Managing Death (20 page)

‘“The Triumph of Death”?’

‘That’s the one. Picture that. You got it?’ I nod my head. ‘Now imagine that painting, but there is only Death. And it is everywhere. The Hungry Death was a walking, shifting apocalypse. Random and violent in a … I suppose … more focussed way than our world actually is, and I would suggest that you’d agree that ours is a pretty random and violent one.’

‘What happened to the Hungry Death?’

‘You know. Close your eyes, and you know.’ I do nothing of the sort, just stare at her. She blinks.

‘I don’t blame you,’ Suzanne says. ‘When I tell you there were thirteen warriors who went to battle with it, do you start to get the idea?’

I stare at her, dumbfounded.

She sighs. ‘OK. Thirteen warriors. They fought the Hungry Death, and what a battle it was, fire and brimstone, storm and earthquake. All of that, real “Book of Revelations” stuff. They fought it. And they defeated it. Six times. And each time it came back. They cut it into pieces. And it came back. They ground its marrow to dust and it came back. They even ground its marrow to dust and turned it into some sort of paste, and yet it did no good.

‘Finally a seventh, desperate battle. And this time, the earth a wasteland about them, the world a wound and the dying everywhere, they had begun to question
why they had even tried fighting it in the first place. They held that Hungry Death down and this time they devoured it. Thirteen warriors, and each of them absorbed one-thirteenth of the Hungry Death’s essence. And it has stayed that way through time.

‘You see, it was never truly vanquished. Death cannot be. The Hungry Death lives on in each of the Orcus. It is our power, and the thing which each of us fear. That is what you dream about, Steven. Death untrammelled, blood and knives and the scythe. We all dream these dreams. It is why we don’t need to sleep – its power sustains us – and why we don’t want to.’

I blink. ‘So I somehow ingested a thirteenth of the Hungry Death?’

‘Absorbed is perhaps the better term. The Negotiation, why do you think it is so brutal? To become an RM you must appease the Hungry Death, blood must flow, and it is the only way to draw it out of a previous RM. And once it’s within you … Surely you have felt it there? Not just in the dreams. Don’t you sometimes feel its delight in death and destruction? It’s the Hungry Death that makes it easier for you to deal with the things that you must see and do. And through you, it makes it easier on your Pomps.’

‘So what’s the All-Death? It spoke to me, and not just in a dream.’

‘It’s an aspect of the Hungry Death, too. We use it, of course, to generate the schedule, because it exists outside of time. Through it we know who is to die and when.
It knows so much, and bereft of the Hungry Death, it is relatively benign.’

‘It didn’t feel benign when it grabbed me.’

‘I said relatively. It remains a part of the Hungry Death.’

‘So what was it, this thing in me before it became the Hungry Death?’

‘Something like the Stirrer god, perhaps. We don’t know. This all happened a very long time ago. Generations before even the oldest RM, before even the invention of writing.’

‘And all it wants is death?’

‘Yes, but not in the way that the Stirrers do. Which makes me believe it really isn’t like them. You must be able to feel it, the pure joy it takes in death. Stirrers wish an end to life, this needs life to sustain it. I know you feel it.’

Yes, I do. Why wasn’t I told about this earlier? Mr D with his all-in-good-time. My dreams have been such a horrible space, not least because of the pleasure I find in them.

‘To think of such a cruel thing in here,’ I tap my chest.

Suzanne pulls my hand away. ‘You mustn’t think that. It isn’t cruel, merely inventive. Couple that with a clever and cruel creature like
Homo sapiens
and you have all sorts of madness, all sorts of ways of killing.’ Suzanne’s eyes gleam. ‘It is better that it exists inside us, spread across the world, and that it is only fed every
few generations in a Schism and a Negotiation. Think of the ruthlessness that we forestall with our existence. Our world, our myriad of societies, exist merely because we have given people time. We have given them the space to live longer, to develop culture and technology. Death remains, as does genocide and madness, but it is not all encompassing.’

I remember my Negotiation. The Orcus gathered around Morrigan and me in a circle, the hunger in their eyes. I now know where most of that came from. Come the next Negotiation will I look that way, too?

‘So I rule the land and the sea around Australia as Death, because once there were warriors and they killed Death itself.’

‘No, you cannot kill Death, only shape its form. And no, you do not rule the sea.’

‘
Why
hasn’t Mr D explained this? Gaps, gaps! I’ve got so many bloody gaps in my knowledge. What does, then?’

