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For Mr. Blake, an alleged mortal

without whom my existence would be bleak;

For my mother, who assured me

that this book is not blasphemy;

And for you, for being here,

when so many Otherworlds are calling.

Prelude

“Oh good,” the shadowed figure declared. “You’re here. Finally, I might add.”

“What’s this?” he asked impatiently, staring down at the bloodied mess on the floor.

(Even after centuries of practice, it never grew less unsettling when it happened this way; messily. Gorily.)

(Murder had never been his favorite method of disposal.)

“Are you responsible for this?” he demanded of the figure. “This is quite an escalation.”

“Perhaps,” the figure permitted loftily. “But as to whether I’m responsible, that all depends how you look at it, doesn’t it? You could very well be ‘responsible,’ couldn’t you? If that’s the verbiage you’re going with, that is.”

“I’m not the one holding the knife,” he noted.

“True,” the figure agreed, tossing it onto the floor. “Though I’m afraid that doesn’t really matter, does it? Now that we have you here, I mean.”

“Have me?” he echoed, scoffing. “You don’t have me.”

“Well, then,” a second figure beckoned, stepping into the light. “Try to escape.”

“You,” he gasped. “You—don’t tell me you’re—”

“I am,” the second figure confirmed, nodding once.

“And—and you—”

“Well, only by necessity, of course,” the first figure said, as the two figures exchanged a complicit nod.

For once, his confidence faltered. “You? But—”

“Don’t worry, you’ll understand soon,” the first figure assured him, turning to the first. “Won’t he?”

The second figure shrugged. “I don’t particularly care if he doesn’t.”

“True enough,” the first figure agreed. “So, are you ready?”

He glared at them. “Is this supposed to be a game?”

The two figures laughed.

“Well, everything’s a game if you play it right,” the second figure said.

“But no, now that you mention it, this isn’t a game,” said the first figure. “In fact, it’s a war.”

And then everything went dark.

Tales of Old

Hello, children. It’s time for Death.

Oh, you didn’t think I spoke? I do. I’m fantastically verbose, and transcendently literate, and quite frankly, I’m disappointed you would think otherwise. I’ve seen all the greats, you know, and learned from them—taken bits and pieces here and there—and everything that humanity has known, I have known, too. In fact, I’m responsible for most of history’s adoration; nothing defines a career quite like an untimely visit from me. You’d think I’d be more widely beloved for my part in humanity’s reverence, but again, you’d be mistaken. I’m rather an unpopular party guest.

Popularity aside, though, I have to confess that humanity’s fixation with me is astonishing. Flattering, to be sure, but alarming, and relentless, and generally diabolical, and were it not to manifest so often in spectacular failure I would make more of an effort to combat it; but as it is, people spend the duration of their time on earth trying to skirt me, and end up chasing me instead.

The funny thing is how simple it all actually is. Do you know what it really takes to make someone immortal? Rid them of fear. If they no longer fear pain, they no longer fear death, and before long they fear nothing, and in their minds they live eternal—but I’m told my philosophizing does little to ease the mind.

Not many who meet me are given the privilege to tell about it. There are some exceptions, of course, yourself included—though this is an anomaly. In general, as your kind would have it, there are two things a person can be: human (and thus, susceptible to the pitfalls of my profession), or deity (and thus, entirely a thorn in my side).

This is, however, not entirely accurate, as there are actually three things a person can be, as far as I’m concerned.

There are those I can take (the mortals);

Those I can’t take (the immortals);

And those who cheat (everyone else).

Let me explain.

The job is fairly straightforward. In essence, I’m like a bike messenger without a bicycle. There’s a time and a place for pick-up and delivery, but the route I take to get there is up to me. I suppose I could employ a bicycle if I wanted, and I certainly have in the past, but let’s not dip our toes into the swampy details of my variants of execution quite yet, shall we?

First of all, it is important to grasp that there is such a thing as to be dead, but not alive; an in-between. Requisite terminology takes countless incarnations, all of which vary as widely from culture to culture as do colors of eyes and hair and skin, but the term ‘un-dead’ seems to serve as an acceptable catch-all. These are the cheaters, the ones with shoddy timing, who cling to life so ferociously that I—by some sliver of an initial flaw that has now widened to a gaping, untenable chasm of supernatural mutation—simply commune with them. I exist beside them, but I can neither aid nor destroy them.

In truth, I find they often destroy themselves; but that story, like many others, is not the story at hand.

Before you say anything, I should be certain we’re both clear that this is not a vanity project. Are we in agreement? This is not my story. This is a story, and a worthy one, but it doesn’t belong to me.

For one thing, you should know that this all starts with another story entirely, and one that people tell about me. It’s stupid (and frankly quite libelous), but it’s important; so here it is, with as little irony as I can manage.

Once upon a time, there was a couple in poor health, cursed by poverty, who were fool enough to have a child. Now, knowing that neither husband nor wife had much time on earth left to spare, the husband took the baby from his ailing wife’s arms and began to travel the nearby path through the woods, searching for someone who might care for his child.

A boy, by the way; and a total snot of one, too, but we’ll get to that later.

After walking several miles, the man encountered an angel. He thought at first to ask her to care for his child, but upon remembering that she, as a messenger of God, condoned the poverty with which the poor man and his wife had been stricken, he ultimately declined.

Then he encountered a reaper, a foot soldier of Lucifer, and considered it again, but found himself discouraged by the knowledge that the devil might lead his son astray—

(—which he most certainly would, by the way, and he’d have laughed doing it. Frankly, I could go on at length about God, too, but I won’t, as it’s quite rude to gossip.)

(Where was I?)

(Ah, yes.)

(Me.)

So then the man found me, or so they say. That’s actually not even remotely what happened, and it also makes it sound like I have the sort of freedom with which to wander about being found, which I don’t appreciate. In reality, the situation was this: the man was dying, and then of course there I was, unexpectedly burdened with a baby. They say the man asked me to be the child’s godfather; more accurately, he gargled up some incoherent nonsense (dehydration, it’s murder on the vocal cords) and then, before I knew it, I was holding a baby, and when I went to take it home, the mother had died, too.

Okay, again, I was there to take her, but let’s not get caught up in semantics.

This is the story mortals tell about a man who was the godson of Death; whom they say eventually learned my secrets and came to control me, and who still walks the earth today, eternally youthful, as he keeps Death close at his side, a golden lasso tied around my neck with which to prevent me, cunningly and valiantly, from taking ownership of his soul.

Which is so very rude, and I’m still deeply unhappy with Fox for not putting a stop to it, but as fond as I am of him, he’s rather a stubborn little prick, so I suppose I’ll just have all of eternity to deal with it.

And anyway, this is my point, isn’t it? This isn’t my story—not at all, really.

It’s Fox’s story. I just happen to be the one who raised him.

Why did I name him Fox? Well, I’m slightly out of touch with popular culture, but I’ve always liked a good fairytale, and I wanted him to be clever. Foxes are clever, after all, and he had the tiniest nose; and so he was Fox, and he was just as clever as I’d hoped, though not nearly as industrious as I’d have liked. He’s spent the last two hundred years or so doing … well, again, that’s not my story, so I’ll not go into detail, but suffice it to say Fox is a tricky little imp, and one whom I would not recommend as a friend, or a counselor, or a lover, or basically anything of consequence unless you wish to rob a bank, or commit a heist.

I love him, but he’s a right little shit, and unfortunately, this is the story of how he bested me.

The real story.

Unfortunately.

