The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy (49 page)

He shrugs. “You’re not dead, are you? Not even bleeding.”

“It grabbed me, the damn thing grabbed me, and then it spoke.” I’m still spluttering.

Mr. D stops still. “What spoke? What did it say?”

“That I would fall. That I would be alone.”

Mr. D’s eyes widen. “What do they have planned for you?” he whispers.

“Who? Who has what planned for me?”

“Nothing. I’m sure it’s nothing. Sounds like the All-Death—the death that exists outside the linear, the now and the then. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. It likes to grab and mutter. Most of the time it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Like an oracle?” I ask, thinking back to high school and Year Ten Ancient History.

Mr. D shakes his head. “It’s more like a drunk old uncle at Christmas time, or a senile great-grandfather. Just nod your head sagely and listen, but don’t take it too seriously. I’ve not known it to actually have much of a handle on reality. It may even have you confused with someone else.”

“OK,” I say, wanting to take some relief from this.

“Yes, but it is a little disturbing.” Mr. D doesn’t know me all that well if he thinks that’s going to offer any comfort.

“So what do I do?”

“Wait and see.”

Wait and see; it’s always wait and see!
I glance at my watch. “I have to get back to work.”

Mr. D smiles. “You’re Regional Manager, you’re one of the Orcus. You never stop working, whether you want to or not.”

Which is exactly why I feel like an impostor.

Wait and bloody see? I already know what’s coming. I don’t need Mr. D or the All-Death to tell me. No matter how hard I try, it’s never going to be enough.

H
ome.

The house is silent, but for the last few drops of water dripping from my suit. Boxes are still stacked against one wall. The place smells a bit musty; some windows haven’t been opened since we moved in. The air-conditioning’s been off for a while and I’m sweating before I take my first step. Everything is lit with hard Brisbane summer light.

Lissa’s left a note on the kitchen table:
You know where I’ll be. Oh, and one of us has to get milk. Hope you enjoyed the fishing.

I don’t know about “enjoyed.” In fact, I feel more confused than ever. How could Rillman bring about an end to death itself? It’s impossible. Life is built on death, the passing on of things, the dreams and devourings. Take out Mortmax and all you have is chaos and a Stirrer-led apocalypse. Rillman can’t want that. It makes no sense.

Out of the living room and into the bedroom. I drag off my wet clothes; fabric making sucking noises as I tug first pants then shirt and underpants from me. My hair’s plastered to my forehead.

This All-Death disturbs me. A dim echo of its voice scratches away in my ears. And I can tell it worried Mr. D as well. He couldn’t have got me away any faster if he tried.

A quick shower, a little product for the hair, and a dry suit and I’m looking… well, I’m looking better. I’m head of Mortmax
Industries in Australia and I look the part at least. Very funereal, but classy funereal, I reckon.

I look at my watch, Lissa should be at work by now.

I shift. This time I feel like I can hold it together. Maybe it is getting easier. Lissa jolts as I appear behind her in Number Four. Oscar and Travis jump, and I get the feeling that if I’d appeared any closer to Lissa I’d have received a fist to the throat.

I don’t care that there are two burly men surrounding her. I wrap Lissa in my arms, and I kiss her hard.

“What was that for?” she asks when she is done kissing me back.

“Sorry to leave you alone this morning,” I say, once I catch my breath.

Lissa smiles. “I’ll live.”

I don’t want her to just live. But I can’t say it here. I hug her again, tighter. Stopping only when someone behind me clears their throat.

Lundwall from the front desk hands me my messages. “I’ve emailed the details to you.”

There are phone calls from Sydney and Perth. Tim is down in Melbourne, sorting out some issues there, and I don’t expect to see him until the Christmas party tonight. People look to me for advice and I’m not sure what I need to give them: certainly more than I’m actually capable of. I sometimes pity my staff, looking up to me as though I know what I’m doing. Poor bastards.

Lissa follows me into my office. I sit down in the throne and it whispers a greeting that only I can hear.

Her phone plays the “Imperial March,” confirming an app update. Ah, the schedule’s running through, being reconfirmed now that I am sitting in the throne, and all the multitudes of variables are factored in. She lifts her eyebrows as she takes in her jobs for the day.

“Busy day?”

“You should know.”

“We’ll do something tonight, I promise.”

“Of course we will,” Lissa says. “It’s the staff Christmas party.”

Then she’s out of here.

Oscar clears his throat. He’s standing at the door. “A word if you please, Mr. de Selby.”

“I know, I’m sorry I left you in the lurch.”

Oscar shakes his head. There’s a sort of sternness in his eyes that I’ve not seen in anyone since Morrigan died. “This will work much better if you do what we tell you… and you keep us informed of your plans.”

“My plans tend to change from moment to moment.”

“Just keep us updated. That is all I’m asking.”

“Did you see anything last night?”

Oscar shakes his head. “Other than the RM who visited you? Nothing.”

They’re a little more on the ball than I thought. Well, that’s good, right?

Oscar watches this work its way across my face.

I clear my throat. “I’ll keep you posted on my… um… movements. I’m sorry, if I forget. Just let me know, though—what exactly is the difference between what you’re asking and being a hostage?”

Oscar grins. “Unfortunately very little, other than the very large sums of money you are paying us for the privilege of our protection.”

Talking of being a hostage, I wave at the huge amount of paperwork in front of me. “Yeah, I’ve got stuff to do.”

He nods. “I’ll be at the door. My replacement will be here in half an hour.”

“What? You’re telling me you need to rest?”

