The man who'd called out was a scavenger, one of the vultures who preyed on the dead. He was skinny, with sly eyes and a knife that was meant for cutting purse strings, not men. He froze when he saw me, his gaze dropping from my face to the sword in my hand, then back again.
"Your eyes..." he whispered, taking a half-step back. "They're... red."
I could feel the difference. The body's pupils were contracted to pinpricks in the fading light, but the irises were the color of fresh blood. The body was marked by its new owner. That could be a problem. Or useful.
"Trick of the light," I said, testing the voice. It felt like speaking through a layer of grit.
"There's no light to trick," he stammered, his hand tightening on his knife. He was terrified. The fear coming off him was sharp, sour, and utterly predictable. It was the same flavor I'd tasted a thousand times.
