Work Text:
There was something off about their friend. Halál had been introduced to him one day, Tod smiling and exchanging names, with a twitch in the amiable curve of his mouth giving the odd impression that he had swallowed strychnine. No sooner had they been enjoined to that odd ritual of shaking hands than he had slunk off in a hurry.
He had seen why in the other’s face.
Shorter than he was, and slender, Dood nevertheless frightened immediately, with a shock of white-blond hair touching, but not quite veiling, his eyes, sharp, narrow, uncannily blue; and through the delicate grip of his hand as they greeted each other — lithe, a hunter’s grip. Halál felt in the touch of those white fingers the impressions of things which, for once, it seemed quite safe to leave undisturbed. Most unsettling of all was the smooth lull of his voice, flowing out onto the air, light, warm, inviting. If they spoke too long, he fretted, sliding his hand into his pocket, an invitation to mass murder might begin to sound reasonable.