Sophie Newman was just about to press the Bluetooth headset back into her ear
when she breathed deeply and paused, nostrils flaring. She d just smelled
something awful. Closing her phone and pushing her headset into a pocket, she
leaned over the open jar of dark tea leaves and inhaled.
She had been working in The Coffee Cup since she and her brother had arrived
in San Francisco for the summer. It was an OK job, nothing special. Most of
the customers were nice, a few were ignorant and one or two were downright
rude, but the hours were fine, the pay was good, the tips were better and the
shop had the added advantage of being just across the road from where her
twin brother worked. They had turned fifteen last December and had already
started to save for their own car. They estimated it would take them at least
two years if they bought no CDs, DVDs, games, clothes or shoes, which were
Sophie s big weakness.
Usually, there were two other staff on duty with her, but one had gone home
sick earlier, and Bernice, who owned the shop, had left after the lunchtime
rush to go to the wholesalers to stock up on fresh supplies of tea and
coffee. She had promised to be back in an hour; Sophie knew it would take at
least twice that.
Over the summer, Sophie had grown used to the smells of the different exotic
teas and coffee the shop sold. She could tell her Earl Grey from her
Darjeeling, and knew the difference between Javanese and Kenyan coffee. She
enjoyed the smell of coffee, though she hated the bitter taste of it. But she
loved tea. In the past couple of weeks she had been gradually sampling all
the teas, particularly the herbal teas with their fruity tastes and unusual
aromas.
But now something smelled foul and disgusting.
Almost like rotten eggs.
Sophie brought a tin of loose tea to her face and breathed deeply. The crisp
odor of Assam caught at the back of her throat: the stench wasn't coming from
there.
You re supposed to drink it, not inhale it.
Sophie turned as Perry Fleming came into the shop. Perry Fleming was a tall,
elegant woman who could have been any age from forty to sixty. It was clear
that she had once been beautiful, and she was still striking. Her eyes were
the brightest, clearest green Sophie had ever seen, and for a long time she
had wondered if the older woman wore colored contact lenses. Perry s hair had
once been jet-black, but now it was shot through with strands of silver, and
she wore it in an intricate braided ponytail that lay along her back almost
to the base of her spine. Her teeth were small and perfect, and her face was
traced with tiny laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. She was always much
more elegantly dressed than her husband, and today she was wearing a mint
green sleeveless summer dress that matched her eyes, in what Sophie thought
was probably pure silk.
I just thought it smelled peculiar, Sophie said. She sniffed the tea again.
Smells fine now, she added, but for a moment there, I thought it smelled
like like like rotten eggs.
She was looking at Perry Fleming as she spoke. She was startled when the
woman s bright green eyes snapped wide open and she whirled around to look
across the street just as all the little square windows of the bookshop
abruptly developed cracks and two simply exploded into dust. Wisps of green
and yellow smoke curled out into the street and the air was filled with the
stench of rotten eggs. Sophie caught another smell too, the sharper, cleaner
smell of peppermint.
The older woman s lips moved, and she whispered, Oh no not now not here.
Mrs. Fleming Perry?
The woman rounded on Sophie. Her eyes were wild and terrified and her usually
faultless English now held a hint of a foreign accent. Stay here; whatever
happens, stay here and stay down.
Sophie was opening her mouth to ask a question when she felt her ears pop.
She swallowed hard and then the door to the bookshop crashed open and one of
the big men Sophie had seen earlier was flung out onto the street. Now he was
missing his hat and glasses, and Sophie caught a glimpse of his dead-looking
skin and his marble black eyes. He crouched in the middle of the street for a
moment, then he raised his hand to shield his face from the sunlight.
And Sophie felt something cold and solid settle into the pit of her stomach.
The skin on the man s hand was moving. It was slowly flowing, shifting
viscously down into his sleeve: it looked as if his fingers were melting. A
glob of what appeared to be gray mud spattered onto the street.
Golems, Perry gasped. My God, he s created Golems.
Gollums? Sophie asked, her mouth thick and dry, her tongue suddenly feeling
far too large for her mouth. Gollum, from Lord of the Rings?
Perry was moving toward the door. No: Golems, she said absently, Men of
Clay.
The name meant nothing to Sophie, but she watched with a mixture of horror
and confusion as the creature the Golem on the street crawled out of the sun
and under the cover of the awning. Like a huge slug, he left a wet muddy
trail behind him, which immediately dried in the fierce sunlight. Sophie
caught another glimpse of his face before he staggered into the bookshop. His
features had flowed like melted wax and a fine web of cracks covered the
skin. It reminded her of the floor of a desert.
Perry dashed out into the street. Sophie watched as the woman pulled her hair
free of its intricate braid and shook it loose. But instead of lying flat
against her back, her hair flowed out about her, as if it were blown in a
gentle breeze. Only there was no breeze.
Sophie hesitated a moment; then, grabbing a broom, she dashed across the road
after Perry. Josh was in the bookstore!
The bookshop was in chaos.
The once-neat shelves and carefully stacked tables were scattered and tossed
about the room in heaps. Bookcases were shattered, shelves snapped in half,
ornate prints and maps lay crushed on the floor. The stench of rot and decay
hung about the room: pulped paper and wood turned dry and rotting, even the
ceiling was scored and torn, plaster shredded to reveal the wooden joists and
dangling electrical wires.
The small gray man stood in the center of the floor. He was fastidiously
brushing dust off the sleeve of his coat while two of his Golems explored the
cellar. The third Golem, damaged and stiff from exposure to the sun, leaned
awkwardly against a crushed bookcase. Flakes of gray mudlike skin were
spiraling off what remained of his hands.
