The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy (32 page)

The elevator door pings open. My cousin Jack sees me and his eyes widen. He comes at me with a ring binder. I dispatch Jack quickly.

“Could you please stop neutralizing my staff?” Morrigan asks. He’s standing at his desk, his fingers resting on a glass paperweight of the world. He picks it up and puts it down. My gun is trained on him.

“Don’t listen to the bastard,” says a familiar voice from a corner of the office.

Tim’s alive! I look over at him. He looks a little disheveled but is otherwise all right, even if he is tied down to a chair. I see where Morrigan has marked him with a brace. He’s proofed against the Stirrers. That’s a relief.

“You OK?”

He nods his head. “Better than expected.”

“My staff haven’t harmed him,” says Morrigan.

“Your staff? These are Stirrers. They don’t work for you.” I glare at him.

“You’re wrong there, Steven. We have an agreement, and it is to our mutual benefit. I don’t think you understand how powerful I’ve become.”

“Powerful or not, you can’t trust them, surely?”

“It’s not about trust,” Morrigan says. “They do exactly what I tell them to do. They are under the strictest controls. My controls. You see, there’s always a problem when you try to fuse an organic process with a bureaucratic one, Steven. Everything is open to corruption, but nothing more so when there is an ill fit, when two separate processes collide.”

“Tell me about it,” I say. “People start getting murdered in their beds. Friends turn on friends and family. It’s definitely a flawed system. You should just kill everyone, then everything’s smooth and simple.”

Morrigan ignores me. “But I’ve managed it. Efficiencies will be improved. The Stirrers are much better than human Pomps. You keep them under enough control and everything works well.”

“So what you’re saying is that death works best without the living to screw it up?”

Morrigan nods his head. “All those noisy rituals, all those dumb beliefs drawing us away from the truth, and shaping the Underworld until it’s a mess. You’ve been there, Steve. You can’t tell me it works.”

The truth is I can’t, because if it had, I’d still be back there, drawn into the One Tree. “So, it has some problems,” I say.

“Problems, Jesus!” Morrigan hisses. “I’m steering us toward uniformity here. My region will be like no other, and then the others will slip into line. There will be new efficiencies.”

“You’re trying to control Stirrers here. They don’t care about your efficiencies.”

“Poppycock,” Morrigan says. “Total bullshit. You want to know what I did? I dragged Mortmax Industries up by the bootstraps. Turned it from a small family business into a well-oiled machine. I may have been born into pomping, Steven, but I chose this path. I didn’t just drift around, expecting everything to fall in my lap.

“Have you ever worked a proper day’s work in your life, Steven? Have you ever sat there, planning, setting out the future?”

We both know the answer to that, and there’s a small part of me that’s blaming him. It’s not like he ever encouraged me to apply myself. “But I also never planned on killing everyone, never decided that the way forward was fucking contingent on slaughtering my friends.”

Morrigan jabs a finger in my face. “We work for the Orcus! The way forward was always going to involve death. You’re not a child, stop acting like one.”

I step back. “Yeah, then what about the Stirrers on George Sreet? The Orcus would never allow that. Remember what this job is about?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Morrigan says, but he doesn’t seem as certain as he did. And he’s shuddering, the bastard is as worn out by all the pomping as I am. And that shouldn’t be happening if the Stirrers were actually helping him and not just waiting to devour Australia.

“I wish I didn’t. I’ve pomped a hundred people today. All you’ve done is remove the people who held back the Stirrers. But it isn’t too late. We can stop this. God knows it’ll probably kill us, but we’d be halting a Regional Apocalypse.”

Another Stirrer comes near enough for me to touch and I do. It takes the breath from me. Every time I do this, my heart tears in my chest. “You know it’s true, Morrigan. We can do this. The Stirrers are older than life itself, and they want this universe for themselves. And you’ve let them in. You’ve opened the door wide and I don’t even know if we can close it now.”

“Steven, the moment I killed Mr. D, I put into motion something that can’t be stopped. And I don’t want it to.”

