Bride of Death (Marla Mason) (2 page)

After I died, my husband was there beyond the veil to greet me. He was so happy I was dead, which is not a great quality in a spouse.

I told him I wasn’t done with life. If the universe needed me, the universe could damn well wait. My lifespan is a drop in the bucket of eternity, so what’s the hurry? He didn’t see it the same way, but he knew spending a large chunk of forever with me when I was furious and scorned would make his underworld into entirely the wrong kind of hell.

In the end we negotiated, because marriage is all about compromise. We settled on the Persephone clause: I would spend six months of the year alive on Earth, and six months in the underworld, ruling by his side. But I’m a better negotiator than Persephone was, because
my
six months don’t have to be consecutive. We settled on doing a one-month-on, one-month-off rotation for the first year, with an option to alter the structure in the future. (I got some other useful benefits, too. He wouldn’t agree to let me have the powers of a death goddess in my mortal form – apparently human brains can’t be trusted with that kind of power – but I scratched a couple of smaller concessions out of him.)

So there. That’s why the cultists call me the Bride of Death. Even though I’m more like the co-regent. I’d beat that fact into their heads, but that would require acknowledging their existence. The problem is, when I’m cold and aloof and even mean to them, they
like
it. Death cultists are such masochists. I guess I should get back to talking about them.

THE CULT OF THE BRIDE OF DEATH

“Get rid of them,” I said.

Pelly shook his head. “I have tried. But they are religious fanatics, and you are the object of their fanaticism.”

I paced around the cave, glaring at the fire raging between us and the outside world. “What’s with the blazing flames? It’s not hot enough here for you?”

“The ritual required to wake you involves burning certain spices and herbs.”

“That explains why it smells like a bakery hit by an arsonist in here.” I sighed. “How many cultists are we talking about?”

“Around two dozen. So far.”

“Is there, like, a high priest, or –”

Pelham cleared his throat. “That would be me. They desired someone with a personal connection to you. The choices were me, or Rondeau, and –”

“Rondeau as a cult leader is a bad idea,” I agreed.

“We discussed it, and determined that he would find it difficult to resist sleeping with certain members of the congregation,” Pelham said. “He did not seem to view that as a drawback, but I did.”

Rondeau is a good friend from the old days, my longtime right-hand man, from back when I ran a city. He’s not a sorcerer, exactly, but he’s a psychic, and an oracle generator, and a lecherous hedonist with no impulse control, and pretty rich ever since he sold off some prime real estate he inherited. Wealthy and morally-flexible and telepathic... that’s a dangerous combination, but fortunately, he’s too lazy to use his powers for much in the way of evil. “Is he around?” I asked.

“At a hotel in Las Vegas. He’s watching the head.”

I looked at him blankly. “The what?”

Pelham frowned. “You really don’t remember
anything
? You didn’t send us a letter when you gave us instructions about the head – you sent an emissary to speak to Rondeau, an oracle in the form of a ghostly talking dog’s skull. No? Ah. I’d better let Rondeau explain it. We’ll head for Vegas after you’re cleaned up. But I’m afraid it might be best for you to address the cultists first – “

“There’s not a back way out of here?”

Pelham shrugged. “There are rumors of extensive caves beneath Death Valley, but I do not know details, and am not equipped for spelunking at the moment.”

I groaned. “I do not require cultists. I don’t even like having
friends
. What do they want from me?”

“To touch the hem of your garment. To ‘bask in your black aura,’ as they say. To receive your ‘dark blessing.”’

“Ew. That sounds like a euphemism for vampire handjobs or something.”

“Indeed. They are a group of devoted lunatics who will obey you unquestioningly... probably. The ‘lunatic’ part may at times overrule the ‘devoted’ part. I can’t say for sure. They spend most of their time chanting and burning things and giggling and cutting themselves.”

Wonderful. “What should I do with them?”

“Whatever you will, oh dark lady.” His lips quirked in a smile. I had to smile back. I remember back when I wasn’t even sure Pelham
had
a sense of humor. He’d come a long way. “Perhaps you can send them on a mission to plant trees or feed the hungry – though I shudder to think of
what
they’d feed them.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll come up with something. After running the city for all those years, it’ll be a nice change to have some
obedient
followers.” Something nagged at the back of my head. “I’m in a cave in Death Valley. Why do I remember something weird about caves in Death Valley?”

“Are you thinking of the giants?”

I snapped my fingers. “Yeah! Some doctor back in the nineteen-whatevers claimed he found some crazy burial chamber full of giant skeletons and weird artifacts, right? And then scientists supposedly covered up all the evidence, because that’s scientists for you, always covering up evidence.”

“I discovered those stories when I began to research the site of your resurrection,” Pelham said. “ Some believe there are vast miles of hidden caves, containing temples and treasure rooms, beneath the valley. The claims of nine-foot-tall skeletons dressed in clothes made from animals unknown to science are... tenuous at best. Certain religious-minded conspiracy theorists believe the giants are nephilim, children of angels and men mentioned in the Bible as ‘giants in the earth.”’

“Why do those people get to be ‘religious-minded’ and
my
followers get called cultists? My people are worshipping an actual goddess, after all, so it seems unfair to –”

Pelham cleared his throat. “They wear black robes, and masks of hammered silver, and the only reason they don’t sacrifice animals
constantly
is because I told them you would disapprove of them presuming upon the power of death that is yours alone by right. They speak to the black spaces between the stars and cut abstract designs into their flesh with ceremonial daggers and drink blood. They are
death cultists
.”

“Okay. Point taken. I guess I’d better go review the troops.”

“Let me get my robe.”

I snorted. “Really? You wear a robe? Does it have little glow-in-the-dark skulls on it?”

