Necroscope: Harry and the Pirates: and Other Tales from the Lost Years (27 page)

There was something about the young man. He blinked in the morning sunlight and lifted a hand to shade his pale face, his eyes that seemed a little distant, dazed and disorientated. The old man thought it possible that he knew that look: he believed he’d seen its like before: often, on the faces of men who were lost or bent on suicide!

And yet . . . there was something else about this particular young man, so the old man with the scythe leaned closer, sniffing out the other’s origins, essence, nature, destiny. But then a singular thing: just for a moment he thought he saw the young man’s faraway eyes focus and look back at him! And more, it was as if the young man knew him, as if they were old friends!

Indeed they
were
old friends!

The scythe no longer tingled but shivered, and its master, the oldest man of all, shivered with it and jerked away, quickening his
silent steps along the still mainly empty street. Ah, he knew this one now, remembered him for all the work he’d done for him; knew also that he would never be required to accommodate him. Oh, his time would come eventually—well, possibly—but not now and not in this world. That was not this one’s destiny. But there were other old men with blades, a great many of them, in all the many worlds where life had taken root.

One of them would accommodate this one—this Necroscope, this Harry Keogh—well, eventually. Or possibly? Death stroked his living scythe to calm it, then paused to cast a glance back along the almost empty street. And then he nodded to himself.

For apart from a small dust devil where it collapsed close to the wine bar’s entrance, and the dirty naked foot protruding from a shop doorway, the street
was
empty, yes.

And the old, old man moved on. . . .