‘Water, and the force within it. We’ve made our agreements with that force to cross the seas. But we have no power there. It does with those souls who die within its substance what it will. I hope that you’ll never have to deal with it. Water is a cruel negotiator.’ Suzanne shivers. ‘And that is your lesson for today. The Stirrer god is powerful. But there is a power within us, too. The secret is to use that power without destroying everything those first warriors fought for.’

‘And how do we do that?’

‘I have a plan.’ Suzanne puts a finger against my lips. ‘But that is for another time.’

I’m still thinking about plans, and Deaths of the sea, when I shift back to my office. Right on target. Tim obviously senses my return because he gives a ragged cheer from his office.

There’s a message on my phone. Lissa.

‘Call me, babe, when you get the chance.’

I dial her number. She answers before the first ring.

‘That was quick,’ I say.

‘I was just about to call you again. Where have you been?’

I mumble something about Death Moot prep, feel a pang of guilt. If only she knew. Maybe I should just tell her about the deal with Suzanne now.

‘Steven, we may have a problem. Actually there’s no may about it.’

‘What is it?’

‘Stirrers. Something new. I suppose you could call it a nest of them. I need you to come here.’

‘A nest? Why the hell can’t we feel them?’

She gives me an address in Woolloongabba. It’s a couple of suburbs south of the city. About ten minutes’ drive away if the traffic isn’t too bad.

I look at the schedule. There’s no one spare. Besides Lissa and I should be able to handle them. I hesitate
to shift there. If I can sense a shift they may be able to as well.

Oscar’s standing outside my office door. I open it and he looks at me. ‘Going to need your help – and Travis’s.’

‘Not a problem.’

‘How fast can you drive that Hummer of yours?’

Oscar gives me one of the biggest, maddest grins I have ever seen.

I
don’t expect to see Alex, but he’s there with Lissa. Both of them look pretty grim.

There’s no small talk. Lissa leads us up onto a flat rooftop above Vulture Street, a major tributary to the M1, the motorway that feeds into and out of the city. The traffic is building rapidly.

The Stirrers below us move with a confidence that only comes from inhabiting a body for weeks. They’re sitting on the front verandah of the house, drinking what look like stubbies of beer. The house could be like any other in the suburb, or Brisbane, for that matter. It’s a classic Queenslander, verandahs all around, tin roof. Very much like my parents’ place. But this one has known better days; the paint’s peeling so badly that we can see it from here. There’s a pile of rubbish in the backyard, but that’s common enough. The only odd thing about it is the roof – it’s crammed with aerials, peculiar prickly bunches of them. What the hell do they need those for?

We’re across the river from the city centre. I can feel Number Four, and just down the road is the Gabba cricket stadium. It offends me that this is happening
so close to where we are based, and even more that it’s almost next door to one of the greatest cricket pitches in the world. How could Stirrers have grown so brazen? But I guess if I had a god hurtling through the ether towards earth, I’d be brazen, too, and perhaps pressured to perform. To make good, and ensure that my god was pleased.

What worries me more is that I can’t taste them in the air. There’s nothing. If anything, the space they occupy is too neutral. It’s neither living nor dead. Are those aerials responsible for that?

The air is still and humid. Sweat sheens Lissa’s forehead. Oscar and Travis are feeling it, too.

‘What is this?’ I ask. ‘The aerials. The house being so near the heart of the city. Why?’

‘Yeah, I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Lissa says. ‘And we still wouldn’t have, except for Alex.’

‘Alex?’ I look over at him. ‘You found this?’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I tried to get in touch with you. When I couldn’t, I called Lissa. Should have known she’d be able to get onto you.’

‘I’ve been a little busy today. Sorry,’ I say, guilt pangy and all.

Alex nods; looks like we’ve all been busy. ‘I’ve been looking into the Closers and this address came up several times. Something about a safe house, or being locked into the grid. I came and had a look, didn’t get too close. You can tell why.’

‘How’d you come by the information?’

‘Slightly illegally,’ Alex mumbles, not quite able to meet my eye. It’s not the way he likes to work at all. ‘Been digging around emails in the Closers’ server.’

‘Seems he has quite a knack for the cyber-espionage,’ Lissa says approvingly.

‘Yes, well.’ He blushes. ‘That’s just between you and me. I really shouldn’t be here, but I want to see this done properly.’ Alex is about as straitlaced as they come. For him to do any digging would have been painful indeed.

