So here is the "real" count, of words I am keeping:
Mercy’s memory of him was vague, now. More of an impression, one of towering size and the smell of fried food and engine grease. His thoughts were dark, malignant things that made her press hard against her mother’s leg. So young, she had no words to describe the things he imagined, but they filled her with a wordless terror. Pallas knew. She took his coin and his darkness, and left him a dazed shell of who he’d been, missing all memory of the woman and her tiny daughter, and what he’d meant to do to them.