Dusk by Tim Lebbon

was certain that those eyes saw everything.
    It was the first time he had ever seen a witch.
    “So what’s a nice boy like you doing in Pavisse?” she asked.
    “You should know.”
    “Me? Why me?” She shrugged and looked almost offended, but her green eyes were glinting with humor.
    “I know a witch when I see one,” Rafe said, “and witches know everything.” He was trying to appear brave and knowledgeable, but he sounded like a child. Tears threatened and he swallowed them back. They burned.
    The woman looked him up and down, licking her lips.
    They eat people, Rafe remembered one of his friends saying, fear and fascination distorting his voice.
    “Actually, I’m a lady,” the woman said, “and I don’t quite know everything. Almost, but not quite.” She smiled, reached out quickly and grabbed Rafe’s cock through his thick trousers, squeezing and twisting it slightly. “Never been dipped, that one. I can tell.”
    Rafe pushed her away and drew his legs up, trying to force himself back into the solid wooden door behind him. “Leave me alone!” he cried, sounding more frightened than ever.
    The woman leaned back and laughed, stopped suddenly, then looked back down at Rafe. She staggered back two steps, her eyes so wide open that Rafe was sure they would tumble onto her cheeks. “Oh my sweet old heart!” she gasped.
    This frightened Rafe more than having the old woman grab him. At least then he’d known what she was doing—touting for trade—whereas now, her sudden fearful reaction was even more disturbing. He scared her, that much was plain. Her mouth had dropped and the tattoos elongated across her cheeks, like extra screams to complement the one that seemed to be building within her.
    “What?” Rafe asked, feeling a confidence building from nowhere. A group of fledgers passed by, their dull yellow eyes skitting across the scene as if he and this woman had always been here. From elsewhere a roar suddenly rose from the maze of buildings, alleys and courtyards, and he wondered whether the man had killed the tumbler, after all.
    “Come with me!” the witch said, her voice shaking. She stepped forward as if to grab him again, but paused with her hand hovering inches from his shoulder. Her voice lowered. “Please. Come with me. I can hide you. I can help you.”
    “I don’t need your help! Leave me alone, witch. Got a prong in your palm? I know that’s how you do it, stick me and poison me—”
    “That’s for charlatans and those that betray the name,” she hissed. “I fear you, but don’t put me down for what I have to do. I am what I say, and I do what I do to survive. We all know there’s no magic in anything now, don’t we?” She stared at him for a few seconds, unmoving, seeming not to breathe as she awaited whatever answer he would give.
    “So why help me? I have nothing. You can’t screw me for tellans.”
    “Such language!” the old witch said, and for a brief instant Rafe heard his mother in her tone.
    “Fuck,” he said, and started to cry.
    “Come with me,” the witch said again, on the verge of panic now. She looked over her shoulder at a pair of coal miners who were loitering across the street. Rafe followed her gaze, wondering what they wanted, sure that they had not even noticed him and the witch. A horse clipped up the dusty road, slow and tired, and the man sitting astride it was hooded and slumped in the saddle.
    Him, him ! Rafe thought, but this man’s robe was black, not red, and Rafe could see his face, the heavy gray beard that hung down over his chest and stomach.
    The witch froze, seeming to sense Rafe’s brief flush of fear.
    “You’ve already seen a Red Monk?” she asked.
    Rafe frowned, wincing at the sudden sharp memory. “The man wore red . . .”
    “With me,” she said. “Quickly now!”
    “I have to find my uncle.”
    “We can do that later; right now you have to get off the street. Now! If you’ve seen one Monk and survived, there’ll be