Terror of the Shadow

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

    The night air was thick. It rolled over Ura-chan like an unexpected fog, filling every tiny crack and crevice with the ooze of nighttime. The darkness was so dense that it seemed like even the brightest flashlight wouldn't be able to penetrate it. It was enough to keep sleep from reaching Laban. Tiny beads of sweat began to form on his brow. His lungs labored to draw even one breath of air. The world began to collapse in around him until he felt he hardly had any room to move. It was the same sort of feeling that had surrounded him when he and Torreck had been trapped in the bottom of the War'acks' cave. No matter which way rolled rolled over in his bed, no position was comfortable. He could feel the faint sensation of cold, steady eyes staring at him through the darkness.

A shiver ran through his spine. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees in an instant. Sleep fleeing from him completely, Laban sat up in his bed, rubbing the last of the haze from his eyes.

When he dropped his hands, he nearly fell off his bed onto the floor. He thought his surprised gasp would have awoken his mother, but nothing stirred in the thick darkness. The only thing that Laban could see through the fog were two glistening, white eyes above a twisted, yellow, unmoving grin.

"I'm sorry," a voice said in the darkness. The voice was soft and smooth, his accent short and clipped. The words it spoke were barely more perceptible than the faintest shadow at midnight. "I didn't mean to startle you."
  
"W-who are you?" Laban managed to stutter. His tongue had gone dry and swollen. It was hard to speak with his heart pounding in his throat.

"No one of import. Just a man, looking for some help," the dark grin replied. It still did not move as it spoke.

"Who are you?" Laban repeated. "How did you get in here? W-w-what is your name?"

The grinning shadow clucked his tongue, much in the same way that Ithtar had.

"Names are such an unnecessary social construct, I believe. I am confident that you would know who I was if you spotted me in a crowd. Just like I would know you, dear Laban."

"Who are you?" Laban said again, this time with all the strength he could possibly muster. He reached blindly through the darkness, never turning his eyes away from his mysterious intruder. He hoped that the thick darkness would be enough to hide the knife that he was reaching for, sitting on the table next to his bed.

"Your questions are boring," the man said. "I've already answered all of them. Ask me something new, please."
"What do you want from me?"

The thing laughed. It was a slow, raspy chuckle. "Mmm... that's a good question. I like that one."

"We don't have any money," Laban said. "I promise you won't find any here."

    The man laughed again.

    "What's so funny?" Laban asked.

    "Money. You think I'm looking for money. Here. In Malkuth. Ha!"

    "I don't understand," Laban said. His fingers brushed against the cold metal of the knife's blade. He found the handle and wrapped his hand around it.

    "No. You wouldn't," the man replied. "That's typical of your sort. I wouldn't expect you to, anyway. No, what I want from you is better than money. I just want your help."

    "Help? Help with what?"

    "My, my... you do ask a lot of questions. I am tired of them now. I like to think that I am a patient man, but you have just seen it run out."

"Then leave," Laban demanded. "I'm warning you."

"Oh... so soon? I came all this way to tell you something, and you aren't even going to let me get it out..."