Communion

The sign outside the little rented space on Damen Street reads, simply, “Medium.” The building is old, but the street is trustworthy and near the Blue Line stop, meaning that though this is admittedly the ‘odd’ part of town it’s safe enough to travel freely, and finicky mothers mostly worry about imaginary dangers, like tattoos and the ghosts of old Ukrainians. The street is populated with taco stands and trendy doughnuts (yes, doughnuts) and thrift shops, all which contain old eighties fringe and leather boots; and then, scarcely noticeable amidst the others, there is a building above one such shop, and if you took the time to look up at its peeling black-framed windows, you would see the sign.

“Medium.”

The label on the building’s buzzer system is peeling slightly from use, but the intercom works well enough, and were you to buzz the unit marked D’Mora, you would likely hear his voice, oddly soothing, as it stretches through the air between you.

“Hello?” he’d say. “This is Fox.”

“Hello,” you’d reply, or perhaps “good afternoon,” were you in a mood to be both friendly and cognizant of Time’s relentless clutches; and then you’d pause, as many do.

“I’m looking to commune with the dead,” you would eventually confess.

And you wouldn’t see it, but upstairs, Fox D’Mora would smile a rather cutting smile, and he would adjust the tarnished silver signet ring on his right pinky, coughing delicately.

“Excellent,” he’d say over the intercom, and then he’d promptly buzz you up.

Fox D’Mora isn’t the only medium in Bucktown, and certainly not in all of Chicago, but he is the best one, largely because he is a master of disguise. You, nervous as you are, might enter the unit from which he provides his services and expect to see dusty curtains, flickering tapered candles, perhaps a glowing crystal ball; but Fox has none of those things, and you would feel something you would eventually come to realize is relief.

What Fox does have, surprisingly enough, is a state-of-the-art kitchen, and cold brew on tap, and he would offer you a glass before leading you to a seat in his living room, whereupon he would gracefully place himself across from you, peering at you through unreadable hazel eyes.

“Okay,” Fox would begin. “Who is it?”

If you had doubts before coming here, they would likely have dissipated by now. For one thing, Fox is generally well-dressed, though not so well-dressed as to arouse suspicion. His hands, in particular—expressive, and in constant motion—are welcoming, the nails trimmed and clean, and his watch is old and slightly battered but it has a rather nice leather band, and looks like it might have been worth something, once. You might consider it an heirloom.

Continuing your perusal of the man before you—this man, with such an odd name, and such an incongruous image, who would so easily bridge worlds—you would notice that Fox himself, tall and lean but not too tall, nor too lean, sports a recently-trimmed head of dark hair worn fashionably close to his head, and that in general, he is given to smiling.

He’s a man who smiles, and this would relax you.

When he asks whom you’ve come to see, you might say your grandmother or your father, or perhaps you are even less fortunate and have lost someone close to you too young, like your husband or your child. Fox, hearing this, would sympathize. He would sympathize with a softened look in his hazel eyes, a slight curving of his mouth, and you would feel that he understands you.

And he does, really. Fox has lost many people in his life, and has felt the sting of them sharply enough; and anyway, perhaps it wouldn’t matter to you in the moment that Fox D’Mora has not grown close to another human being in the last two hundred years or so, because whoever he is, and whomever his loyalty belongs to, he sympathizes with your loss.

And more importantly, he is present, and he is here to help.

“Let me call him,” Fox says—or her, or whoever you have requested; and then his eyes close, and his hand slips to the ring on his right pinky finger.

“Now,” he whispers. “What would you like to say?”

The words, once buried in your soul, dance temptingly on your tongue.

You lean forward.

This is communion.

“Well,” Death coughed obnoxiously, materializing with an inaudible pop to stand beside Fox’s chair. “I see it’s more of the same.”

“Hush,” Fox sighed under his breath, cracking one eye. “Do you see him?”

“Yes, yes,” Death muttered, tutting softly, and then turned, eyeing the supplicant. “This is her husband?”

“Fiancé,” Fox corrected. “He passed before they could be wed.”

“How fucking convenient,” Death remarked, and Fox arched a brow.

“Papa,” he warned, arching a brow at his Godfather, and Death lifted a hand, dutifully snapping the rubber band against it.

“I still don’t see why this is necessary,” he growled under his breath. “What does it matter whether I lose my temper from time to time?”

“Bad for your health,” Fox reminded him, winking, and Death rolled his eyes.

“You’re incorrigible,” Death admonished fondly, and then turned, looking again at the woman who sat curled in around herself, waiting for Fox to have called upon her Bradley. “What does she want to know?”

Fox cleared his throat, leaning forward.

“Eva,” he murmured, and she looked up as he offered her his hands, delicately placing hers in his. “What would you like to tell Brad?”

“Bradley,” Death corrected, yawning. “He’s one of those.”

“Bradley,” Fox dutifully amended, kicking himself as he met Eva’s gaze. “Apologies. I know he dislikes the diminutive.”

Eva’s green eyes widened. “He does,” she whispered, and blinked, moisture drawing to the corners of her eyes. “You can see him?”

“I can,” Fox confirmed with a nod. “What would you like to say?”

She bit her lip, considering it.

“Tell him,” she murmured, and swallowed. “Tell him that I love him, and I miss him, and that I hope everything is going well—”

“It isn’t,” Death cut in sharply, looking sour. “Bradley committed several different kinds of tax fraud, and he’s currently floating around in Styx. Oh,” he added flippantly, “and he cheated on her twice; though, in fairness, he was torn up about it, though not torn enough to pull out—”

“He misses you too,” Fox assured Eva, running his thumb comfortingly across her knuckles as she bowed her head, fighting tears. “He wishes you all the sweetness life has to offer—”

“Nope, wrong,” Death said. “He’s one of those, remember?”

“—not in those words, of course,” Fox said hastily, nodding as she looked up, a crease of confusion between her manicured brows. “But Bradley never did find the words to tell you how much he loved you, and he’s asked me to give you the poetry he always thought you deserved.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Death muttered, as Eva’s full lips parted in earnest.

“What else does he say?” Eva asked, sniffling slightly.

“Nothing,” Death supplied flatly. “He says ‘Eva who’?”

“He says,” Fox began, leaning towards her, “that you were the only woman who ever understood him. Who could read him with a look, and who could fill him with joy in the same breath, and who made of him someone of consequence; of worth,” he murmured, squeezing lightly against her hands. “He says he would look into your eyes and know the value of his own soul, and that he is grateful to you for that; and he tells me that because you were in his life in his final moments, he can rest eternally in peace, knowing that you will go on to be happy.”

Eva’s gaze softened, her pupils dilating slightly.

“Happy?” she echoed, her breath suspended.

“Happy,” Fox repeated firmly. “And he says that he knows you will go on to make someone else as happy as he was with you, and that although it’s time for him to move on and find rest, he wishes you all the blessings of heaven and earth.”

“Oh,” Eva whispered, letting out a breath, as beside Fox, Death announced, “Oh, FUCK.”

“Hush,” Fox muttered out of the side of his mouth, his gaze flicking admonishingly to where his godfather stood. “That’s a rubber band for sure, Papa.”

“Oh fuck you,” Death said, snapping it indignantly. “You’re going to sleep with her, aren’t you?”

Fox smirked, ignoring him, and turned Eva’s hands over, delicately drawing his fingers over the creases in her palm. “You know, you have such a beautiful heart line,” he told her, lightly tracing it as it ran across the top of her palm and danced off, disappearing between her fingers. “There’s so much love you have yet to give, Eva.”