“But maybe—”

There’s a dark flash of pain, and I’m down. I hear my gun clatter to the ground. I’m not long after it.

My eyes open slowly. I don’t know how long I’ve been out. Not that long, I think. The big glass paperweight of the world that struck my skull is next to me on the floor, and there’s blood all over the thing.
Oh, the prick.

“Good, you’re awake,” Morrigan says. “Now kill him, darling.”

I look up. Blood is pouring into my eyes from the deep cut in my head, but there’s Lissa’s body. The evidence of all my failures. Not her, why did he choose her? She’s holding a rifle.

She swings the gun up and fires.

The bullet strikes Morrigan in the chest. He stumbles backward a step, and then another. He stares at the wound in disbelief, then falls to the ground silently, his arm outstretched toward me.

“You’re alive,” I say, somewhat obviously.

She runs toward me and wraps her arms around me in what is the most wonderful embrace I have ever known. She’s all hard breath against my neck. I kiss her.

She’s alive. She’s alive! I didn’t fail her. I’m woozy, bleeding, possibly dying, and I can’t stop smiling.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” Lissa says. “Don’t you ever pull me out and leave me alone.”

“I won’t, I won’t,” I say. She pulls back and I drown in those eyes. “I thought you were gone. Jesus, I thought I’d lost you.”

“Where else did you think I would be? My body was here. I’m so sorry, I’ve been doing my best to keep away from Morrigan, and the Stirrers, but trying to look like I’m not. It’s exhausting, let me tell you.”

“It’s OK. We’ve made it.” The words come slowly. I’m just so happy to see her.

Lissa shakes her head. “I don’t think so. Look where we are.”

But at least we’re together again,
I think, smiling. “How do I look?”

“Like shit, not a good impression at all. I thought you were dead.” Lissa grabs my face gently, it hurts. “When you slipped away from me, or I slipped from you, there were all those Stirrers and their guns. I couldn’t see how you’d survive that, but I thought if you did survive, you’d come here, and if not, the Stirrers could take me again.”

“Have you managed to stall any of them?”

“Steve, I’m not a Pomp anymore. I died, remember? You brought me back. I don’t have those powers, and there’s no RM to give them to me. I’m not even sure I want them back. If I hadn’t stolen some of Morrigan’s brace paint I’d be dead.”

“Good for you,” I say. I’m really bleeding a lot. My vision’s fading.

“You patronizing shit. Now, hold on, you’re going to be OK.”

I touch her oh-so-serious face. “It’s a Regional Apocalypse. There are Stirrers everywhere. If you’re powerless, you need to get out of here. As far away as possible.”

“You’re going to be OK,” Lissa repeats.

“I really don’t think so,” Morrigan says. He’s on his feet and looking as bad as I must, maybe even worse. We’re mortal, even here in Number Four. Being Pomps we have no excuse for forgetting that. I don’t want to die, but I know that’s what’s about to happen.

Morrigan lifts his rifle and aims it at me.

With whatever strength I have left, I push Lissa away from me, except she’s already off me and rolling, her gun swinging up toward Morrigan.

And Morrigan’s rifle fires, almost at the same time as Lissa’s.

W
ell, I did my best. There’s that howling wind again, rising through the dark, promising a storm. I’m dead. The One Tree is a siren call in my skull. I know where I am before I even open my eyes. Still, I don’t expect to see Death looking down into my face. I bite back a yelp. The pain is gone, I’m whole, and shocked to the point of shuddering, then even that’s gone. I’m just lying there beneath that prickly, various gaze.

“What are you doing here? You’re dead.”

“Dead, but still existing.” Mr. D smiles. “Hi, Steven, I kind of hoped you’d kill each other, it brings you to the Negotiation on an even footing. So there are only two of you left, eh? All my wonderful employees, all of them gone.”

“And Lissa, there’s three.”

Death shakes his head. “She’s not a Pomp anymore, unless she chooses to take that role up again, and only if the new Death offers it to her. It’s just you and Morrigan.”

