Well, I did my best. There's that howling wind again, rising through the dark, promising a storm. I'm dead. The One Tree is a siren call in my skull. I know where I am before I even open my eyes. Still, I don't expect to see Death looking down into my face. I bite back a yelp. The pain is gone, I'm whole, and shocked to the point of shuddering, then even that's gone. I'm just lying there beneath that prickly, various gaze.
"What are you doing here? You're dead."
"Dead, but still existing." Mr. D smiles. "Hi, Steven, I kind of hoped you'd kill each other, it brings you to the Negotiation on an even footing. So there are only two of you left, eh? All my wonderful employees, all of them gone."
"And Lissa, there's three."
Death shakes his head. "She's not a Pomp anymore, unless she chooses to take that role up again, and only if the new Death offers it to her. It's just you and Morrigan."
Lissa's got to be happy with that, but then I think of her there, cradling my body in her arms. Oh, Lissa. Yeah, it was never going to end well. But then nothing does. Everything is jagged at the end, truncated and cruel, love most of all, like a branch of the One Tree snapped off.
"Why am I here?"
"Because you're dead and Morrigan's dead, and you're the last two Pomps. And here you'll get to decide who gets to live again. The Negotiation always comes down to this. Morrigan vanquished me and he chose you as his opponent."
I notice Wal, hovering behind Mr. D. The cherub winks at me. He's in possession of a body now, chubby and bewinged, and I'm seeing far too much of his package. He flits this way and that, with a speed and grace that surprises me.
"It always comes to this," Mr. D says. "Start a Schism and it ends here on the uppermost branches of the One Tree, the point where all the Underworlds connect and the laws of living and dying are more flexible."
Then I see Morrigan off to Mr. D's right. His sparrows lift into the air and hover behind him like some winged cowl. Blinking, Morrigan pats his chest, then grins. The injuries we'd sustained are gone.
Around us in a ring are all the other RMs in their ceremonial garb. No corporate gear, just the long dark cloaks of the Orcus. The thirteen regions, the thirteen Deaths. I'm waiting for them to start chanting, "Fight. Fight. Fight."
Suddenly the Stirrer helicopter is lifting into view. Half a dozen machine guns fire. The Orcus laugh.
"Cheat!" Mr. D roars. He flicks one hand casually at it, as though it is nothing more than some sort of annoying insect.
The chopper tips, then plummets away. A few minutes later there is a distant popping sound.
A savage smile is stretched across Morrigan's face. I can tell he didn't expect the helicopter assault to work, but Morrigan is the sort of person who will try anything once. He rubs his hands together. His sparrows spin off in two braids of shadow. They loop around him, with the precision of a troupe of stunt jet pilots, then return to their position behind his head. I look over at Wal, he gives me a jiggly shrug. I really wish the little guy was wearing pants.
"So this is it," Morrigan says. "The Negotiation."
"Yes," Mr. D says. "And don't think I've forgiven you for running me over. It's a most terribly ignominious way to die. A bullet in the back would have been preferable, or even a knife across the throat-at least that ends with an ear-to-ear smile-but you've never been one for the up close and personal, have you Morrigan? Everything is automated, everything is done at a distance. I don't understand that."
"Which is why your time is past." Morrigan moves in. "It's my time now. Things will run smoothly."
Mr. D swells. He broadens across the chest, and his limbs lengthen until he towers over Morrigan, and his face is all faces. It is ruptured meat and broken bone, and the furious swelling of flies and worms, and the quiet that comes after. Then it is Mr. D's face again, marked with a silent rage, and he's his usual stick-thin size. "Not just yet," he says. "I stay to see this out. Those rules remain. This, as you said, is a negotiation, The Negotiation. But not between you and me, that has already played out. Between you and him."
He's pointing at me.
"At last." Morrigan's grin keeps getting bigger and bigger.
"This isn't fair," I whisper. Why is Morrigan looking so cheerful?
Mr. D spins to face me, and I see there's a measure of anger in all that rage just for me. "When is life or death fair?"
"Can we just finish this? I've had enough of your talk, years and years of your bloody talk," Morrigan says. "I have a lot of work to attend to."
