The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy (62 page)

Lissa rushes toward me and grabs my face. “And you?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine. Though I’ve got my twinges. How was your day, my love?”

“Far, far better than yours. Why Suzanne?”

“Tim can’t shift yet, certainly not well enough to get me back here. What would you have me do, catch a bus?”

Lissa scrunches up her face. “You know how I feel about her.”

“Yes, but she saved Oscar’s life. I did call you first.”

“OK, enough. Now tell me everything.”

I sit in the throne, the heartbeats of my country playing around me. Thirty more people die in the space of my healing, though I’m angry over only one of them. Travis shouldn’t have died for me. I’ve already
looked into the schedule; his name is flagged as too early. He had another thirty-eight years.

My wounds have knitted well, though they’re quite red and inflamed. Not bad for a couple of hours. I stretch in my chair, look over at Lissa. She’s let me grump for a while now. She’s rubbing at her brow like she has a headache and looks ready to collapse.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

“Yeah, the new staff are great. So that’s one thing. And the other states, especially Sydney and Perth, are doing well, oddly enough.” She sighs. “I know accepting Suzanne’s Pomps would reduce the stress on us, but I don’t want you to do it.”

Guilt buzzes inside me. I should feel better about it, somehow justified that me taking up Suzanne’s offer was really necessary. How much longer can I keep up this lying? “Well, looks like we’re going this alone. Travis is gone and Oscar isn’t getting out of a hospital bed for a while,” I say.

“Yeah. But we’re used to that. Weren’t you kind of expecting it?”

“No, I wasn’t. Call me optimistic, but I really wasn’t.”

It’s so easy to have these things taken from me, RM or not, no matter how hard I work—or don’t. Ah, fatalist much, Mr. de Selby?

Lissa strokes my face. There’s an ache deep in the back of my throat and it becomes a burning when I look into her eyes.

I rise from the throne, slowly; every movement has its quotient of pain. I kiss her briefly, pull back and stare at her. Lissa’s lips tremble and her face is lit with something that I can only hope I am the cause of.

“It always comes down to us,” I say, trying to inject more hope into my words than I feel. Then I kiss her again, a longer lingering contact this time. “What the hell are we going to do?”

Lissa sighs. “What we always do. Keep going. We can’t hide from Rillman. He can chase us anywhere. Besides, neither of us is the hiding type—it didn’t work with Morrigan and it won’t work with
Rillman. Tomorrow’s Christmas, then it’s three days until the Moot. We live our lives and we fight,” she says.

Hiding certainly didn’t work with Morrigan. But he never wanted me to die—until the end, when he was ready and my running was done. Rillman’s motives are so much darker and murkier.

There’s loss on the horizon, and we’re bolting toward it, faster and faster. Rillman, the Stirrer god, the Hungry Death, the bloody Death Moot. All of it’s terrifying me. Lissa must see it there in my face, because she rests a hand against my cheek, bears a little of the weight of my head for a moment.

“It’s Christmas tomorrow,” I say. “I can’t believe it. To be honest, I’d forgotten.”

“What? You’re telling me you haven’t got me a present?”

“Of course I have!”

She smiles, eyes flaring. Gorgeous, utterly gorgeous.

“Just kiss me again,” she says.

And I do.

T
he Deepest Dark is a soothing chill against my newly healed flesh. I’ve showered and pulled a T-shirt and jeans over my scars. It feels odd to be here, out of a suit. Sure, I’d worn a tracksuit down here once, but that feels like it was an age ago.

“You’re looking good for a man who nearly died tonight.”

“Thank you again for your quick assistance.”

“I have a lot riding on you, Mr. de Selby.”

“Things are coming to a head,” I say. “I can feel it. I need to know how you know so much. And I need to know just what is important.”

“These sessions aren’t about how I know things, but what I know. I assure you that you will have access to an incredible network of information. Not just Twitter, not just Facebook, or Mortepedia. Give yourself time.”

