He would have to abide by it, he realized in dread. And join in. Already he craved the knowledge of warmth, of touch, of smell. Memories of such treasures were all around. He had only to reach out—
The bedroom was damp and cold, its furniture cheap. But he couldn’t afford anything more. Not now. The dismissal papers were still in his jacket pocket. The last pay packet was in there with it, but slim now. It had been fatter this afternoon. Before he went to the bar, doing what any man would.
Debbi was rising from the bed, blinking drowsily up at him. Voice like a fucking cat, complaining complaining complaining. Where had he been with his no-good friends? Did he know what time it was? How much had he drunk? Like she always did.
So he told the bitch to shut up, because for once he was utterly pissed off with all the grief she gave him. And when she didn’t quieten down he hit her. Even that didn’t do it. She was shrieking real loud now, waking up the whole goddamn neighbourhood. So he hit her again, harder this time.
—to devour the pitiful echoes of sensation.
“Holy Anstid, help me your eternal servant. For pity’s sake. Help!”
Laughter, only laughter. So he raged back and lost himself from the mockery in—
The sun glinting off the Inca temple that rose unchallenged into the sky. It was greater than any cathedral he had ever seen. But its builders were now a nation quelled before Spain’s might. And the wealth inside the broken city was beyond that of kings. A life of glory awaited its conquerors.
His armour acted like a furnace in the heat. And the gash on his leg was host to strange brown pustular styes, spores of accursed jungle. Already he was frightened he wouldn’t live to see Spain’s shores again.
—which wasn’t an answer. Calamity and pain were thin substitutes for the explosion of experience which lay in the vaguely perceived extrinsic universe.
Ten seconds. That was all the time that had passed there since he died. And how long had some of the spirits been here? How could they stand it—
Centuries which ache like a lover’s heart laid still. To leech and leech what is new to find only that which is stale. Yet even such an insipid taste surpasses the hell which lies further from the taunting glimmer of the lost home of our flesh. Madness and dragons lie in wait for those that venture away from what we discern. Safer to stay. Safer to suffer the known rather than the unknown.
—Dariat could distinguish bursts of Horgan’s pain, flashing into the nothingness of the sixth realm like flames licking through black timber. They came from where the spirits were clustered thickest, as though they were dogs fighting for scraps of the rarest steak.
Colours were stronger there, oozing through cracks that curved across dimensions. And the lost spirits howled in a unison of hatred, tempting and taunting Horgan to accede, to surrender. Maidens promised oceans of pleasure while malefactors threatened eternities of torment.
The cracks from which the rich slivers of pain emerged were growing wider as Kiera, Ross, Enid, and Klaus exerted their power.
“Mine,” Dariat proclaimed in defiance. “He is mine. Prepared for me. He belongs to me.”
“No, mine.”
“Mine.”
“Mine.”
“Mine,” rose the cry.
“Kiera, Ross, help me. Let me come back.” He knew he could not stay here. Cool quiet darkness called, away from the universe of birth. Where Anastasia had gone, where they would meet again. To linger here with only the memories of yesterday’s dreams as a reason was insanity. Anastasia was brave enough to venture forth. He could follow in her wake, unworthy though he was.
“Stop it, I beg,” Horgan called. “Rescue me.”
The uniformity in which Dariat was suspended began to warp. A tight narrow funnel resembling a cyclone vortex that led down into the fathomless unknowable heart of a gas giant. Spirits were compelled towards it, into it. Dariat was one of them, pressed ever tighter against—
A poorly cobbled street with cottages on either side. It was raining hard. His bare feet were numb with cold. Wood smoke hung in the air, wisps from the chimneys swirled low by the wind. Water was soaking his ragged coat and making his cough worse. His thin chest vibrated as the air bucked in his throat. Ma had taken to giving him sad smiles whenever he told her how bad it felt inside.
Beside him his little sister was sniffling. Her face was barely visible below her woollen bonnet and above her coat collar. He held her hand in his as she tottered along unquestioningly. She looked so frail, worse than him. And winter was only just beginning. There never seemed to be enough broth; and the portions they had were made mostly from vegetables. It didn’t fill the belly. Yet there was meat in the butchers.
Townsfolk walked along with them as the church bell pealed incessantly, summoning them. His sister’s wooden clogs made dull rapping sounds against the cobbles. They were full with water, swelling her small white feet, and making the sores worse.
Da earned a good wage labouring in the squire’s fields. But there was never extra money to spend on food.
The worn penny piece with Queen Victoria’s face was clutched in his free hand. Destined for the smiling, warmly dressed pastor.
It just didn’t seem right.
“Please,” Horgan called, weaker now, thoughts bruised by the pain.
Dariat slid in towards the boy. “I’ll help, I’ll help,” he lied. Light trickled through from the far end of the