"Of course you do," Mr. D snaps. "The creatures with which you have made your curly, crooked deals will ensure that. You were the one who started rolling the knuckle bones, Morrigan. But it is up to me to bring it to an end. I cede, I was outplayed, one by one you have gained my powers… but I wonder if you haven't outplayed yourself."
Morrigan sighs. "This is exactly why I began this in the first place. I'm tired of this slow, slow bureaucracy. You were never fast enough, nor efficient enough. I know I can do better. Just let me start. Just let me get it done."
Mr. D is having none of that. "The cleverest thing, of course, was that you left the weakest Pomp till last."
The penny drops. Ker plunk.
I realize how I've been manipulated. I glance over at Wal, and he shakes his head. Seems the idea's just struck him as well.
Everything was done to drive me to this place. I would have died a week and a half ago if Morrigan hadn't wanted it to end up here. He shaped everything, probably even Lissa's ability to stay in the land of the living. I don't know how I know that but, here, on top of the tree, I'm certain of it. Lissa came and went too conveniently. Now I understand why Morrigan looked so shocked to see me in the Underworld, and why he had grown so angry at me attempting the ceremony. It hadn't, as I'd thought, been a remnant of avuncular concern. If I had died then, he'd have been forced to fight one of the other more capable Pomps. And he'd counted on me. Of course, he'd adjusted quickly. He'd known I would pomp Mr. D on the side of that road, and had even hurried it along by getting my Stirrer father to fire at me.
I understand now why Mr. D hadn't known about the crows. By that stage Morrigan even had control over them. And why Lissa survived "unnoticed" around all those Stirrers. I was never meant to die, just to believe I was going to, until he had me where he wanted.
I think about all those other Pomps better able to challenge Morrigan physically or experientially. Morrigan was behind every step I've taken and, looking at it, I can sense his smiling presence in everything. He's known me all my life, knows how I think.
The dickhead even used me as bait.
"You did this because you thought I'd be the easiest one to beat," I say.
Morrigan looks over at me like I'm a pet he's extremely fond of. "Steven, you were my best choice. Why do you think you've managed to keep your position as a Pomp all these years?" He shakes his head. "Even then, you nearly ended up killing yourself a half-dozen times. Why did you go home? That bomb wasn't meant for you, just to keep you away so you wouldn't have a chance to regroup. I needed you running, not thinking, because even your brain starts to consider things eventually."
Morrigan planted that bomb there himself. Now I know why Molly hadn't seemed worried when I got home. She knew Morrigan, he'd actually taken her for a few walks a couple of weeks ago. My hands clench to fists.
Mr. D motions for me to stop. "Not yet, boy," he whispers. Then, more loudly, he says, "Of course, Steven is quite different now. Your attempts at engineered mayhem were perhaps a little too realistic. I rather think you underestimated him. Now, you have to face the consequences."
Then it sinks in. What this is all about. The heat of my rage chills.
"I don't want to be RM," I say, and it sounds a little whiny. "That's never what I wanted. I was just trying to survive, that's all."
There's a gasp from all the attendant Deaths. It's as though they can't understand why anyone wouldn't hunger for this job. Mr. D did and Morrigan does, but they have known me in one way or another since I was child. My ambitions have never been as focused or as cruel.
Honestly, I hadn't even thought about it. Maybe I'd had some hazy idea that after beating Morrigan (not that I'd ever really believed that I could) all the other Deaths would gather together and vote on a new Regional Manager. But I'd really only been thinking about the corporate veneer, not the rough and callous beast that lies beneath it.
OK, I'm screwed.
Mr. D brings his bleak eyes to bear on me. "You want to give all this to him? You want Morrigan to get away with everything he's done, and become the new RM?"
I don't say anything. My gaze slips from Mr. D to Morrigan. There's a bad taste in my mouth that has nothing to do with Stirrers. Bloody Morrigan. He knew I wouldn't want this.
Morrigan smiles. "Then it's easy. The Negotiation's done. I desire this, I have the will, and I most definitely have applied the way. Send me back," he says to Mr. D.
Our old boss shakes his head; he even waggles his finger. "That's not how it works," he says. "No, we're talking about death here. And death is brutal."
"No," I say. "I'll do what it takes, but I don't want to be Regional Manager."
Mr. D sighs. "Look, Steven, it's time you grew up. You've drifted along, cashed your checks and done your job, but little more. If this job hadn't existed, you'd be a video-store clerk, getting angrier and more bored. Sometimes the world hands you something and you have to take it."
