home. But it may not be enough.
The tentacle's pause is momentary.
Whatever I did only stunned the Stirrer god, or surprised it; less than a flea bite. I can hear the god giving chase, a great whistling roar, louder than the wind, and above that noise the scraping of its knife fringes sounds remarkably like the groaning limbs of the One Tree.
It's gaining. It's gaining.
Its shadow descends over me like a wave, but a sword-gnashing wave, all cutting edges and hunger. I cringe, fold my hands over my neck.
I drop into my office. Hit the floor hard, knocking the breath from me, and almost slamming into Cerbo, which wouldn't have been such a bad thing, I'm thinking. My breath comes quick and, with it, rage. Cerbo's on his arse pale and panting, he slides away from me, gripping his green bowler absurdly in both hands. The whole building shakes as something strikes us above. Whether it's metaphysical or not, it hits hard. I throw my arms over my head, but the ceiling holds.
'You let go,' Cerbo says, looking at me eyes wide with fear or guilt, or both.
'And you couldn't come back and get me?' I'm on my feet in an instant. I grab him and shake. I'm pumped. My heart is pounding, I barely realise that I'm lifting him off the ground.
'I didn't have time,' Cerbo squeaks.
'Didn't have time?' I shout.
Oscar swings open the door. Tim's with him.
'What was that?' Tim demands. They both stop, staring at me shaking Cerbo.
I put Cerbo down. I straighten my jacket and run my fingers through my hair. 'Stirrer god, I think.'
Cerbo nods. 'That's never happened before.' He looks at Tim, then Oscar. 'It's all right. It nearly had us, but it can't. Not here, not yet. A finger tap is not an invasion. Now, if you would excuse us, Tim and Mr Goon, there are some things I need to discuss with your boss.'
'Yeah,' I say. 'Some things… Tim, I've just discovered something you should be able to do. It will be bloody, of course, and you really wouldn't want to do it. But -' I glance over at Cerbo. 'Jesus, what other things should Tim be able to do? I want you to teach him. I need him to know this shit.'
Cerbo dips his head. 'It would be useful. You are working at a disadvantage.'
'You got time to talk to this bloke?' I ask Tim. Cerbo is giving him another pained look.
'Yeah, I'll make time.' I peer at Tim, he looks a bit under the weather. Maybe he didn't stop drinking after the party.
'Great, I'll send him through when we're done.'
Once Oscar and Tim are gone I gesture to an office chair.
'I really am sorry,' Cerbo says, sitting down. 'No matter what you may think, it was not my intention to put you in danger. The Stirrer god recognised you. It certainly reacted.'
'Wonderful. I've got enough enemies without a bloody god gunning for me.'
'Too late for that,' Cerbo says, straightening his hat.
'It's very close now, isn't it? How long do we have?'
'Best estimate? Twelve months.'
'And worst?'
'Well, it just knocked on the door, didn't it?' he replies, gesturing above us.
I look up at the ceiling, at the space that I suppose I dropped through. There's a tiny black smudge there.
'So how do we stop it?'
Cerbo looks at me. 'Believe me, that's what we're working on. I just don't know.'
I glance at my bleeding hand. The wound is beginning to close but not as fast or as painlessly as I would like. 'But it's going to involve blood, isn't it? And lots of it.'
'What doesn't in our line of business, Mr de Selby? You tell me.'
'I want you out there. Teaching Tim what he needs to know. Show him what you did. Show him how to shift. But please, don't do anything that's going to kill him.'
And then, with a brief dip of his head, he leaves the room. I'm alone.
I snatch up the black phone.
'We need to talk. And now!'
'The markets,' Mr D says, and is gone before I can protest. All I can do is fume into the silence of the handset. The markets are crowded and run along the southern bank of the River Styx, its black water flowing languidly towards the rolling sea. The crowds that gather here and buy the produce are silent in the main. It is an eerie thing, that silent shopping. There's not a hint of haggling, no spruiking, no musicians or other street performers, though a flute is playing distantly and atonally. This is a mere shadow of a living market. A memory. The tents shift, the goods within change – kangaroo hide one moment, spinning tops or fruit the next – echoing centuries of commerce. Money is exchanged, and it is various – old coins and paper; plastic, too. I can hear the click-clack of an old credit card machine.
Here, where there are so many dead, the red of the sky mingles with the blue glow of the dead's flesh. And far above us, a single branch of the One Tree reaches out across the river and the city. I can just make out the shapes of tiny figures up there, finding a place to rest, and a final passage to the Deepest Dark.
'What do you think of these oranges? Too soft?' Mr D asks.
'You're really an extremely frustrating man.' I lean in towards him, and it's all I can do to stop myself from jabbing him in the chest.
Mr D grimaces. For a moment his face is almost as full of motion as the days when he was RM. He may have demanded we meet in the markets of the Underworld but I did not come here to look at oranges, silver jewellery, brewing ash or Troll Doll pencil erasers. Wal's not talking to me after my flight from the Stirrer god. He's fluttering around a nearby stall throwing me dirty looks and eating a dagwood dog. There's tomato sauce bearding his chin.
'How much did you know about the Stirrer god before you died?' I ask Mr D.
'Very little, believe me. I was out of the loop.'
'But you knew it was coming?'
'Only that something was coming, and then Morrigan's little Schism distracted me.'
'Well, I've seen it up close, and let me tell you it terrified me.'
'There was a guy called Lovecraft. Wrote horror stories.'
'Yeah, I know who he was. What about him?' I say, irritated at this turn in the conversation.
'Well, with Lovecraft, sure, he was a horrible racist, but he got something right. Sometimes terror is the only response.'
'Terror. OK, so what about Rillman?'
'Rillman really was a surprise to me. I thought him long gone.' Mr D squeezes an orange speculatively. 'I do like a good orange. Oh! Now it's gone and changed into a pear!'
'Enough about the -'
Then I catch something out of the corner of my eye. A movement not quite right, a little too energetic, just a little too alive. There's a man, standing by a nearby stall, who isn't dead.
His arms don't glow with the blue light that every soul emits in Hell. Nothing living, not as we define it, should be here. I watch him, and try to act like I'm not watching him. His shoulders are broad, and he's wearing a beaked plague mask and a wide-brimmed black hat. Is this the same guy who cut the window-cleaning assassin's rope? He moves to another stall, beak bobbing up and down like a toy drinking bird, as he inspects with far too much interest what appears to be a collection of old Archie comics. I can just make out Jughead's face and crown.
'Do you see that?' I ask Mr D.
'See what?' He shrugs, putting down the pear.
I'm getting the sort of vibe that if I make any movement towards our Archie-perusing beaked mate, he'll leg it. 'If you can't see him, don't worry.' Though how you can miss a non-glowing man in Hell wearing a plague mask is beyond me – even in the markets. The fellow really is going to look peculiar anywhere outside of Black-Death period dramas or fancy-dress parties.