“You think?” she asked him, and he smiled.

“I know,” he said softly, and she gazed at him with wonder.

“Do you think I was meant to find you?” she whispered. “That you were meant to be the one who helped me say goodbye to Bradley?”

“I genuinely hope,” Death sniffed, “that she gives you a terrible Yelp review.”

“I believe Bradley guided you to me,” Fox agreed, and Death let out a groan.

“I’m leaving,” he said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Wear a condom, you twat.”

“Band,” Fox muttered to him, and Death scowled, viciously, before giving Fox the finger, promptly disappearing into time and space. “Bradley’s gone now,” Fox offered comfortingly to Eva with a rehearsed look of regret. “He’s passed into the next stage of existence, but he’s happy, and y-”

He broke off as Eva leaned forward, catching his lips with hers.

“Eva,” he gasped, feigning breathless astonishment. “I mean—Miss—”

“Fox,” she whimpered into his mouth, half-clambering over the coffee table between them and settling herself on his lap. “This,” she murmured, speaking between kisses as she slid his top buttons undone, slipping her hands under his shirt, “this is—this has to mean something—”

“I’m”—he paused, glancing down as she ripped the remainder of his shirt from his torso—“sure it does, sweetheart,” he continued, “but still, you’re vulnerable, and you’ve suffered a loss, and perhaps we shouldn’t—”

“We should,” she moaned, grinding her hips against his and tossing her head back, breathless, as he brought a carefully concealed smile to the space between her breasts, kissing the bit of skin that lay beneath the parted neckline of her blouse. “Bradley, he—he would have wanted me to—”

There was a soft pop.

“I forgot to mention,” Death announced, and then promptly covered his eyes, making a face. “Oh, Fox. Fox.”

“What?” Fox muttered impatiently, glaring at him as Eva shoved his hands under her skirt. “I’m busy, you know,” he said, gesturing to the grieving woman in his lap, and Death rolled his eyes.

“You know what? Never mind,” Death told him smugly. “I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.”

“Find out what?” Fox asked, and then grunted incoherently as Eva’s fingers made their way to the clasp of his trousers. “Fuck, just—” he groaned. “Tell me later, would you?”

“Band,” Death instructed with a smirk, and then disappeared, leaving Eva to slide between Fox’s legs, positioning herself between Fox’s parted knees.

“May I?” she asked, slipping her hand under the lip of his boxers.

Fox leaned back, inhaling sharply.

“One second,” he whispered, shifting his arms to snap the rubber band against his left wrist before reaching down, burying his fingers in her hair. “Okay,” he permitted, fighting a smile, “now you may.”

Then Eva What’s-Her-Name’s luxuriant heart line—and the rest of her palm—closed beatifically around him, and Fox closed his eyes, reminding himself to give her a ten percent discount for his services.

Management

Viola Marek was a very normal person.

Very normal.

Almost aggressively normal, really, minus a few things here and there. One thing in particular, but there’s no need to rush into that.

After all, you’ve only just met.

“I’m back,” she called into the expanse of the Parker house, setting down a bag from the Streeterville Italian market. “Have you been behaving yourself?”

“Never,” replied Thomas Edward Parker IV, who had been sitting stiffly in one of the parlor’s Victorian chairs. “I’m insulted you’d even ask.”

“Tom,” Vi lamented, shaking her head. “Have you tried the things I suggested?”

“What? Reflecting on my life? Sure,” he sniffed, rising to his feet and swatting gracelessly at a large, intricate vase that sat atop a sculpted faux-Roman column. His hand passed through the crystal, and he scowled. “Not like there’s much damage I can actually cause,” he said, pointedly flicking at it.

Vi sighed.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she reminded him, for perhaps the tenth time that week. “I’m sure you could cause quite a bit of damage if you put your mind to it, you know.”

“You liberals,” Tom muttered, letting out a frustrated sigh that resonated through the room, disturbing the static in the air. “You and your incurable optimism,” he sniffed. “Fucking unbearable.”

“Yes,” Vi reminded him, “we know.”

“Honestly, how do you live with yourself?” Tom demanded, aiming a useless kick at a centuries-old tapestry. “Waltzing around all day, trying to make money off my family—all that money,” he wailed, throwing his hands up before walking through a wall, following her to the kitchen. “TOTALLY WASTED—”

“How do I live with myself?” she echoed, arching a brow as she replaced the white tulips in the kitchen vase. “In my body,” she reminded him, “fully alive.”

He visibly flinched, but concealed it with a scowl.

“Oh please,” he scoffed. “Fully alive?”

She bristled.

“Yes,” she sniffed, and his expression soured, watching her turn towards the fridge.

“I’ve seen what you keep in your purse,” he reminded her darkly. “The juice boxes are clever, you know, but how many open houses have you held? And you’ve never eaten a thing,” he pointed out, swooping over to stand beside her. “And you don’t touch my grandmother’s rosary,” he said, with an air of too-conscious smuggery, “and you never look at your reflection—”

“That,” she cut in stiffly, “is because I hate my hair.”

“Oh bullshit, Viola,” he said, delighting in her discomfort. “If that wasn’t obvious enough, there’s still the fact that you’re the only person who can see me,” he concluded, with a triumphant flourish. “Doesn’t that seem like a bit of a warning sign to you?”

“First of all, people see ghosts all the time,” she informed him. “Maybe I’m like, meaningful somehow. To your life, or to your death or something.” She shrugged, pulling out the set of ceramic-handled Crate and Barrel cheese knives. “Have you considered that?”

“Have you considered that maybe you can see me because you, too, are fucking dead?” Tom countered in an irritated drawl, shifting to place his hands combatively on his hips. From that angle, the gaping of his shirt—white and neatly pressed, minus the bloody mess at the center where the knife had gone in—gave her an indulgent view of his chest, and she promptly turned away, busying herself with her spread of soft cheeses. “Riddle me that, Vi,” he mocked, pursing his lips and waiting.

“I’m not dead. You’re dead,” she reminded him. “I’m undead. Big difference. And anyway,” she continued, placing a bit of honeycomb next to the brie, “I’m managing my condition.”

“Managing your cond-” he broke off, staring at her. “Viola, you’re a fucking vampire!”

She sighed.

“Only a little,” she said. “Not in any of the important ways.”

And it was true.

It was true.

“How’s the ghost?” Vi’s friend Isis Bernat had asked that morning, joining her as they bullied their way down the tourist-infested Magnificent Mile. “Still a total asshat?”

“For the most part,” Vi confirmed. Isis was a personal trainer, and since both of them worked fairly irregular hours, their friendship had blossomed mostly due to a surplus of free time.

Isis was also a demon, and they’d met in a Creatures Anonymous meeting in Old Town; but these were near-insignificant details as far as Vi was concerned.

“You want?” Isis asked, holding out a juice box, and Vi nodded, accepting it. She punctured a hole in the carton with a plastic straw and felt, for a moment, a leap in her stomach, thinking of other, more satisfying punctures; of bites, and—

“You’re getting that look,” Isis warned, and Vi shuddered, quickly bringing the tip of the straw between her lips.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “I’ve been feeling a little off lately.”

“You look a bit pale,” Isis agreed, smirking, and Vi rolled her eyes.

Isis, unlike Vi, appeared in many ways the picture of health; she was some sort of mix of tropical things, all tanned and glowing and cool, and muscled in a way that suited her profession. Of course, she’d been dealing with her condition much longer, so she had been the one to teach Vi how to coexist in civilization.

