The Golden Age of Death (A CALLIOPE REAPER-JONES NOVEL) (29 page)

“We just…talked,” Starr said. “You know, not about anything really important.”

“And…?” Watatsumi asked, encouraging her to continue.

He placed a long finger on her chest just in between her naked breasts, pushing in on the flesh with a marked show of
aggression. She shrank back from him, floating backward in the water to get away from his touch.

“Are you scared of me?” Watatsumi asked, moving closer to her, and forcing her back up against the jeweled wall.

She didn’t want to fuck Watatsumi. She didn’t like how he looked or smelled, and his aggression was turning her off big-time.

“Did you screw him?” Watatsumi asked, closing the space between them and pressing his lips against her cheek, nuzzling her.

She could feel his cock poking into the soft flesh of her waist, long and hard. But the way he was brandishing it like a weapon felt cruel and she wanted absolutely nothing to do with it, or with him.

“Did I screw him?” she repeated huskily.

Watatsumi didn’t say a word, just waited for her answer.

“No,” she lied.

She heard Watatsumi’s sharp intake of breath, felt him press himself along her body in a very demanding way—and she was disgusted.

“Get off me,” she hissed, shoving him away from her—but he was stronger than she’d imagined, and he had no intention of letting her go.

“You little lying cunt,” he said, grasping her arm.

His fingers dug into her skin and then she felt the water all around her get warm.

“What’re you doing?” she cried, starting to panic because the Machiavellian look on Watatsumi’s face was frightening her.

“Punishing a liar,” he said as he grinned wickedly at her.

She tried to pull away from him, but before she could tear herself from his iron-like grip something sharp sliced into the taut flesh of her belly. She gasped, pain lancing up her middle then fanning out across her torso. She doubled over as a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her, but this passed quickly, and she was able to look down at her belly to find a piece of raw redwood protruding from her gut.

“What did you do?” she moaned, a trail of putrid-smelling bubbles rising from her lips and swirling around her head.

These were her last words.

Like a crab dumped into a pot of boiling water for someone’s supper, Starr was engulfed in heat, her body seizing as her skin morphed from tan to pink to a nasty shade of scarlet. Her eyes became gelatinous blobs inside their orbital cavities, her cheeks and chin falling in on themselves. Flesh bloated and tore from the heat, blobs of fat pouring out of the ripped seams of skin and floating into the water, bobbing around the melting body.

“Stupid lying fish,” Watatsumi said, as he released Starr’s corpse, letting it rise like a dead goldfish to the top of the cave.

He looked down at his hands, at the redwood shard he’d pulled from the Siren’s gut. He’d known he would have to dispatch Starr one day, and he was just glad her immortal weakness hadn’t been as difficult to obtain as the promethium he’d used on Calliope Reaper-Jones.

Pleased with his handiwork, he watched as Starr’s body floated aimlessly around the top of the cave, bumping into the ceiling and leaving bits of waterlogged flesh wherever it got lodged.

As much as he had once wanted to possess the Siren, he now felt nothing as he stared at her corpse. Finally, tired of having the thing making a mess of his lair, he snapped his fingers and the tuna came and took it away.

The wormhole dropped Clio into one of the study rooms branching off from the main Hall of Death. Though there was no one in the room when she arrived, it looked as though someone had recently vacated the space. A thick book lay open on the rectangular wooden table, a brass reticle marking the reader’s place in its pages. The acrid scent of a freshly extinguished candle tickled Clio’s nose, enticing her to sneeze.

She looked around, making sure she was alone then she quickly walked to the doorway, popping her head out into the main hall. The Hall of Death was always busy, always swarming with strange people and creatures doing research, or looking at Death Records. During her internship, she’d gotten to know a lot of the regulars, helping them pull up hard-to-find rare documents from the library, or collect the other odds and ends they might need for their work. She’d been lucky to intern directly for Tanuki, who was in charge of the placing and fulfilling of all Death Record orders—and it was under his watchful eye that she’d spent her days.