"You don't have to," Morrigan says. "We can negotiate."
Mr. D nods his head. "Of course you can. The problem is that this Negotiation is done with knives. And it has begun."
The other Regional Managers draw in close, their black cloaks flapping in the wind like a murder of crows. There is a deep and awful sense of anticipation. Blood lust glints in their eyes, brighter than hair in a shampoo commercial. This is the moment they've been waiting for, the reason calls have remained unanswered, why Australia hangs, teetering on the brink.
I look down at my feet where a stone dagger, the length of my forearm, lies. The damn thing wasn't there a moment ago. It shivers with a hungry anticipation that is palpable and more than the sum of the gathered RMs'. The only one not hungry for this is me.
Morrigan fits in here. He knows this game, he will excel at it.
"You either pick it up, or there's no resurrection for you, Steven," Mr. D says, impatiently. "Hurry."
Morrigan has already snatched his dagger up from the ground and is running at me. All right then. I get the feeling that this isn't one of those cases where, if I die willingly, I get the job and Morrigan is hurled into the depths of Hell.
Do I want this?
Do I really have any choice?
I crouch down quickly and snatch the blade up. It's heavy but well balanced, as though it wants to cut, its point dipping and rising, seeking out Morrigan's blood. The hilt's cold, with a spreading iciness that runs up my arm and envelops my flesh. Morrigan is already on me, swinging his dagger down. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Wal, up against Morrigan's flock of sparrows. He's snatching at them, but they're fast. His skin is already flecked with tiny wounds.
A storm explodes about us as I meet Morrigan's strike. It's a violent raging gale, cold and laden with stinging raindrops. Morrigan has attacked me with such force that I stumble. Somehow I'm meeting his next strike, then I realize that the dagger is guiding me, because there's no way I should have been able to block that blow. There should be a stone dagger jutting from my windpipe. My knife is already slicing through the air, cutting off another jab.
Oddly enough, and this is the hardest thing, winning this is going to be a matter of trust. If I fight against the dagger I am going to slow my response time. I realize that I'm not exactly going with the flow when Morrigan's blade draws a red line across my chest. I pull away just in time. The cuts mark my skin millimeters above my nipples.
It burns like hell. I'm lucky that this competition isn't to the first blood. By the end of it there's going to be so much of it. Our hearts are pumping and the knives slice deep.
I back away.
A sudden gust hits the branch and it flexes. Now it's wet and slippery, and I stumble backward and fall, which is what saves me as Morrigan slashes out. My cheek flaps open, a raw line of pain across my face. Better that than my eye.
Morrigan's hungry for it and I'm just me-I'm hesitating, fighting the blade. It's only going to be a matter of time. My death is imminent and Morrigan knows it. The bastard is grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
I think of Lissa, everything that she has had to endure, and just what Morrigan might do to her if he wins. I want her. I want to be with her. My lips curl, and my cheek tears a little more. Salty rain rushes into the wound, splashing against my teeth. I get back on my feet.
Fucking Morrigan.
He swings up and under at my chest and I grab at his wrist and catch it before the blade strikes my skin. I don't even know where that move came from, but I hold his wrist and twist, muscles juddering in my arms.
He winces, and I loosen my grip, though I'm still holding on too tight for him to pull away. I duck away from his flailing free hand, but not before it strikes me in the side of the head.
His eyes narrow. "That's the story of your life, Steven. Do you really want this?"
"I want to live. I want my family back."
"Neither is going to happen. So just give it up."
He punches down on my wrist and snatches his hand from my grip, but as he pulls away, my knife hand is swinging around and it catches him in the middle of his palm.
I yank the blade toward me, tearing flesh. "How's it feel?" I growl. "Hurts doesn't it?"
He kicks up and catches me hard in the crotch. I stumble back again, the tree shaking beneath my feet. Mr. D looks on, his face expressionless. The other Deaths are motionless, captivated. Each face is a rictus of pleasure. There's blood in the water and the sharks are circling-their eyes might be blank and cold, but their jaws are working, widening into that most devouring sort of smile.
I slide on my arse away from Morrigan. The stone blade is slick with rain and blood but I hold it tightly. All I can taste and smell is the iron scent of my beating heart. Morrigan casually kicks me in the chest, and ribs break. I'm nothing but pain, and searching eyes.
