured with one long-fingered hand to a brushed steel pitcher on a small table that appeared to be made from a section of a fluted marble pillar, then cocked his head to one side and blinked. "Why don't you look around, young sir. Those who find their way here usually have a need to." With that odd pronouncement, he left the counter and disappeared back into the bookshelves that swallowed the little shop.
    Vincent stared after him, as yet unable to make sense of the encounter. He sat on the floor, legs folded under him and leaning on one fist, for what felt like ages. With one still-trembling hand, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He had the vague idea of letting his mother know where he was, but two things stopped him. He had no idea where he actually was, and more importantly, he didn't have service.
    He slipped the phone back into his pocket, then rubbed the sweat off his face. Cool air flowed gently over his exposed skin, carrying with it a bewildering array of scents. There was the peculiar scent of old paper, but also leather and oil. Some kind of flowery perfume teased his nose, along with the odd, incongruous smell of rich loam.
    Vincent heaved himself to his feet. His exhausted muscles complained of their unaccustomed exertion, and he thought once again about how he should spend more time in a gym. Or outside. Or even just do some push-ups at home. Sourly, he thought he might even have the time now that he wouldn't be spending so much of his hours