“What network? And what the hell is Mortepedia?”

But Suzanne puts a finger to my lips. “You know about the Hungry Death now.” I push her hand away.

“Yeah, let’s call it HD, for short.”

Suzanne sighs. “And you know that, once, pomping was a pleasurable thing. But do you understand why we use blood?”

“It has to be blood, and your own, and it has to hurt,” I say. These are things I learned from my parents, as every Pomp does. And it feels good to say them. “The drawing of lines in the sand must always
have consequences. It costs to fight battles. It’s not just HD that drives this. You told me as much, when you told me how it was defeated. It’s the will to make a difference despite the cost, and the realization that you might fail. If failure costs nothing, perhaps we would be too reckless. If it didn’t hurt to stall a Stirrer, perhaps we would just rush in with no plan, our guns blazing and find ourselves surrounded, cut off, defeated.”

The grin Suzanne gives me is huge. “Blood isn’t just life, it represents how delicate life is. Now, symbols are very important in this business, as you already know. The brace symbol, for one. But something as simple as a gesture can be powerful. If you give yourself to it.” She raises her hand, and dust lifts from the ground and follows her, fanning out, then condensing into a tight tube that spirals around her arm. “Try it.”

I do, and nothing happens. No surprise there.

Suzanne touches my head. “You were thinking about it far too much. Just lift your arm.”

“Right, right, just lift my arm!” I say, flapping my arms like I’m doing some crazy impersonation of a chicken. “Nothing, see—”

Dust swings around me, up and down.

But the moment I realize what I’m doing, the dust drifts away. A good bit of it gets sucked into my lungs. Suzanne watches me cough, her eyes crinkle.

“Good work,” she says. “So much of what you need to do must be done without thought. Without reflection. That’s the power and the danger of this job. It must be effortless. If it’s too much one way, everything becomes mechanical, without soul, without rhythm. Too much the other, and it is all chaos. Even too much balance is wrong.”

“Why?”

“Death isn’t effort. It’s consequence. It’s as natural as breathing, and all the skills that we possess—to shift, to hear the heartbeats of our region, all of them—come from that. Give yourself over to it,
and in the giving you will find that there is so much more time to explore the consequences of your actions. If you are always struggling, you can never ask yourself why, or what might be. Now, lift your arm again.”

I lift, extending a finger. The dust lifts too. I draw my fingers into the bed of my palm then flick them out. Dust shoots away from me, five trails of it. I lower my hand and it drops. I can feel it around me, waiting for my motion, my guidance.

Suzanne winks at me. “Well done, Steven. I expect to see you tomorrow. But not here. Tomorrow we can meet in my office.”

And she is gone.

Wal pulls from my arm. The last thing I expect to see him in is a little Santa hat.

“What the hell’s Mortepedia?” I ask, lifting a finger, and watching a slender thread of dust rise up to touch it.

Wal spirals around it. “Some sort of treatment for dead feet? No, that’s Mortepodiatry.”

I glare at him. “Rillman nearly killed me tonight.”

“But he didn’t,” Wal says.

“He managed to kill one of my bodyguards, though.”

“Well, that’s the problem. You don’t need bodyguards. You’re an RM, you should be able to look after yourself. You don’t sleep, you can shift through space, and even make dust do… things. What do you need bodyguards for?”

“Lissa—”

“Lissa’s stronger than you give her credit for. Think about what you two had to go through just to be together. You think Lissa was being all helpless in that? Lissa’s only a weakness if you let her be one. If you let her be a strength …”

“When did you get so wise?”

Wal beams at me. “Always have been, mate, you just never listened.”

PART TWO

THE MOOT

T
he barbecue’s sizzling, and I’m there behind it, nursing a beer. Dad used to do this. No turkey, no ham on Christmas Day. Just meat cooked to within millimeters of inedibility and salad. Beer, too, of course. We have a couple of dozen stubbies of Fourex and Tooheys Old swimming in ice in the laundry sink.