"You really drew this out, de Selby," Morrigan says. "Just like your bloody father, he never knew how to get to the point. It's only fair that I draw it out now, at the end. And to think you took up the blade. You even considered that you might be able to make it as one of the Orcus."
He kicks me again. And my chest is on fire, a liquid fire that has me gasping. "Look at them, boy! Look at them! They'd eat you alive in under a minute."
Then his boot finds my mouth, once, twice. I spit out teeth.
My mouth can barely contain all the blood in it. I can't catch my breath. All I'm breathing is ruddy and choking. My vision spots as Morrigan transfers the blade from one hand to the other. My brain is empty but for the pain. I can't even move.
He drives the knife toward me. I weave-well, fall-to the right. Oh, the pure broken-ribbed agony of it. Surely there's not much life left in me, there can't be. But there's something, a wild and raging vitality, and it burns inside me. I can barely see, my eyelids are swelling with blood, everything is torn and battered from the toes up, and it doesn't matter. This is what death comes to. This is what it is all about.
Morrigan scowls. "Just die. It's over, don't you get that? It's over."
Wal's in trouble too. He's a blur in the near distance, hemmed in by all those sparrows. He's snatching them out of the sky, and hurling them down. But there's more than he can handle. Inky wounds streak his flesh. Sparrows are snapping at his wings. One breaks, and he falls. The sparrows are all over him, smothering him, pecking, devouring.
I scramble backward, trailing blood, and spit out another tooth.
Well, fuck it. It's over.
I smile. Nothing else. Just that broken grin. Morrigan charges at me, driving down toward my chest with his stony knife.
My breath roars in my head. My mind goes blank. I duck away from his blade.
Morrigan stumbles, and in that moment-in the absence of my own will-my own stone knife guides me, subsumes me, so that all I am is something cutting and deathly. There's a force, ancient and hungry, bound by its own cruel covenants, and it propels my hand. The blade glides forward, almost languidly, and it slams into Morrigan's left eye with a wet detonation.
He screams and I push the knife in further. I get to my feet-I don't know how, but I do-and he stands with me. Morrigan and I are one thing, swaying, unsteady, joined with a dreadful intimacy by the bloody length of the knife.
"Not enough," he mumbles, but there is no force in him, just the soft exclamation of a dying man. "Not enough."
I don't know if he is talking about him or me. His words mean nothing. He's carried on my blade, blood bubbling from his eye. I wrench his knife from his loosening grip and slash it across his throat. I'm screaming. All I am is death, violent, terrible death. There is no room for me, just this.
It scares me. I see the edge and somehow step back. I let go of the knives. And it's me again, and I'm horrified.
Morrigan's body spills blood as it topples to the broad limb of the tree. It shudders once, then is still. And he lies there, an old man, bent and broken and bloody, and I killed him. The Negotiation is ended. Jesus, how did it end up this way?
"Good work," Mr. D says.
"No, it wasn't." That's all I can manage. My breath is whistling through the hole in my cheek. Every heaving breath is agony, and it feels like I'm leaking fluids from every pore and orifice. As the rain lightens and the storm heads out, deeper into the Underworld or out of it altogether, I'm ready for death myself.
Mr. D pats my back, and the touch is gentle, but even that hurts enough to send a painful shudder through me. "Yes, it was. You know, you're the first person to ever win a Negotiation who hadn't engineered it in the first place. I don't know what that means, but-"
"Some fucking negotiation!" I spit blood. It splatters across the rough bark of the tree.
"It's not finished yet. You've won the right to exist, to be RM, to sit upon the throne of Death, to have the high six-figure salary."
Mr. D's fingers drive into my back. Agony runs through me. It's jagged and dirty and I scream. Then the deeper pain melts from me. Ribs shift beneath my chest. The torn cheek knits closed. I'm almost a whole man again, except I'm more than that. Something passes from Mr. D to me, a coiling and vast prescience. Mr. D is diminished and I, well, I don't know what I am anymore.
"So it's over?"
Mr. D shakes his head. "Steven, it's only beginning."
Go the cliche, but he's right. Oh, is he ever right. There's no sense of closure, merely a cruel momentum. When am I ever going to get a chance to stop, to mourn?