I, Strahd: The War Against Azalin
Epilogue

736 Barovian Calendar, Mordentshire, Mordent When Van Richten's voice died away, Mrs. Heywood closed the book with a thump.
Lord Strahd von Zarovich. Such a terrible man, she thought - though he couldn't really be a man at all. And as for that Azalin creature, why, it couldn't possibly be the same Azalin that ruled Darkon today. It couldn't possibly... She shook herself as if to jar the awful thought from her mind and looked at Van Richten, but his attention was obviously turned inward. He seemed utterly unaware of her presence. What was he thinking? Certainly nothing pleasant to judge by his bloodless face.
But...but...it was just a book after all.
The more she thought about it, the more she came to realize that the tale was not truly a history of anything that had really happened; it was something made up. That had to be it. The idea of living in a world where things like Strahd and Azalin and zombies walked - it was just too horrible to think on. Besides, all the geography was wrong. Darkon had no common border with Barovia, there were other lands in the way. How silly to write a story as if they were joined together. How very, very silly. Fantasy, it was merely a madman's fantasy about something that never happened. Now there were always rumors of wars coming from Darkon, but nothing ever came of it. Just enough fact had been mixed in to make it interesting, and frightening. The writer had merely used the names of real rulers to make it seem more truthful. An odd literary device, but nothing more.
Still, it had shaken her. Van Richten, too, poor man. He'd be wanting one of his sleeping draughts tonight himself.
"Doctor?" She lightly touched his shoulder. When he did not respond, she spoke a bit louder. "Dr. Van Richten?"
"Eh?" He slowly returned from whatever path his mind had been wandering and blinked at her.
"Would you like me to make you some tea?" After all that reading he'd be as dry as dust.
"Oh, ah, that's most kind of you, but another time perhaps. I think I shall have to be going home to make a few arrangements."
"Arrangements for what?"
"Just a short trip. It's lovely weather for traveling, don't you think?" He gathered up his long discarded outer coat and slipped it on, doing the buttons up wrong.
"Traveling where?" she asked, trying to keep exasperation from her voice.
"Mm?" He concentrated on fixing the buttons.
"Are you saying that the awful things in this book are going to send you off to who knows where?"
"Who knows what?" he inquired absently as one of the buttons came away in his hand. "Dear me, I shall have to pack a needle and thread."
"Doctor!"
"Eh?" He finally focused on her.
"You don't actually believe anything in that book, do you? Nothing in it makes any sense. It's no more than a silly fictionalization. I've said it was a forgery and I still stand by my judgment."
Van Richten opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. A quick sad smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "Yes, you're right, of course. It's a lot of nonsense. What a dreadful thing it would be if creatures like that were running about the land."
"My thoughts exactly," she said with some relief. "Are you - are you still planning to leave town?"
"Yes, actually, but only to see about locating a new dealer for importing fennel and catnip. The batches I've been getting lately have been somewhat less than the best quality."
She bit her tongue to keep from commenting on that one. Whatever journey he had in mind, she was sure it had to do with that book. There was certainly much more to Rudolph van Richten than he wanted people to know. But until and unless he chose to confide in her, she'd have to respect his privacy.
He completed his struggle with the buttons. "Now about the purchase of this book - have you decided on a price?"
She made a brief inner calculation, based on what she would offer to Milos when he returned. "This one will be thrice the total of your earlier purchase. Even though it's a forgery, it is not without some curiosity value. I'm taking that into account for my appraisal."
"I've never known you to set anything but a fair charge on your goods, Mrs.
Heywood. I shall return tomorrow with full payment."
"Providing that Mr. Milos accepts my offer," she added as a caution. "He might not, you know."
"I'm sure everything will turn out fine, but I should very much like to be here when he returns. I could just browse the shelves while you conclude your business with him."
She pursed her lips, weighing his desire against practicalities. It was not exactly good business to allow him to hear what she planned to offer Milos, nor should Milos suspect that she already had a buyer at hand. He might want more money and thus lower her profit on the deal.
"I appreciate your concern, Doctor, but I would prefer to take care of this on my own, as usual. I've dealt with his sort before. He may look rough, but he'll not try anything foolish. I'll pay him fairly and send him on his way."
Van Richten frowned, but finally nodded. "As you wish. But please do be careful, and I don't mean about Mr. Milos."
She glanced at the book on the table, then back to Van Richten.
"Yes, exactly," he said. "Such things tend to attract other negative - ah - influences."
"Influences?" she prompted, troubled by his manner.
He made a helpless, throwing away gesture. "Just... just take care to lock your doors and windows."
"I always do, but thank you for your concern."
"And I'll see you first thing in the morning about payment."
He settled his hat on his head and started to leave, but paused as though he had more to say. Mrs. Heywood waited him out, but he finally only shrugged, smiled, and wished her a good evening.