It’s a pretty grim Christmas. Last year there were so many more people. There doesn’t seem to be much of a chance of backyard cricket. I look down at the lawn, which is in need of a mow—I’m not going to have time to do it in the next few days. But the kids don’t seem to mind. Alex is down there with Tim and Sally. I’m glad I invited him. Christmas is a busy time for us, but for a moment we can pretend it isn’t.

A hand slides around my waist. “Look at him down there, bailed up by your cousin. Do you think they’re bitching about you?”

Alex is listening intently to something Tim is saying.

“Of course not, they respect me too much,” I say, kissing Lissa on the cheek. I like the feel of her next to me, though she’s a bit too bony at the moment, her cheeks too wan. After the Moot in two days I expect our stress levels to improve. Our staff intake is rising, not to mention my own involvement in the business. It’s amazing what more than twelve hours without someone trying to kill you can do. But it doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

Lissa and Tim were right. I was letting things slip out of control.
Well, I’m back now. And I know I’m getting better at the job. I’ve learned so much in the past week.

The more people in this house, the less space there is for ghosts to fill it. And I’m doing my best to ensure that there are no more ghosts in the near future. I miss Oscar’s and Travis’s presence. But Wal is right, I can handle this. I have my own eyes and ears around the house, some of which are eating beetles. I wince and take a deep swallow of my beer. They’re not the greatest taste, even second hand.

“Christmas always makes me feel a little sad,” Lissa says.

“You missing your parents?”

Lissa nods her head. “It’s been more than a year for me. I’ve already had a Christmas without them.” She squeezes my hand. “I know how hard it must be for you.”

“Yeah, but having you here makes it easier.”

“Is that smoke I smell coming from the barbie?” Tim yells, and I realize that everyone is looking at us. The barbecue is definitely smoking.

“Must mean the sausages are ready,” I say, stacking them onto a plate. Sure they’re a little charred, but you’ve got to keep up tradition.

We sit around a dinner table laden with beer, soft drink, blackened sausages and bowls of salad. The kids groan when Tim kisses Sally. And everyone ignores my quick pash with Lissa.

Here is what I’m fighting for. This family. These connections old and new. We eat together, we laugh together. And seventy people around the country die. It’s not too bad. And there are Pomps for every single one of them.

Perhaps, despite my doubts, the system’s working.

Our guests are gone by early evening. The sky is smudged with the last tints of sunset. The city’s quiet, the suburbs marked by the dis
tant rumble of an engine, or the bark of a dog. Crows caw in nearby trees and noisy mynas live up to their name, chirping, chirping, chirping, as they hunt cicadas or try and push another bird out of their territory. They avoid my Avians, though, and shoot from the yard every time they hear the whoosh of black wings, the thrashing beat of a crow taking flight.

I sit on the back porch thinking, Lissa curled up next to me. Finally, some time to talk.

“So you’re telling me the Hungry Death is real,” Lissa says. “Yes, very much so.” I smile at her. “I call it HD.”

Lissa groans. “But I thought the Hungry … I mean, HD was destroyed,” she says.

“No. More like redistributed.” I tap my chest. “The Orcus, we’re all the Hungry Death now. And the other thing—Christ, I really couldn’t believe it. Did you know pomping was once addictive?”

Lissa lifts to one elbow. “Where are you getting all this information?”

“Mr. D. He’s been quite forthcoming of late.”

Lissa smiles. “I’m glad you two are finally connecting.”

“All it took was a fishing trip and a run-in with a giant shark, among other things.”

“They say giant sharks are very much part of the male bonding process,” Lissa says. She yawns, lays her head down on my lap. “Let’s continue this conversation later. Say, once I’ve had a nap.”

I watch her fall asleep, stroking her face, pulling her hair away from her eyes. Having Lissa here this Christmas has made it just about bearable, but my parents’ absence is palpable and agonizing. I finish my beer. My head dips, my eyes close and I’m in a dream at once.