Page 58 of If Looks Could Kill

A man—it hardly matters who, but in this case, his name was George Frischmann—emerged into the alley from a secretive establishment situated in the rear ground-floor level of a building that was, on its more legitimate side, a Persian rug showroom and warehouse.

He looked to the left and to the right, and was relieved to find himself alone in the alley.

George had long ago learned that interludes such as the one he had just spent could sometimes alleviate the monotony of his life as a shipping tariff clerk who found the routine of work and family uninspiring.

Some days, one’s faculties and one’s experiences cooperated to bring amusement.

Unfortunately, this was not one of those days.

Still, such is life, and in the market exchange he’d just transacted, part of what his money bought was the freedom to leave his mortification behind on his way out the door.

He turned his collar up against the cold and hurried back to the main thoroughfare. Not even eighteen years of faithful service could earn a shipping tariff clerk a longer lunch break.

A figure seemed to peel itself away from the wall and block his path. He hadn’t seen her there at all.

“Pardon me.” He moved to go around her.

She sidestepped to block him.

“Did you enjoy your visit today?”

The speaker was a young woman, but her voice sent a shiver up his spine.

“I beg your pardon?” His voice cracked. “My visit where?”

She took a step closer. “We both know where you’ve just been.”

George’s senses prickled. Something wasn’t quite right about this young woman. Then he realized. Of course. She was the local competition.

“If you’re offering your services, I’m afraid I’m not the sort of man to—”

She pulled her shawl back off her head.

Her eyes arrested George first. Deep, dark-rimmed, and accusing. He shuddered.

But her tongue!

Her hair .

He felt himself melt. He was a sack of liquid. An egg, a pool of slime encased in a flimsy shell. Before him stood a column of flame. Fire-hot serpents, with eyes searing through him. A burning woman, but he was boiling. Broiling. Frying inside his own skin.

In her swirling eyes, he saw three girls.

The girl he’d been with just now. His own daughter, not much younger.

And, to his great surprise, another girl, as she had looked when he first met her.

Far more terrifying than this creature of snakes and fangs before him were the trusting, then comprehending, wounded eyes of his once-young wife.

George Frischmann did not return from lunch to work on time. His knees buckled. He fell forward onto the snake demon girl, who broke his fall, if slightly, on his way down.