She’d even been allowed into the Record Room where the actual Death Records were housed. It took over the whole top level of the Hall, and Clio likened its setup to a dry cleaner’s clothing conveyor belt, where stacks of Death Records were
grouped into specific categories, each one spinning like a giant Rolodex whenever an order was placed for retrieval. It was a highly complex, highly confusing system that ran on magic and was supposed to be tamper proof. So, unless you worked in the Hall of Death and had special dispensation to deal with the Death Records, you weren’t allowed anywhere near the place. You could ask to see your own Death Record—and Tanuki would have it fetched for you—but that was it. Everyone else’s Death Records were off-limits.

As Clio slipped into the stream of traffic heading down the main hallway, no one even glanced in her direction, and she was able to stay relatively obscured by the crowd as she followed the crush of bodies heading toward the front desk—but just before she arrived at the desk, she made a sharp right and slipped into a small depression in the wall.

She hadn’t gone to the desk for help because she didn’t know who was trustworthy anymore. She liked Tanuki, but he could have ulterior motives she knew nothing about. Besides, she was pretty sure there was a ladder leading to the Record Room hidden somewhere on either this wall or the one across the hall.

Once again, Clio found herself awed by the sheer beauty of the Hall of Death. It was part Gothic monastery, part Frank Gehry modern glass and metal monstrosity, but somehow these two disparate sensibilities worked well together. Clio had to admit she liked the modern part of the hall best, with its twisted metal framework and gaping transparent glass skylights that magically showed blue skies even though they didn’t really exist. Everything above her head was stark and utilitarian—and utterly gorgeous—but she was a modernist, so she was slightly biased.

Clio began to explore the wall behind her, looking for the ladder. It only took her a few minutes, but she found the ladder concealed behind a thickly woven tapestry bearing a rendering of a golden cat and unicorn at play. Slipping behind the tapestry and reaching upward, her fingers brushed the limestone wall until she grasped the first metal rung of the ladder and pulled herself up. It was slow going from there, each subsequent rung embedded in the limestone just a tad farther away
from the last, so you had to think about what you were doing, or risk going too fast and falling.

As she climbed, Clio noticed the rungs were engraved with etched pictographs. Some bore mythical beasts, while others were etched with strange shapes she’d never seen before. If she hadn’t been gunning for the Record Room, she’d have stopped to study the strange images, but she was already feeling the press of time, so she kept pushing forward.

When she finally got to the top of the ladder, she hoisted herself up onto the landing and just lay there, trying to catch her breath. She was in pretty good shape, but that ladder was murder.

Climbing to her feet, she began her search, the overhead light following her as she strolled through the stacks, each section lighting up only after she’d moved past the warm glow of the previous one. She was on the lookout for the pink section of the Record Room—but since it was the smallest grouping of files, and the stacks were constantly on the move, it would prove hard to find.

She didn’t sense the presence behind her, watching her as she walked through the stacks. She was too intent on finding the pink section to notice she was being followed—a faux pas that made her easy pickings.

“Here you are,” she muttered as she finally found the stack she was looking for.

She reached out, her mind intent on finding Anjea’s Death Record, but, suddenly, a hand emerged from the darkness, wrapping itself around her mouth. Without thinking, she slammed her elbow into her assailant’s solar plexus—once, twice, three times—as hard as she could, but they wouldn’t let go. If anything, they held on tighter, digging their fingers into her cheeks and lips.

“Settle down now.”

The voice was a whisper in her ear, begging her to calm down.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.”

She decided to hear the voice out. If it were lying, she’d go on the offensive and kick its ass six ways to Sunday.

“I’ll let you go if you promise you won’t scream.”

Clio nodded.

“If you scream, they’ll know where we are—and they’re already hunting through this place looking for one or the other of us.”

Her assailant released her and she spun around, trying to get a look at his/her face. Her assailant stood just outside of the light, but there was just enough overspill for her to make a positive identification.

“You’re Frank. The real one,” she said.

He nodded and stepped fully into the light, so she could see him.

Clio gasped.

The man was a pale, gaunt concentration camp victim in a short-sleeved orange jumpsuit.

“You know who I am? What I did?” he asked.

She nodded.

“You’re so thin.” The words just popped out of her mouth. She hadn’t meant to be rude.