Lissa’s got to be happy with that, but then I think of her there, cradling my body in her arms. Oh, Lissa. Yeah, it was never going to end well. But then nothing does. Everything is jagged at the end, truncated and cruel, love most of all, like a branch of the One Tree snapped off.

“Why am I here?”

“Because you’re dead and Morrigan’s dead, and you’re the last two Pomps. And here you’ll get to decide who gets to live again. The Negotiation always comes down to this. Morrigan vanquished me and he chose you as his opponent.”

I notice Wal, hovering behind Mr. D. The cherub winks at me. He’s in possession of a body now, chubby and bewinged, and I’m seeing far too much of his package. He flits this way and that, with a speed and grace that surprises me.

“It always comes to this,” Mr. D says. “Start a Schism and it ends here on the uppermost branches of the One Tree, the point where all the Underworlds connect and the laws of living and dying are more flexible.”

Then I see Morrigan off to Mr. D’s right. His sparrows lift into the air and hover behind him like some winged cowl. Blinking, Morrigan pats his chest, then grins. The injuries we’d sustained are gone.

Around us in a ring are all the other RMs in their ceremonial garb. No corporate gear, just the long dark cloaks of the Orcus. The thirteen regions, the thirteen Deaths. I’m waiting for them to start chanting, “Fight. Fight. Fight.”

Suddenly the Stirrer helicopter is lifting into view. Half a dozen machine guns fire. The Orcus laugh.

“Cheat!” Mr. D roars. He flicks one hand casually at it, as though it is nothing more than some sort of annoying insect.

The chopper tips, then plummets away. A few minutes later there is a distant popping sound.

A savage smile is stretched across Morrigan’s face. I can tell he didn’t expect the helicopter assault to work, but Morrigan is the sort of person who will try anything once. He rubs his hands together. His sparrows spin off in two braids of shadow. They loop around him, with the precision of a troupe of stunt jet pilots, then return to their position behind his head. I look over at Wal, he gives me a jiggly shrug. I really wish the little guy was wearing pants.

“So this is it,” Morrigan says. “The Negotiation.”

“Yes,” Mr. D says. “And don’t think I’ve forgiven you for running me over. It’s a most terribly ignominious way to die. A bullet in the back would have been preferable, or even a knife across the throat—at least that ends with an ear-to-ear smile—but you’ve never been one for the up close and personal, have you Morrigan? Everything is automated, everything is done at a distance. I don’t understand that.”

“Which is why your time is past.” Morrigan moves in. “It’s my time now. Things will run smoothly.”

Mr. D swells. He broadens across the chest, and his limbs lengthen until he towers over Morrigan, and his face is all faces. It is ruptured meat and broken bone, and the furious swelling of flies and worms, and the quiet that comes after. Then it is Mr. D’s face again, marked with a silent rage, and he’s his usual stick-thin size. “Not just yet,” he says. “I stay to see this out. Those rules remain. This, as you said, is a negotiation, The Negotiation. But not between you and me, that has already played out. Between you and him.”

He’s pointing at me.

“At last.” Morrigan’s grin keeps getting bigger and bigger.

“This isn’t fair,” I whisper. Why is Morrigan looking so cheerful?

Mr. D spins to face me, and I see there’s a measure of anger in all that rage just for me. “When is life or death fair?”

“Can we just finish this? I’ve had enough of your talk, years and years of your bloody talk,” Morrigan says. “I have a lot of work to attend to.”

“Of course you do,” Mr. D snaps. “The creatures with which you have made your curly, crooked deals will ensure that. You were the one who started rolling the knuckle bones, Morrigan. But it is up to me to bring it to an end. I cede, I was outplayed, one by one you have gained my powers … but I wonder if you haven’t outplayed yourself.”

Morrigan sighs. “This is exactly why I began this in the first place. I’m tired of this slow, slow bureaucracy. You were never fast enough, nor efficient enough. I know I can do better. Just let me start. Just let me get it done.”

Mr. D is having none of that. “The cleverest thing, of course, was that you left the weakest Pomp till last.”