friend, is why I’m laughing.’
THE CORNERS OF MEMORY
Lynn Abbey
1
A door that had been obscured by shadows opened to admit a hunched-over figure
in dark, voluminous robes. The laboured wheezing of the intruder filled the
little room as, with quick, bird-like movements, the winding sheet was opened
and the naked corpse revealed. Light entered the austere room from a single
barred window high on one wall, illuminating the face of a young woman who lay
on a narrow, wooden table, masking her waxen pallor so that it seemed she rested
in the gentle sleep of youth, rather than the deeper sleep of eternity.
Ulcerous fingers uncurled from the depths of the shapeless robe sleeves, fingers
more morbid and repellent than the corpse they probed. From within the cowl came
a sound like a laugh – or a sob – and the grotesque hands brushed the young
woman’s hair away from her neck. His dark robes concealed her as the crippled
creature sighed, sniffed, and bent to her throat. He stepped back, examining a
slim phial of blood in the faint light.
Still silent, except for his strained breathing, the robed figure lurched back
into the shadows, where he conjured an intense blue light and, drop by drop,
emptied the blood into it. He inhaled the vapours, extinguished the light with a
gesture, and returned his attention to the corpse. His fingers re-examined every
part of her without finding any mark other than the small bruise on her neck
from which he had removed the blood.
Sighing, he drew the edges of the shroud together again and carefully rearranged