The afternoon was long spent. If Milos did not return soon she would have to lock up for the night. One of her strict unbroken rules was to shut her business at sunset, the same as most of the rest of the town.
She tidied up for the day, stopping frequently to peer through the curtains for any sign of the man. Doubtless he'd filled his waiting by lifting one too many tankards and time had gotten away from him. She was just fitting the brass key into the lock when a shadow fell across her windows. The last stray beams of the setting sun faded, but there was sufficient light for her to identify Milos and open the door for him.
"Goodness, but you cut it fine," she observed. "Everything stops here after dark, you know. This may be a city, but we still keep country hours."
"Did you read it?" He motioned impatiently toward the table where his merchandise rested.
"Yes, and it was interesting enough..." Mrs. Heywood began to explain to him the nature of his find, but he interrupted when she mentioned the business about forgery.
"'Ow can it be a fake when it's sittin' there as real as me?" he demanded. "A book's a book, ain't it?"
"That is so, but there are so many variables." She started to explain that to him as well, but stopped as his eyes glazed over. "Right, you're a busy man and probably want to finish and go on your way," she concluded.
"Truer words were never spoke, ma'am. 'Ow much?"
She named what she knew to be an entirely fair sum, and it was a great relief to her that his face broke into another gap-toothed grin.
"That's suits me fine," he said, then spit into his hand and thrust it in her direction. "Put 'er there and it's a deal."
Before she could respond to this rustic closure custom, the shop bell tinkled.
She half-expected it to be Van Richten again, come back with the payment or some other excuse. Instead, a tall man in a long ash-gray cloak stood in the doorway.
Though dressed well enough and neatly groomed, he possessed a gaunt, starving look about him.
"Yes, sir? May I be of service?" she said, more from habit than from conviction.
When the man's gaze - his flat, expressionless eyes were as ashen as his cloak - fell upon her, she felt her throat dry up. A shudder ran through her whole body, as though from a blast of winter cold air, but despite the still open door there was no wind. All was deadly silence in the little shop. He stared at her and dismissed her, shifting his full attention to her other customer.
A great change had come over Milos. His blustery confidence was altogether gone, along with all the color in his weathered face. He looked positively ill - ill to the point of death. His pupils had shrunk to pinpoints and his jaw sagged, but no speech came forth.
The tall stranger's thin red lips parted like an open cut. He breathed in through his mouth, then exhaled softly. As his breath sighed past, Mrs. Heywood fell back a few steps to her counter, suddenly nauseated. It was like walking past the butcher's lane on a hot summer day, but a hundred times worse. The terrible cold seized her again, and this time she found herself sliding slowly to the floor, quite helpless. It was like one of her nightmares made real.
"No," Milos whispered far above her. "Please, lea' me be."
"You have something which does not belong to you," the stranger stated, his words sounding like shards of ice grinding together.
She saw Milos retreat, putting the table between himself and the tall man. " 'M sorry - I din' mean nothin' by it, just - here - here it is, take it 'n lea' me be.
Please!" With shaking hands he lifted the book up like an offering.
So quick that she could scarcely follow the movement, the stranger's arm shot out from the cloak and seized the book. His thin, pale fingers greedily caressed the covers, but he never once took his gaze from Milos. "My master has but one fate for thieves," he murmured.
Whatever that fate was, Milos was evidently aware of it. Sheer panic consumed his features as he fumbled to pull a large knife from his belt scabbard. This only inspired his adversary to soft laughter, and what an awful sound it was, like a dying man's last stuttering exhalation. Milos sobbed in response. It was too much for him. He darted past the man and threw himself out the door with a cry. His running footsteps echoed off the bare walls of the buildings as he pelted down the street.
Mrs. Heywood became aware of the stranger looming over her. She still could not move, only stare into his eyes. They pierced right through her, seeming to burn and freeze her all at the same time. He reached forth one hand and drew a slow finger across her forehead, then down her temple, and past her jawline. He lingered at the pulse point in her throat and smiled. Her scream dribbled out as a tiny whimper.
"On behalf of my master, I thank you for delaying that fool for the day," he told her. "He shan't escape me now that I've got his scent. Then shall I truly sup."
She wanted to faint or wake up - anything, if it only freed her from his unbearable presence.
"Sleep, woman, and forget all that has passed here," he said, delicately drawing his fingertip over her eyelids. "Sleep instead... and dream. Dream of me."
The last thing she heard as she slipped into a freezing red darkness was his death-rattle laughter and the whisper of his cloak as he drew away.
The bell rang briefly over the closing door, then fell still. For several moments the shop was silent as a grave. Silent... until the woman on the floor feebly shifted and moaned as the first of her nightmares battened hard and hungrily upon her soul.