‘You did good.’ I paint a brace symbol on Oscar’s wrist, Travis is already done: the paint is simply red acrylic mixed with my blood. The brace symbol is a potent guard against our ‘problem’. It used to be, at any rate. ‘You have to wonder how long this has been going on.’ I nod at Stirrer House down below. The implications are somewhat frightening to consider. How many other Stirrer houses are there out in the ’burbs and country towns? Places where we don’t keep as much of a presence?

Lissa grimaces. ‘A while, at best guess. I’d say three weeks, maybe four.’

Solstice knew about this and he didn’t tell us. Just what game is he playing? I’m going to have to give that bastard a call. Looks like the war may be building up again.

‘That Stirrer god of yours is getting closer, isn’t it?’ Alex says.

‘It’s always drawing closer, but distance is a weird thing, in the Deepest Dark.’ If only he could see it as up close as I have.

I look around at the assembled group. ‘Oscar, Travis: you two call this through if we have a problem. I don’t expect one, but then again, I didn’t expect to come across a Stirrer safe house in the middle of Brisbane. Alex – do you want to come down with us?’ I tap the brace paint. Alex nods grimly and submits to being painted.

Oscar and Travis don’t look happy, but they’re not going to be any good to us down there. In fact they could be a liability, even with the brace paint.

‘So, how are we going to do this?’ Lissa asks.

‘Frontal assault will work best,’ I say.

‘Do you want to wait for some backup?’

‘Don’t be silly, we’ve handled worse. And besides, this needs a subtle touch, I think.’

‘You think you can manage that?’ Alex snorts, trying to tough it out. He’s seen me battle hundreds of Stirrers on George Street, even saved my life with a few well-placed shots himself. But this is different.

‘Do you think
you
can? We were having this sort of fun when we were five,’ I say, giving Lissa a bit of a hug.

Alex grimaces. ‘You weren’t the only ones with Pomp parents. I know what I’m doing.’

There are two dozen sparrows gathered around me, pecking and hopping, looking innocent as all hell. You wouldn’t know that they’ve all pecked my hand and supped a bit on my blood. Two blocks away wait eight crows. The heavy guns don’t require my blood; they’re less traditional than the sparrows on that front.

When I’d first become RM I’d managed to stall several hundred Stirrers in one go, but that had just been a flare-up of my new powers – apparently that’s the way it works. Since then, in the few times I’d done this, I’d returned to the original method, blood and touch. Keeps me honest, I suppose.

A sparrow jumps on my finger and chirps at me impatiently. I feel like I should be singing some sort of Disneyesque musical number.

Lissa runs her blade down her hand. It’s a swift, sharp movement, and then she kisses me on the cheek.

‘Be careful,’ I say.

‘You too.’

‘Let’s go.’

We split up: approach the house from opposite sides. Half my sparrows shoot around the back, the rest follow me, a mad battering of tiny wings. Alex isn’t far behind them, his gun out. I signal for him to approach the back door. He nods. He’ll be safer out there, I hope.

I’m almost at the house when the first Stirrer sees me. He drops his beer. I leap over the fence, catch my foot, nearly fall flat on my face. Lissa is already past me. She swings a hand at the Stirrer. He catches it. The bastard’s wearing gloves. Lissa swings around with her other hand, slaps a bloody handprint against his head.

I’m on top of the other one now. Its being scrambles and scrapes through me, and into the Deepest Dark. The body’s just a body again.

The front door’s unlocked. I go in first, cautious but quick.

Lissa’s behind me. Every time I blink, I catch a glimpse of what my sparrows can see. Nothing has tried to use the back door yet. Alex is waiting there, gun at the ready, not that it would do much good. My crows are tearing through the air towards the building, their cries and caws growing louder with every wing beat.

I’m through to the living room, and gagging with the stench of rotten flesh. It’s the first time in a while that it isn’t alcohol or shift induced. And I can’t quite believe what I see: two twitching bodies, tied to the ceiling, flies coating their flesh. Maggots carpet the floor beneath, a squelching, writhing mass. The spaces of the Stirrers’ skin not fly-coated or maggot-bubbling are marked with symbols I don’t recognise, but which none the less drive icy nails of dread through me. It doesn’t stop there, though, there’s something not right with the geometry of these ceilings, the way their corners meet – or don’t – something that baffles my vision like the seeds of a migraine. I can smell stale smoke, too. The ceiling above, near the edges of its warped geometry is black with scorch marks.