“Juice box,” Isis had offered the first time, handing one to her. “People think it’s juvenile,” she added, gesturing to the red liquid as it made its ascent through the straw, “but they’re more worried about high fructose corn syrup than much else.”

“Huh,” Vi had said.

It had all been very new back then.

Viola Marek had been born very normal. Brown hair, brown eyes; pretty enough to be pleasing upon sight, but unremarkable enough not to draw attention in a crowd. She wasn’t on any sort of spectrum, and she didn’t have any particularly distracting qualities—no blemishes or missing limbs, nor any triggered psychoses—and she was the only daughter of two very conventional academics: her father, a Hebrew Studies professor at UC Berkeley, and her mother, a professor of journalism at Columbia.

Sure, she was a child of divorce, but wasn’t that the height of normalcy these days?

Vi had finished at the top of her class in school—but not too high—and she’d chosen a major that was neither unduly stressful nor requiring any particular sort of genius. Vi was defined by her diligence and her ability to keep her head down, and so when she rose to the top of her archaeology program and was sent (among half a dozen others) to a dig site in the Bondoc Peninsula of Luzon during the spring break of her senior year, she’d expected to do much of the same.

What she hadn’t expected had been the bite.

“Hello,” the man had said; as normal a greeting as any.

Had he been pale? She hadn’t noticed. Then again, she hadn’t known that the undead frequented tropical climates. Let that be a lesson, really. You never really know a culture until you’ve been bitten by one of its myths.

“Hello,” Vi replied, reaching up to shade her eyes from the sun and squinting at his silhouette. Later she would learn, after extensive research on vampires in Southeast Asia, that her mistake had been not looking him in the eye; evidently if she had, she would have seen her reflection upside down, and that would have been warning enough to run. Unfortunately, she hadn’t, and she’d been alone, and though he’d seemed charming and friendly when he’d offered her water and food, he’d changed the instant the sun had gone down—and when she woke up again, about a mile from her campsite, so had she.

“Good morning,” the man had said in English, licking his fingers, and then she’d looked down, finding a rather conspicuous gash where her liver should be. “We’re to be wed, my love.”

She remembered, then, flashes of the night before; of a man who had been a wild boar, and a tusked explanation for why she’d been so unsubtly gored.

She remembered pain, too, but didn’t feel it. It seemed a sensation that no longer existed within the limitations of her reality, and instead she watched as her stomach repaired itself, the skin closing over as the sun rose anew.

“Oh,” she said, blinking. “No thanks.”

He pursed his lips, displeased.

“Yes,” he insisted. “Marriage.”

“Why?” she asked him, and he shrugged.

“Lonely,” he told her, and though it had been a normal enough reason for a normal enough institution, she still hadn’t felt fully obliged. After striking him with a rock and struggling to wrap the gash on her stomach, she’d taken off, stumbling back to her professor’s campsite and finding herself quite unable to explain why as soon as the sun went down, she saw the world through different eyes.

Specifically, cat eyes.

The first time she’d looked down and seen paws where her hands should be, it had certainly been alarming; though the initial shock of new discoveries was by then approaching the point of expected. She prowled around, sleepless and utterly starving, and by the time the sun came up, she was exhausted.

She couldn’t keep down food; meat smelled rancid, produce turned her stomach, and despite the signs, she hadn’t realized just how bad things could be until her professor had accidentally cut himself while they were the last two in the taxi line to the airport. The smell of his blood—tangy and citrusy but also musky, and rich, and with a coppery hint of something that had brought an unexpected growl of longing to her throat—had been such a shock to her waning system that resistance was instantaneously futile, and when his eyes met hers, she wished she’d thought to warn him to check whether his reflection had been upside down.

She was really very sorry about the way things had gone, though she’d be lying through her teeth if she said the whole thing hadn’t been carnally satisfying. It had been a cruelly euphoric experience, really, and no human flavor—neither savory nor sweet—could ever compare to the taste of Professor Josh Barron’s heart.

It hadn’t even required seasoning.

It’s a generally accepted philosophy that there’s no finishing college when one has eaten any portion of one’s research advisor, so Vi hadn’t bothered going back to Indiana. She was glad she’d chosen the Midwest for school; despite her initial opposition, Vi found she now rejoiced in the slush of unseasonably precipitous snowfall, simply because it didn’t look or feel or taste like where she’d been before. She shivered, freezing, and she reveled in it, in the frigidity of cold; it made her feel something akin to alive, and thus she’d taken steps to change her life.

Chicago was a natural choice; a bigger city provided a better means of camouflage, and Viola Marek found herself even more conveniently forgettable amidst the millions who jostled by her every day. It wasn’t particularly close to either her father or her mother, and she retained her human voice even in cat form, so apologetic messages of “sorry, can’t come home” or “sorry, too busy with work” were a simple enough matter. Lots of tenants owned cats, so she bought a kennel and an elaborate scratch post, claiming she had an overactive pet but in reality using it to give her a boost to the window (with a purposefully broken latch) beside her Lakeview walk-up’s old fire escape.

Vi got her salesman license in real estate, the best job she figured she could get with only three-quarters of a university degree, and established herself fairly quickly within the Northside circle of Chicago’s most exceptional realtors. It was a job that didn’t require much collaboration—permitting her to keep her nights open—and that gave her a certain degree of freedom, so that the days that her eyes were more bloodshot than others, she might opt for phone calls rather than open houses.

She found the dilapidated building in Old Town when she was making cold calls, sniffing out possible sales. Isis Bernat had been outside, smoking.

“Oof,” Isis said, watching Vi scope out the building’s eighteenth century molding. “Been awhile since you’ve eaten?”

“Excuse me?” Vi asked, frowning.

“You look a little bloodless,” Isis replied, and by the look on her face, Vi had been uncomfortably certain that the choice of words had been intentional.

“Something going on in here?” Vi asked, gesturing to the building, and Isis shrugged, putting out her cigarette beneath the heel of her new-looking trainers.

“Come see,” she beckoned, and for whatever reason, Vi had followed her up the stairs, watching her knock three times with a deliberate interval of pauses before a slat in the door suddenly opened.

“Who’s that?” someone asked; a set of eyes behind the door.

Isis shrugged. “Vamp,” she said, and Vi blinked, startled.

“Entrance granted,” the voice confirmed, and then the door swung open, revealing a small room with perhaps a dozen chairs at the center, and a makeshift station of beverages beside the door.

“Here,” Isis said, taking a Dixie paper cup and pouring some of the punch into it. “Have some. You seriously look starved.”

“Thanks,” Vi said with confusion, accepting it. She glanced down. “What’s in it?”

“O negative,” Isis replied. “Don’t worry,” she added quickly. “It’s from a donor.”

“Wh-”

“Drink,” Isis interrupted, and pulled her wrist, yanking her into a chair. “Ever been to one of these?”

“One of what?” Vi asked, and took a sip.

Not punch.

Definitely not punch.

Delicious, though. She’d later learn that O negative was, in fact, her drink of choice.

“Meetings,” Isis supplied. “There’s not a lot of them. Well, a couple in the South Loop, a few more up near Evanston. Maybe one or two in the Loop, but nobody really lives there, you know what I mean? You ever need a lunch fix, though.” She shrugged. “That’s your spot, man. The financiers get the best shit, you know? But they’re hard to track down.”

“Right,” Vi permitted faintly, taking another sip.

“Better,” Isis noted, glancing at her and nodding. “You look much better. You not getting enough to eat?”