“Only if you want to live.”

Everyone’s a comedian.

I sign off on a couple of investment suggestions. Read the latest data from Cerbo on the approaching god, which isn’t much, but I know I’m going to have to contact him soon.

The lack of information I have at my fingertips is frustrating, so I flip through Twitter.

Death@MortmaxEuro:
Ah, plague so wearying.

Death@MortmaxUS:
Train wreck@Festival LA. More B-list stars, but one A. Expect a thousand tedious retrospectives.

I resist the temptation to read the online news, then check my email again. There’s one from the South African RM, Neill Debbier.

It’s a change from Suzanne who seems to want everything now, now,
now
.

What the hell. I look at my desk with its teetering piles of paper. No time like the present.

I don’t shift directly into his office—well, I try not to at any rate—that would be rude. And in these times, when RMs— OK, only one RM, but we’re all a team, aren’t we?—are being attacked, it could induce a panic.

I’m not sure what a panicked Neill would do, but I don’t really want to find out. I’m only beginning to understand my own abilities and RMs are notoriously closed mouthed. There are more secrets within our organization than I would have believed just a few months ago—secrets, like landmines waiting for me to inadvertently stomp on them. But then again, what’s a landmine anyway, but a really, really nasty secret?

The shift is relatively painless this time. “Yeah!” I punch the air a little.

Neill’s Ankou, David, types away for a moment or two, pointedly ignoring me.

I cough.

He looks up, feigns surprise. “You’re early,” he says.

Why does everyone seem to know what I’m doing better than me? “When were you expecting me?”

“Based on your movements, around your lunchtime, so very early morning here.”

Based on my movements? I wonder just who it is who is watching me. I don’t have anyone spying on the other RMs, maybe I should. Yeah, as if I could afford to lose more staff.

“Are you ready to talk to the boss?”

“Of course I am.”

I get what looks to me like a smile of pity. David presses down on a somewhat prehistoric intercom, a big brown box as clunky as all hell. I get the feeling they don’t bother with Bluetooth here, but then again, Mr. D used to use sparrows as his main form of communication, and his “data-storage” consisted of scrunched-up balls of paper and Post-it notes.

The intercom buzzes a moment before Neill picks up.

“Yes?” The voice is warm.

“Mr. de Selby’s here.”

“He’s early. Excellent.”

Neill’s through the door almost at once, his hand out, giving me a professionally firm handshake that lasts one or two seconds too long.

“Come in,” he says gesturing at his open door. “We have a lot to talk about, you and I.”

The door is heavy, the windows barred. Like my office, he has views of both the living and the Underworld. But the bars obscure it somewhat. All I can see are street lights. It’s late here, does Neill ever go home?

“As you can see, we are quite secure here.”

I want to say something about how needing such security doesn’t suggest security at all. But I bite my tongue.

Neill’s throne is almost identical to mine. The wood is a little paler, the carvings a little different, perhaps telling a story of an older continent. After all, the Orcus had its origins, like all human life, in Africa. Although some of the carvings definitely aren’t of humans.

Neill sits down and sighs. His skin brightens, flushes a little as he leans back in his chair. I wonder if that’s how I look. I know I’ve grown somewhat dependent on my throne.

Neill pours, then passes me a glass of twenty-year-old scotch. Without even bothering to ask if I want one. The bottle of scotch is the only thing sitting on his desk, other than a couple of sheets of paper, over which he has made notes in an extremely neat hand. I try not to look but I think I can see my name. Neill slides the papers away and into a drawer under his desk. I almost expect him to pull out a gun. See what a paranoid state I’m in?

“There are some things you’re better off not reading,” Neill says. “Besides, my spelling is atrocious.”

I sip my scotch. It’s good stuff. I compare this with the beer Mr. D has been foisting on me. My old RM has sunk a long way. “I think you need a mentor, Steven. Hope that doesn’t make me sound too much like a wanker. But Mr. D, he was never the best of us, had a habit of making enemies.”

“I’ve already made a deal with Suzanne Whitman.” Not that I trust her in the least.

Neill’s expression hardly changes. “I wouldn’t trust her. Suzanne is many things, but trustworthy is not one of them.”

Is this bugger reading my mind? “And why should I trust you?”

Neill smiles. “Mr. de Selby, there really isn’t anyone you should trust. Not friends, nor family. Everyone can betray you. Why, you can betray yourself—and that’s the worst sort of betrayal, isn’t it?”

“You’re telling me that trust is pointless. Then why bother making any deals at all?”

“They’re no guarantee against betrayal, but they do, with the right amount of paranoia, make it harder. It’s as much about information. Sharing.”

“What do you want from me? You seem to know everything anyway.”

“Not at all. I know less than you think. But I do have something for you. Rillman—I have heard that he’s causing you trouble.” Neill sighs. “You’re not the first. Rillman is a pain, and your Mr. D should have stopped him years ago. Do you know that he regularly crosses the boundary between the land of the living and the Underworld?”

“What?” Well, that explains a lot. The bastard’s got a passcard to Hell. I’m not sure whether I feel relieved he’s back on the table as a suspect or horrified by the implications of what he can do.

Neill’s eyes crinkle with the slightest of smiles. “Death holds no dominion over him. You might want to ask just who is letting it happen.”

“Do you have any idea?” He can’t give me this and not have an idea!

Neill shrugs. “Perhaps your new
mentor
knows. She has promised you much. The Orcus has plans for you. You would do well to ask just what they are.”

“Why don’t you tell me now?” I want to bang my fist on the table.