“I do. And it does not. I find looking the part helps keep the cultists in hand.” He spoke in tones of infinite resignation. Pelham picked up a puddle of black cloth and draped it over himself, then covered his head with the voluminous hood. He looked like a background character from every 1970s horror movie about Satan worshippers.

“You lead,” I said. “You look the part, at least. I’m greeting my worshippers – what an asshole thing to say, I hate myself – looking like Pigpen from the Charlie Brown comics.”

“Emerging from a cave, with the dirt of the grave still clinging to you? They will be transported by ecstasy at the sight of you, Mrs. Mason.”

•

For some reason I’d expected it to be dusk, but it was blazing afternoon, and when I emerged from the cave behind Pelham I blinked in the sun like a cartoon mole. I heard the cultists before I saw them: a whish and swish of moving robes, and voices saying, “There she is!” and “The bride!” and “Bride of death!”

Once my eyes adjusted I could see them, about twenty-five figures kneeling or in some cases laying flat-out prostrate among the scrub growth on the ground before me. Most of them wore silver masks, simple circles blank except for two eye holes and a slit for a mouth, some surrounded by spikes that might have been meant to signify sun rays or knives or teeth. All those masks made me nervous. Even though I’d been kicked out of my city, I still had an authoritarian ruler’s distrust for people who hid their faces.

“My people!” Pelham’s voice was big and booming. He must have taken some drama lessons. “The goddess has awakened!” He looked at me. Pointedly.

I stepped forward. The gathering of cultists looked tiny and insignificant out here, in this dry and stony place, against a backdrop of low hills beneath a distressingly sprawling sky. The total absence of skyscrapers unnerved me, too. “So,” I said. “You’re my worshippers. I thought there’d be more of you.”

I meant it as a joke, but they moaned with one voice, like little kids who’d just heard mommy was disappointed in them. I tried to backpedal. “Hey, it’s okay, I’m new at the godhood thing, we’ve got plenty of time to grow...” Shit. What was I even talking about? I didn’t want
more
of them. I hadn’t asked for these people to come bother me in the desert, so why should I reassure them?

Pelham was wincing, and I knew I was blowing it. Once or twice in my life I’ve had cause to play the dominatrix, so I tried to draw on that experience. I stood straighter, put a sneer on my face, and said, “So. You think you’re fit to worship me?”

“Yes, Bride!” they answered.

“Mmm. I’m not convinced.”

“We will pluck out our eyes!” one shouted. “I would die for you!” called another. “Kill! Kill for you!” That last was a particularly large cultist, clutching his fists convulsively.

Way too heavy for me. “Killing and dying aren’t necessary. I’ve got the whole death thing covered. It’s kind of my wheelhouse. “

“Then how may we serve you?” said one of the cultists.

There were giants in the earth in those days
, I thought, and had an inspiration for how to get them out of the way, and keep them from mutilating sheep or going door-to-door handing out pamphlets about my greatness. “I have emerged from the dark caves beneath this dry valley, a place named in my honor.” Kind of a stretch, there, but they didn’t seem to notice. “In those caves, there are artifacts, and treasures, and the remains of ancient races that lived before the rise of man. You will explore those depths, and map the secret places there, and by toiling in the dark in my service, better come to know my nature.”

Pelham cleared his throat. “Because the Bride of Death does not wish you to perish until a time of her choosing, you are to be
very careful
, and procure proper equipment before you descend.”

Oh. Right. Sending dentists and car salesmen into a dark pit was maybe not the best plan for their well-being, but give me a break, I’d just crawled out of a hole in the ground. Anyway, it was bad enough being a wife; I had no intention of being a mommy too. “My high priest will give you the details,” I said. I could see the RV, tan and white and as long as a yacht, parked beyond the cultists.
Shower
.

I held my head high and tried to step regally, weaving my way through the kneeling and sprawled cultists. They tended more toward averting their eyes and whimpering than trying to tug at my pant legs, so that was all right.

I opened the RV door and slipped inside. The place was tidy, as befitted Pelham, though it was also stiflingly hot. There was a big fruit basket with a card from Rondeau on the table. The thought of fresh fruit made me salivate immediately, despite how crammed I was with sandwiches, but cleanliness called more urgently. I looked at the tiny upright-coffin-sized shower and wondered how long the water tank would hold out. I figured I must might run it dry.

I stripped out of my filthy clothes, knowing Pelham would’ve brought a clean wardrobe for me – hopefully something
other
than a black robe and a silver hockey mask. As I turned on the water, I caught sight of something written on the inside of my left wrist. Small letters, recognizably my printed handwriting, but when I rubbed at the letters, they didn’t come off. Not ink, then – a tattoo. I had no memory of getting tattooed, which meant I’d acquired this bit of body art in the underworld.

The tattoo was just two words: “Do Better.”

I stared at it for a while before I stepped into the trickle of the shower and closed my eyes.

Do Better.

Aw, gods. That’s a hell of a thing to demand of yourself.

CITY OF GOLD

Once Pelham had mother-henned the cultists to his satisfaction, he joined me in the RV, sitting at the tiny miniature table across from me. I heard an engine start up nearby, and figured it was some of the cultists heading off to buy caving gear. Did they wear their silver masks in the camping store, I wondered? If they did, would anyone bat an eye? The desert had its fair share of weirdos, and some history of attracting cults. The Manson family had holed up in a ranch in Death Valley while they were hiding from the cops. Maybe the locals just shrugged this kind of stuff off.

I was comfy in a light silk shirt and loose cotton pants I’d found in a suitcase by the bathroom, but I wasn’t happy. I sat brooding over the latest note from myself – this one apparently deemed so important by my goddess-self that it became my first and only tattoo. “Did you see this shit?” I waved my arm at Pelham.