For some reason, Vi didn’t find it necessary to argue.

“I mostly go for mice,” she explained, and Isis groaned.

“That’s your problem,” she said. “You need humans, you know? You can do it without killing anyone.” She paused, reaching into her pocket for a piece of gum. “Unless you’re good with the killing part,” she conceded, holding out the container. “Gum?”

“Sure,” Vi said. “To gum, I mean. Not murder.”

“Hey, to each their own,” Isis told her. “Personally I find it messy. You kill people, you gotta keep moving, you know? I got clients to keep track of. Eternity to endure. Can’t be moving around all the time. Plus, you ever had Lou Malnati’s? Had it done right, I mean? Chicago Classic, well done. Fuck me,” she groaned, her tone bordering on sensual. “Fuck. Delicious.”

“You eat pizza?” Vi asked, amused, and Isis shrugged.

“Not a vamp,” she explained, gesturing to herself. “I can eat.”

“But—”

“No veggies, though,” Isis said, shuddering. “Makes the whole operation soggy.”

“What?” Vi asked, confused. “Oh, right. Pizza.”

“Pizza,” Isis breathed out happily. “Gotta treat yourself sometimes. Blood’s of course necessary,” she added, gesturing to Vi’s cup. “But hey. I’ve got a diverse palette.”

“What do you do?” Vi asked, and Isis reached into her pocket a second time, pulling out a business card.

“Personal trainer,” she said. “Pizza’s a luxury,” she clarified, gesturing to the tear-shaped muscle in her upper thigh for evidence. “But like I said, gotta treat yourself.”

“And the smoking?” Vi prompted skeptically, eyeing the card. “Equinox,” she read aloud, surprised. “It’s not fitness, it’s life.”

“Life,” Isis chuckled. “Isn’t that hysterical? I fucking love it. And the smoking’s just a bad habit. We all have our vices,” she sighed, kicking her feet out and resting it on the chair in front of her. “Mine just happen to be humanity and cigarettes.”

“Gonna quit?” Vi asked drily, and Isis turned, scrutinizing her.

“Was that a joke?” she asked, and Vi shrugged.

“Sort of.”

Isis stared for a minute.

“I like it,” she finally declared, and lifted her feet as someone moved to pass. “You seem chill.” She paused. “What was your stance on killing again?”

“Did it once,” Vi admitted. “Felt bad.”

“Remorse,” Isis sighed sympathetically. “A bitch of a human impulse.”

“So you’re not human at all, then?” Vi asked her, taking another sip of not-punch, and Isis shook her head.

“I think the generic term is ‘demon,’ though that seems a bit unfair,” she lamented. “I mean hey, what happened to nature versus nurture, right?”

“I think that might be a different thing,” Vi said slowly, but by then a man—or something that looked very convincingly like a man—had cleared his throat from the head of the room.

“Phones off,” he implored. “Please.”

“Yeah,” Isis contributed. “We’re creatures, not animals.”

“Miss Bernat,” the man sighed impatiently, and Isis smirked, leaning over to whisper in Vi’s ear.

“Werewolf,” Isis explained, gesturing to him. “Named Lupo. Thinks he’s creative.” She rolled her eyes. “Isn’t.”

“Mm,” Vi agreed, as Lupo continued to speak.

“I see we have someone new among us,” he ventured, turning to look at Vi. “Would you like to introduce yourself?”

“Oh,” Vi said, clearing her throat. “Um, sure. Hi, I’m—”

“Stand, please,” Lupo invited briskly, and she rose to her feet, feeling inordinately silly as the eyes in the room all swiveled to face her.

“Hello,” she said again, waving awkwardly. “I’m Viola—”

“Hi, Viola,” the others droned.

“—and I’m a—” she hesitated. “Well, um. I guess you could say I’m a—”

“Say it out loud,” Isis whispered, grinning, and Vi groaned.

“I’m a vampire,” she pronounced flatly.

She looked around, waiting for a reaction.

“If you’re a vampire,” one of the young men at the back of the room said, “why aren’t you at one of the night meetings?”

“Yeah,” a woman in the front added. “Isn’t there some sort of cardinal rule about the sun?”

Isis scoffed loudly.

“You’re all uncultured swines,” she informed them. “If this isn’t proof of inherent, long-standing European bias, then frankly, I don’t know what is.”

“I’m not that kind of vampire,” Vi agreed, nodding to Isis and resuming her address to her audience. “I was bitten in the Philippines.”

There was an indistinguishable smattering of discord; something along the lines of muttered agreement, or even commiseration.

“Southeast Asia,” Lupo lamented sympathetically, giving her a look she supposed was meant to be comforting. “A bit of a landmine to navigate, even for us.”

His face was scarred, Vi noted, but kind.

Sort of puppy-looking, if she really thought about it.

“So,” Isis pressed, giving Vi a nudge. “What brings you to this circle of degenerates?”

“I’m a realtor,” Vi explained. “I was looking at the building.”

“Oh, you’re just here for a cold call?” Isis asked, as the others grunted in dismay. “Well,” she said, her lips pressed thin. “We’re not selling.”

“Isis,” Lupo sighed, scrubbing at the shaggy bristles of his salty chestnut beard. “That’s my line.”

“Well, we aren’t, are we?” Isis returned, and Vi, hearing an upsurge of combativeness in her tone, hurried to placate her.

“I was just looking,” she said quickly. “I had no idea there was anything like this. I’ve just been trying to get my bearings, you know—have a ‘real job’ and all that—”

“We all have real jobs,” Isis informed her. “Lupo’s a drug counselor.”

“Had a bit of a problem with heroin for a while,” he supplied, nodding. “Helps to have a purpose.”

“I work in computer programming,” offered the man at the back of the room, and Isis swiveled to face him.

“You’re a hacker,” she corrected him, making a face. “And that clickbait shit you call a real job doesn’t help anyone, you know. He’s a fairy,” she added, pivoting her torso to mutter over her shoulder to Vi. “Don’t piss him off. He’ll haunt your dreams and spoil your hard drive.”

“Noted,” Vi agreed.

“I’m in banking,” contributed the woman up front. “I-Banking, specifically.”

“Troll,” Isis supplied, and the woman pursed her lips.

“Bartender,” another woman said, her voice tinged with a faint French accent. For a moment after she spoke, Vi was dazed; as if she’d been hit over the head and re-awoken, and the first thing she’d seen had been a pert set of rose-colored lips, deep blue eyes, a flash of perfect teeth—

“Siren,” Isis interrupted, giving Vi a nudge and then crossing her arms over her chest. “Keep your distance, if you know what I mean.”

Vi blinked.

“I’m straight,” Vi assured her, and the woman grinned.

“Not for long,” she murmured sweetly, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder.

“The point is,” Lupo ventured loudly, resuming her attention, “it’s very possible to carry on a normal life, Viola. We’re all here to support each other,” he added, “so that we don’t fall back on bad habits.”

“Bad habits,” Vi repeated slowly. “Like—?”

“Murder,” the computer-hacking fairy supplied. “And or trickery that leads to eventual bouts of blood-letting.”

“Luring men to their deaths,” the siren agreed.

“Theft,” the troll offered. “Also, hoarding.”

“We all have our individual impulses,” Lupo assured her. “But we do what we can to be there for each other. Most of us will outlive any humans who enter our lives,” he added, looking slightly withered as he said it. “So it’s important to have a safety net.”

“Something to keep us honest,” Isis contributed wryly, and glanced up, pinching Vi’s elbow. “So are you in?”

