The: Vourdalak

“You've come at last,” he said. “My son grows weaker each night.”

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For three days Dmitri improved. He walked the grounds with his father beneath skeletal trees; he ate at the table and ate heartily; he spoke of childhood games and a future journey to the south. The house exhaled relief; servants resumed their measured clatter. Yet Alexei, who moved through the house with the attention of a man who trusts only what he can see and touch, felt the small, persistent prickling of unease at the nape of his neck. Once, at midday, he saw Dmitri in the study with a blackbird in his hands—no, not a bird, a shadow of feathers that did not quite settle in his palm. The boy's smile, when he looked up, was a line that did not reach his eyes. “You've come at last,” he said