at me disinterestedly. There are a few I recognize, like John from the Wesley morgue, who nods at me. The sight of him disturbs me. But we don't talk, there's no time for that. All of us are too focused on our respective destinations. And I'm too out of breath.
There is only one person who passes me.
Mr. D comes silently from behind. He doesn't look at me as he goes, his shoulders hunched, his face set. The RM just walks higher and higher into the tree, and though he hardly seems to be walking at all, he's soon out of sight.
So he's finally gone. I'm seriously without allies.
'There's a place for all the Deaths-for the whole Orcus-high, right at the top of the tree. It's called the Negotiation,' Wal says.
'What's up there?'
'Something you don't need to consider right now. One thing at a time.'
And that one thing for me is these steps, one after another, over and over. It could be worse. I could be carrying a rock above my head.
As I climb, Hell unfolds beneath me, attended all the while by the creaking branches of the tree and the cold fingers of wind blown in from the sea. It's a beautiful sight, awe-inspiring in its vastness, the colors muted but varied. It's city, forest and sea. It's a sky streaked with blood-orange clouds. It's every sunset I've ever seen, every first glimmering star. I'm determined not to get used to it.
This place is death to me. Beautiful or not, that's all this kingdom is about.
30
I reach the first branch, and know at once that it's not the right one. It's a sensation buried in the meat of me, a certainty that is almost comforting, because it suggests that I might know where I'm going.
A little further up there is the scent of familiar souls, of family-cinnamon, pepper, wood smoke, a faint hint of aftershave and lavender. Maybe it'll be the next branch, or the one after that.
I stop to catch my breath and peer along the wooden limb. It's a gently swaying woodscape, and all along it there are people. Most are lying down, some stand, but the tree is absorbing all of them. Wood sheathes their flesh. It's a macabre yet somewhat serene vision. There is no pain here, just a slow letting go.
Then I see the Stirrer. A big one. It'd take two of me to fit in it. It's walking between the dead, peering at this body or that. Above its head heat shimmers, but that's not what catches my eye.
In one hand the Stirrer's holding a machete. It looks at me and grunts loudly. Shit. Mr. D's key means it can't feel me, but it certainly recognizes me. I lingered here too long.
It runs toward me, along the branch, and I don't wait around. I start up with a stuttering, desperate sort of run. I get back to the next set of stairs.
By the first circuit up from the branch it's obvious that it's going to catch up with me, and soon. My legs are burning, I don't have much pace left. I pass one then another of the dead, making my way around them as quickly as I can on the vertiginous stairway. The Stirrer isn't far behind me. I hear him push them off and their screams echo up to me.
'The bastard,' Wal says. 'They're going to have to do that climb again.'
It's hard to find much sympathy for the dead, the worst has already happened to them. I know how resilient souls are. Me, on the other hand… I'm doing my best to avoid that outcome. I get flashes of the machete and the easy way the Stirrer holds the weapon in its hands. The thought of it slicing into the back of my legs is about the only thing that's giving me any strength.
I manage to reach the next branch, and I don't have any climb left in me. I stagger-run out onto its flat, windy, shuddering expanse. I'm panting and dripping with sweat, my legs rubbery. The edge is too close. I stare around me. In the distance a helicopter circles, looking for something that I suspect is me. I don't know what I'm going to do, but I need to do it here.
I only have a few moments to catch my breath.
'Stirrers are different here,' Wal says.
'How so?'
'The Stirrers here must still inhabit bodies, but in this place between the living world and their city in the Deepest Dark, the bodies are tenuous things. The Stirrers don't fit well. There's a kind of friction of wrongness that exists between the bodies they inhabit and the Underworld.'
'That's good, right?'
'Not really, they're stronger. The Underworld is much closer to their element and their true form will struggle to escape the flesh.'
Wonderful. Exactly what I wanted to hear.
But there's no time to worry. The Stirrer's here and it comes at me, waving its machete in the air. Its host body is smoking, overheating. Flesh bubbles almost hypnotically, and ectoplasm the color and consistency of mascara streams down its cheeks. I'm fighting a zombie Robert Smith.
'You don't belong here,' the Stirrer says in a sing-songy sort of voice.
'Neither do you. Morrigan should never have brought you here.'
The Stirrer shakes his head. 'Come the Negotiation he will be the new RM. This will be his kingdom to rule.'
So it hasn't happened yet.
The Stirrer swings the machete at my head, and I duck. My legs, weak from all that stair-climbing, shake beneath me, but they still have enough spring in them for me to swing up and drive the palm of my hand into its chest. It grunts and something shifts beneath its skin: the true Stirrer within. The form within the form strikes out at me. Its little claws or teeth rend its host's flesh. I tear my hand away. The Stirrer's skin is hot and there's a stinging red welt across my palm.
It's not what I was expecting. The Stirrer hasn't gone anywhere.
'Oh, yeah. Stalling won't work for you here,' Wal says.
Now he tells me.
But the Stirrer is regarding me cautiously, and where my hand touched its flesh is a palm-sized black hole. It backs away. I've hurt it somehow, and I need to press the one advantage I have. I charge the Stirrer.
It hurls the machete at me, an easy, brutal gesture, and the pommel strikes me hard in the sternum, knocking me off my feet. The Stirrer looms over me and Wal's wings are a desperate blur to my left, as though he's trying to lift me through wing power alone.
'Get up, get up, get up,' he urges, and I try, but it's too late.
The Stirrer grabs me and lifts me above its head. Smoke streams from its points of contact with my flesh. I can smell myself cooking, but I'm not the only one suffering-bits of its undead fingers are falling away like wet sponge cake and slopping onto the branch.
It stumbles and curses in an alien tongue, then something collides with it. The Stirrer stops, shakes its leg. Its fingers loosen their grip now, just when I don't want them to. We're a long way up, and the edge of the tree is so near. I can see the city and the dark beyond. I'd very much like to stay up here rather than go hurtling down.
There's an oddly familiar growl coming from the Stirrer's ankles. I look down and there is Molly. Her jaws are wrapped around the Stirrer's ankles. She looks at me and her expression is like, Well, come on, help me out here!
I slam my fist into the Stirrer's temple, hard enough that my knuckles crack. It shudders, releases its grip on me, and I fall. I swing out at the branch, grabbing as I go, but my grip is slippery at best. I slide over the edge until I'm holding on by my fingertips, my feet dangling over all that empty space. I get the feeling that if I fall I won't be climbing back up as anything living. Wal's wings are a hummingbird blur again; as though that's going to do any good.
Molly grabs at my wrist, as gently as she can, and pulls. Together we get up onto the branch and I lie there panting. I reach up and hug her. 'Molly,' I say. 'Molly, I'm so sorry.'