Vi blinked, considering it.

“Yeah,” she said, surprised at how normal a group full of mythical creatures could be. “Yeah, I think I am.”

“So,” Isis had said a few weeks later, nodding to Vi as she approached. “What’s new?”

“Bad news,” Vi replied. “I have a ghost problem.”

“Bad news indeed,” Isis replied, putting out her cigarette and gesturing for them to go inside. “Poltergeist?”

Vi frowned, thinking.

“What defines a poltergeist?” she asked, and Isis paused, considering it.

“Troublesome buggers,” she ruled eventually. “Means ‘noisy ghost’ in German.”

“Well, he’s certainly noisy,” Vi sighed. “Incredibly mouthy.”

“Ah,” Isis said. “Unfinished business, then?”

“If he’s got it, he doesn’t know what it is,” Vi supplied. “Says he doesn’t know how he died, or who killed him, or why.”

“Who is he?” Isis asked. “Anyone important?”

“Thomas Edward Parker IV,” Vi answered, imitating his lofty introduction and leaning into the words ‘the fourth,’ if only to highlight the inanity. “He’s haunting the Parker mansion in Gold Coast.”

“He’s a Parker?” Isis echoed, looking stunned. “Well, poor thing was fucked from birth, then. You know about the Parker curse, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t call him a ‘poor thing,’ exactly,” Vi muttered, thinking of how he’d very deliberately toyed with the electricity during her morning appointment with prospective clients. “But I don’t think he’s cursed. Are curses even real?” she asked thoughtfully, as they nodded to Lupo, each pouring themselves a small cup of punch.

B positive. Not her favorite, but a bit of a delicacy at times.

“‘Real’?” Isis echoed dubiously, giving Vi an admonishing look. “I’m surprised that phrase means anything to you anymore.”

“It doesn’t,” Vi sighed, taking a sip and letting it soak gladly into her chapped lips. “But a girl can dream.”

“You can’t,” Tom continued, “be a ‘little bit’ of a vampire, Vi. Impossible,” he added, with his usual air of someone who hadn’t been scolded nearly enough as a child. “You’re either dead or you’re not.”

“Again, undead,” Vi corrected. “It’s like you’re not even listening to me.”

“Or,” Tom countered, “it’s like you’re still trying to sell my house, and I’m putting my foot down.”

She turned, sparing him an admonishing glance.

“Thomas,” Vi said, and he grimaced. “Put your foot down all you like,” she invited. “Won’t make much of a difference.”

This, like most things, he did not take well.

“You have to disclose a ghost in the house,” Tom reminded her. “Seriously, look it up.”

“I don’t have to disclose shit,” Vi sniffed, taking a page from Isis’ handbook of casual obscenity. “Not yet, anyway. And besides,” she added, her voice nearly drifting an octave in forced optimism. “By the time this behemoth of a house is purchased, I doubt you’ll still be in it, Thomas Parker.”

“Is that so, Viola Marek?” Tom demanded. “I’d like to see you force me out.”

“So would I, Tom,” Vi murmured, waiting by the front door for buyers that she knew with a dismal certainty weren’t coming. “Believe me, so would I.”

Reapers and Sowers

A person living in a city tends to learn the different kinds of knocks, and the distinct oddness of hearing them. After all, with seven grocery stores and corner markets existing within a stone’s throw, it’s hardly a common impulse to turn to one’s neighbor for a cup of sugar—particularly when one cannot help being aware, thin walls be damned, that one’s neighbor was unapologetically playing alternative ballads until three in the morning, and therefore probably isn’t awake at 8 a.m.

A person in a city knows the knocks of habit—the UPS delivery man, for example, who opts for three perfunctory beats—and the knocks of expectation—the ones belonging to the Thai delivery man who raps twice, hurriedly. There’s a sense of impermanence to these knocks; of ‘I am here, and soon I will be gone,’ and these are the knocks that one learns to anticipate.

This knock, however, was clipped and purposeful.

Once, twice; a pause.

Ominous. The way poetic reflexes might tell you that death would knock, really.

Except that Fox, the recipient of this particular knock, knew his godfather well, and Death, a being rather without restriction, had never once been respectful of his boundaries.

Fox frowned, glancing preemptively out his window at the street; nobody there. A knock was an odd thing on its own, he thought, but made odder still without the prerequisite buzz at the intercom. He headed to the door, hesitant, and glanced through the peephole before chuckling to himself, pulling it open.

It wasn’t death, no; but it wasn’t nearly not, either.

“Cal,” Fox sighed, as the hooded reaper turned to face him. “You can walk through walls, brother. You don’t have to knock.”

Calix Sanna slid the black hood from his head, his languid dark curls as unmussed as ever as he offered Fox something of a congenial shrug.

“I try to afford you a modicum of dignity, Fox,” he replied. “Is that so wrong?”

“Well, efficiency over antiquity, I say,” Fox returned, shifting aside and gesturing for him to come in. “What’s got you in Chicago?”

“Bit of a lull,” Cal supplied, glancing around. “Boss is a bit worked up about something. See you haven’t changed much since my last visit,” he added tangentially, scouring the room. “I’m glad.”

Fox would have guessed as much. Aside from being a creature of Lucifer, Cal was also a creature of habit.

“Going to war again?” Fox asked him, and walked into his kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Don’t think so,” Cal replied, shrugging. “Maybe. Hard to tell. You know how he is,” he added gravely, wandering over to Fox’s bookshelf. “It’s always about balance with him. ‘Balance is king,’ he says. ‘Without me, no one would know God was good.’ He says it ten times a day, at least.”

“Well, he’s not wrong,” Fox reminded him, giving his coffee a testing sip. “Want anything?” he called, concealing a grin in his mug.

Cal sighed. “Fox,” he muttered. “You know perfectly well that I haven’t had anything to eat or drink in nearly a thousand years.”

“Modicum of dignity,” Fox reminded him, taking another sip and then moving to join Cal in the living room. “So you’re just here for a visit, then?”

Cal nodded.

“Not for a job, if you know what I mean,” he clarified.

“I always know what you mean,” Fox returned, and in response, Cal gave him one of his smiles, drifting from the bookcase to settle awkwardly into the sofa.

Cal Sanna was a relatively serious man—had always been, even while he’d been alive—but he was good company, and however serious he was, Fox had never considered him joyless. Cal had, in fact, five different smiles. One for when he was genuinely contented, which Fox had seen on perhaps a dozen different occasions; a second for when he was angry, but was patiently forcing his lips to curl around his teeth; a third for when he wished to convey humor, indulging a moment of amusement; a fourth (far more common) for when he did not wish to convey humor, but couldn’t quite prevent it (of which this particular smile was one); and, lastly—

“You haven’t seen Mayra lately, have you?” Cal asked innocently.

—a fifth, which Fox knew was reserved for Mayra Kaleka.

“I haven’t,” Fox said. “Though I can certainly summon her, if you’d like.”

Cal’s gaze drifted.

“No, no,” he murmured, a bit vacantly. “I don’t want to bother her.”

Fox, then, smiled one of his own many smiles, each one more alarming than the next; Cal, of course, missed it, involved as he was in the rosy horizon of his thoughts.

“Calix,” Fox admonished briskly, taking another sip of his coffee. “Why must we play this game every time?”

“It’s not a game,” Cal insisted, though his fingers closed reflexively around the small wooden box in his hand. Fox glanced up, noting where the box had been removed from the top shelf of his bookcase, and sighed, shaking his head.