“He’s taking over in this world and I’m wasting away because of it,” Frank said. “At least your sister’s just gonna disappear. That’s lots better than this.”

He gestured to his skinny arms, the flesh hanging from them like a skin-colored blanket draped over bone.

“What’re you doing up here?” Clio asked, trying not to stare at Frank’s skeletal frame.

“They came to kill me and everyone else on the prison floor,” he replied. “I was the only one who got away—and up here seemed as safe a place to hide out as any.”

Clio wanted to ask him more questions, but a
clanging
sound like the heel of a boot on a metal ladder rung, caused Frank to jump. He grabbed Clio’s hand and pulled her behind him as he ran through the stacks, moving too fast for the lights to catch them and give away their location.

Behind her, Clio could hear chatter and then there was more clanking, the echo of more guards climbing up the ladder to find them.

“Wait,” Clio hissed, trying to slam on the brakes.

Frank didn’t want to stop, so she grabbed ahold of the conveyor part of one of the stacks, and the stack roared to life, spinning the folders like plastic-sheeted laundry.

“I know where to go,” she whispered, as the stack whirled around them and the overhead light popped on, illuminating their hiding spot.

Frank’s face was ashen, eyes fixed on the moving stack—and for the first time, Clio realized he wasn’t being a jerk. He was just
terrified
.

“I promise it’s a safe place,” she added.

She let go of the stack and it stopped moving, but the light stayed on.

“All right,” he said, and he let her drag him behind her as they ran, the lights bursting on above them in a riot of yellow and green.

She could hear their pursuers gaining on them, but she ignored her thudding heart and kept pressing on. She knew where they could hide and it wasn’t very far.

“Here,” she said, stopping abruptly and pointing at a ragged black hole cut into the wall in front of them.

“It was supposed to house a chute that would re-file the Death Records, but now it’s just the entrance to a hidden passageway.”

She didn’t wait for Frank’s reply, just squeezed his hand and urged him toward the gaping hole. They jumped together, neither of them making a sound as they disappeared into the darkness.

*   *   *

the first thing
Freezay did when his head broke the surface of the water was to take a long, shuddering breath then dip his head back under the water, so he could thank his tuna savior.

But as he searched the cold, dark waters, eyes scanning for her silvery blue scales, he discovered she had gone. He spun around, searching the water for the tuna as he ignored the burning in his eyes, but there was no trace of her.

After a few minutes, he had to accept he was alone under the waves. He resurfaced again, his mind racing as he tried to imagine what it would be like to explain the odd experience to someone else—the idea that a telepathic tuna had saved his life sounded insane even to his own ears.

He started to laugh, the sound breaking from his lips uncontrollably:
This was truly one of the most bizarre moments of his life.

He was still laughing when a beautiful blonde woman swam up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.

He did a double take. He’d thought he was alone out here on the water. Everywhere he looked there was nothing but ocean, no land as far as the eye could see, so where had the woman come from?

She gave him a weary smile, her cornflower blue eyes melancholy. She looked familiar, but he didn’t think he’d ever met her before.

“We need to go now,” she said, reaching down and grasping a piece of his shirt.

“Who are you?” Freezay asked, amazed by how beautiful she was even underneath all the sadness she radiated like perfume.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, pulling him by the shirt and starting to swim. “Just know your plight…well, everyone underwater heard about your plight and I just couldn’t, in good conscience, let you remain there.”

“You sent Skye to rescue me.”

She nodded.

“I didn’t want anyone to know I was involved, so I sent Skye in my place.”

“Well, please thank her for me,” Freezay said. “She was amazing.”

The woman smiled.

“Just so you know, you’ll be able to breathe underwater for a few more hours. Any resistance your lungs give is purely psychological.”

Then she dove underwater, taking Freezay with her. He didn’t have time to take a breath or close his eyes, and his body started to panic, wanting to go back to the surface. He had to tell himself to relax and just go with the flow. He had no idea who this woman was, but she obviously wanted to help him—and whatever she had in store for him, it couldn’t be any worse than drowning underwater tied to a piece of coral.