“You’re already holding her relic,” he pointed out. “It wouldn’t take much to call her.”

“Says you,” Cal muttered, but Fox, lacking patience, relinquished his cup of coffee and stood, snatching the box from Cal’s hand to pull out the gold bracelet that had been tucked carefully inside. “No,” Cal said hastily, “wait—”

“Mayra,” Fox said to the bracelet, clearing his throat as Cal leapt to his feet, pointlessly adjusting the buttons on his military uniform. “Will you come and have a visit, please?”

There was a quiet popping sound; a hitch in the fabric of reality, like a lag, wherein sight and sound drifted apart momentarily and then returned, joining up with a loud burst of suction. Illumination in the room grew blinding, settling in waves, and by the time Fox’s vision cleared, the light had wrapped itself around the form of a woman swathed in white and gold, her wings lined with a familiar heavenly glimmer.

She was like autumn afternoons, Fox had always thought, and thought it now, again. She had that glow of late September, soft and solemn, as it drifted out of reach. She was the last breath of summer; that quiet little gasp just before the end that feels somehow like sadness, like a burdensome loss, before all the beauty and freedom dies away.

“What,” sighed Mayra, “could you possibly want now, Fox D’Mora?”

At the sight of her, he smiled.

Mayra Kaleka was a study in contradictions. She wore her lovely ebony hair twisted up and braided around her head like a crown, with sun-kissed skin that set off eyes of jade-like green, soft and undeniably celestial. Beauty she possessed in spades; in abundance; in riches. Her voice, though, and the posture of her shoulders, were combatant, strident and harsh, and served to set her apart from other angels Fox had known.

That, of course, in addition to the fact that Mayra Kaleka had very nearly not been an angel at all.

In fact, Mayra Kaleka had been rather an unsavory human being.

When it came to heavenly reckoning, there were numerous areas in which Mayra had fallen quite short. Her temper, for one. She had rather a violent one, and a proclivity for anger, not the least of which was directed at her profession—which was yet another considerable shortage of points. A brilliant and lovely courtesan, Mayra had known perfectly well that her position in the Mughal Empire, particularly as the daughter of an emigrated Hindi family, resided largely in her talents at drawing men into her web. Mayra was shrewd and cunning, brilliant and poised, and ruthless with regard to her competition; and indeed, when Gabriel told her as much, and Raphael had agreed, she unabashedly told them both to go fuck themselves, or, if they wished, each other.

The trouble was that Mayra had also been a font of noble deeds.

There’s something about women, and in particular, women whose survival depends on conscienceless men. Men who have everything are careless with trinkets, and so those trinkets, like Mayra Kaleka, learn to care for themselves, and sometimes, they learn to care for others. When the Mughal began to fall to the Maratha and Delhi was no longer safe, Mayra had ushered several women and children to safety, removing them from harm’s reach—at the expense of her corporeal well-being.

“You are selfless,” Raphael noted upon her death, and Mayra scoffed.

“Don’t impress your morals upon me,” she said. “Where were you while we were dying? While we were suffering, where were you?”

“Watching,” he said, and Gabriel nodded. “There must be balance in this world, or how would we recognize evil when we saw it?”

“Who cares whether you recognize it?” she demanded. “If heaven means casting your gaze aside, then I want none of it. You’re not my gods,” she added stiffly. “You have no claim to me.”

Raphael and Gabriel exchanged irritatingly furtive glances.

“True,” Raphael admitted. “We offer you something else entirely.”

“Had you considered afterlife employment?” Gabriel ventured.

Now that she was able, Mayra indulged a sour face.

“Disgusting,” she muttered. “Even in death, men wish me to coddle their pricks.”

“Nothing like that,” Raphael said hastily. “No, I mean—as an angel.”

She stared at him, disbelieving.

“Do I look like an angel to you?” she asked him. “Seriously. Do I?”

“A bit,” Gabriel admitted. “But that’s really not the important bit. And granted, there are certainly other things you can do—”

“Weave for the Fates,” Raphael enumerated, ticking them off on his fingers. “Serve the Olympians. Fight for Lucifer—”

“But why should I be made to do anything at all?” Mayra demanded. “I’m tired. Life has exhausted me. I wish to rest.”

The other two sighed.

“Unfortunately,” Raphael said, gesturing to a chart behind him, “you’re not quite there, I’m afraid.”

“What’s that?” Mayra asked, frowning at it.

“Your ledger,” Gabriel supplied. “As you can see, you qualify to exist in your afterlife without punishment—which is, of course, not unremarkable. You may merely bide your time until your ledger is altered. A variety of venues do exist,” he conceded, “though none of them are much worth visiting. So, as I say, you may suspend yourself in purgatory, or—” here he paused stiffly. “You can make use of your extra time, Mayra Kaleka.”

She glowered at him.

“What would I have to do?” she asked, brusquely.

“Nothing too strenuous,” Raphael assured her. “Keep track of other ledgers. Deliver messages. Provide counsel, of course,” he added, “where necessary.”

“I never received counsel,” Mayra snapped. “Heaven knows I asked.”

“Times can change, Mayra Kaleka,” Gabriel told her. “We can also grant you miracles. Limited, of course,” he said, glancing at Raphael for approval, and continuing as he nodded. “Perhaps five miracles a year. But you would have discretion.”

She stopped, considering it.

“This is power, then,” Mayra said slowly. “You offer me power?”

“We offer you a means to change your destination,” Raphael corrected. “Your ledger will shift slower than it did while you were alive, but it will shift nonetheless.”

“Who would I work for, then?” Mayra asked. “You?”

“Him,” they corrected in unison, gesturing up, and she frowned.

“He is not my God,” she said, and they shrugged.

“Your gods would have you sent back,” Gabriel reminded her. “To earth.”

She shuddered.

“So,” Raphael prompted. “Do you accept?”

Mayra paused, considering it.

“Fine,” she said.

And that was how Mayra Kaleka became an angel.

“Always a pleasure, Mayra,” Fox remarked, and she sniffed her disagreement, catching sight of Cal in the room.

“Oh,” she said. “Cal, I didn’t—”

“Hello, Mayra,” he said, swallowing. “I hope you haven’t been taken from something important.”

She opened her mouth, and then closed it.

“Ah, well, not a bother. I’m out of miracles,” she told Cal, shifting to sit in what she knew very well was Fox’s chair and leaving him to move to the couch with a grimace. “I’m afraid I’m rather useless for the time being, with the exception of the ledgers.”

“What did you do with your last miracle?” Fox asked neutrally, picking up a copy of the Chicago Tribune and snapping it open. “Something interesting, I hope.”

“Rather not, unfortunately,” Mayra grumbled. “I turned up a bit of extra coin for a soup kitchen in Detroit.”

“That’s meaningful,” Cal said, leaning towards her. “What’s uninteresting about that?”

“They closed it anyway,” Mayra remarked tightly, her lips pressed thin. “Sometimes I wonder if it would not be kinder to simply give that city a Bubonic plague.”

“Ah, your celestial humor,” Fox remarked, licking his finger to turn the page of his paper. “Ceaseless delights, my dove.”

“She has a point,” Cal said, not surprisingly.

“Thank you, Cal, but Fox knows that,” she said. “He’s simply unbearable for his own amusement. How have you been, by the way?” she asked, and Fox listened with amusement as she shifted towards him. “I haven’t seen you for quite a while, Sanna.”

“Well, you know the Boss. Had us on campaign for a bit,” Cal said. “A decade or so.”

“I’ll never understand how you can fall in line so comfortably,” Mayra commented, resting her sandaled feet on Fox’s coffee table. “Are you just a fighter at heart, soldier?”

“Yeah,” Cal said gruffly. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Cal Sanna belonged to a very small village; an island, in fact. He had not known the world was quite so large—had not imagined it to be so vast—and even though he would have told you without inflection that the sea as he had known it had no end and no beginning, he wouldn’t have been capable of putting that vastness into words, nor even considered what it might be like to draw a line around its beauty.

Cal’s world was only a matter of how far his feet could take him, until the day he became a soldier.

Cal Sanna had been neither selfish nor selfless; neither moral nor indecent. He’d never lain with a prostitute nor slain a man over a petty disagreement, but neither had he fed the poor, nor saved the children. His world was small, and his brother had been the biggest thing in it, so when Stavros Sanna decided to drunkenly steal back his gambling losses from a muscled tavern owner with too many knives, Cal had thought only to come to his brother’s defense.

The blade to his carotid had been an abrupt awakening.

“Calix Sanna,” Raphael sighed, his lips pursed in displeasure. “This is unfortunate.”

Cal, who’d never had much of a fondness for conversation, stared at him.

“You,” he remarked eventually, “are no three-headed dog.”

“True,” Gabriel acknowledged. “Cerberus is elsewhere.”

“As is Hades,” Raphael agreed. “We offer you something else entirely.”

“Something aside from the River Styx,” Gabriel added. “Which, I assure you, is no great use of time.”

“You’re angels,” Cal remarked, having seen paintings of them before. “Am I to be an angel, then?”

“‘Fraid not,” Raphael said. “You’re on the lower end of things.”

“Quite low,” Gabriel contributed regretfully. “But you’re useful enough, we suspect.”

“Ah. So you’re putting me to work,” Cal noted.

He didn’t mind work. He didn’t mind much, really; nor, he supposed, did he particularly care for much, though he wasn’t fully without curiosity.

“May I see the world first?” Cal asked them, and then paused. “I thought perhaps in death I might finally see it. Just once,” he added, wondering if he’d asked for too much. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“What—now?” Raphael asked, taken aback; but at a shrug from Gabriel, the archangel sighed. “If you insist, I suppose.”

He waved a hand, and a window appeared. Gabriel obligingly drew aside the curtain, and Cal blinked, taking a step closer.

“Where’s my village?” he asked. “Is it behind that blue orb?”

“No, no,” Raphael said, with the slightest brush of impatience. “The blue orb is the world. Your world, anyway,” he clarified carefully. “There are, of course, many others.”

Cal suddenly felt he was shrinking.

He felt very scared, and very small.

“If this is the world,” Cal began tentatively, but cut himself off. Gabriel nodded slowly, sympathizing.

“You’ve seen almost none of it, Cal Sanna,” he agreed. “But it doesn’t have to stay that way.”

Cal pressed his fingers to the glass, staring at it.

“Where is Chora?” he asked, turning over his shoulder, and Raphael gestured to another window, drawing Cal towards a second ledge.

“Here,” he said, gesturing through the pane, and Cal saw the windmills, the church; the village. “But over there,” Raphael added, pointing to the first window as Gabriel spun the world around his finger, indicating the island of Mykonos, “you can see how small it really is.”

Cal realized, then, that he had seen nothing, and known less than nothing, and that this could not possibly be the end.

“What can I do?” he asked, turning slowly to Raphael. “I have to see it.”

“See what?” Raphael asked.

Cal sighed.

“Everything,” he said, and in a seraphic gesture of kindness, Gabriel settled a hand on his shoulder.

“Come,” he beckoned softly. “We’ll find you a uniform.”

“Well,” Mayra said. “In any case, this is a pleasure. I’ve missed you,” she added, the words bright and multi-faceted, as if something darker might lie beneath.

“Have you?” Cal asked her quietly.

Fox, knowing a private moment when he saw one, flipped his copy of the Tribune shut and rose promptly to his feet.

“Well,” he began, tucking the paper under his arm. “I suppose I’ll just—”

He stopped, something catching his ear; a knock at the door.

A first beat, hesitant, followed by two slightly hasty raps, and then a moment of silence. The urban reflex—who could that be?—swept over Fox, and he paused where he stood, tilting his head in confusion.

“Expecting someone?” asked Mayra, drily.

Fox frowned.

“No,” he said.

Living in a city is a study in knocks.

But even Fox could not have known how this one would change things.

The Beautiful and Damned

Thomas Edward Parker was born a poor man. An agrarian one, at that. His family and friends called him Tom, and he was a working class sort of man; the kind you could grab a beer with at the end of a long day on the farm, having both served your names and country well. But when the crops turned bad one year and Tom Parker decided to open a dry goods store with the surplus he’d kept from years prior, he’d turned into something of a patron for the area; and then he opened another store, and then another, until he wasn’t much of a working class man anymore, but a business one. Still, he maintained that sense of camaraderie with the neighborhood, and before long, Tom Parker was a very rich man.

Thomas Edward Parker Jr., Tom’s eldest son, was a lively young man called Ned (so as not to be confused with his father), and he took the Parker chain of dry goods purveyors into the future by developing Chicago’s urban real estate, bringing in other businesses and making the city into something of a commercial success. He was a bit of a lady’s man—and, in most respects, a man’s man (a man about town, but certainly no everyman, unlike his father)—and it was a surprise to everyone when Ned took a lovely young wife quite late in life. It was Ned who’d built the Parker mansion in the Gold Coast, and who coaxed the city along to flourish; and while Tom Parker had been rich, Ned Parker was filthy rich, and by the time he mysteriously died, passing on his wealth and business acumen to his eldest son, the Parker family was quite firmly established amongst Chicago’s elite.

Thomas Edward Parker III, the eldest son of Ned Parker, was a very serious man called Ed, who took his father’s contacts and his father’s father’s riches and turned them both into a string of developments along Lake Shore Drive, investing in some of the city’s most desirable housing developments. While Tom Parker had been a beacon of the people, and Ned Parker had been the blazing emblem of the nouveau riche, Ed Parker had enough of a bloodline to establish himself a foothold among Chicago’s so-called Old Money, catering to luxury and making a name on the strength of his impeccable taste. By the time that he stumbled upon an unnatural death, many felt it was a result of envy, or perhaps spite; after all, Ed Parker had not been a particularly kind man, nor a very liked one, though it was ultimately ruled a tragic accident.

Thomas Edward Parker IV, long enough down the line to once again be called Tom, was rather another matter altogether. He grew up amidst a life of celebrity, recorded for his every move, some of which were more sensational than others. By then, the Parker empire was in satisfactory hands. It possessed a board of directors, of which his uncle Benjamin James Parker assumed regency as chairman until Tom’s expected graduation from the University of Chicago Booth School of Business; or at least, he was intended to serve until then, up to the point that Benjamin Parker, too, was killed, as the result of a botched heart operation. Ultimately, Tom’s only job was to keep his nose clean, and to entertain his donors until his time came.

Needless to say, the young Tom Parker was an exceedingly charismatic young man, and it was a great loss to everyone when he was found stabbed to death in the middle of his family’s elaborate mansion.

THE PARKER CURSE STRIKES AGAIN, claimed the Tribune, plastering it across the front page and then sending waves out on Twitter. #PARKERCURSE was trending within an hour, shocking Chicago’s elite.

A break-in? they whispered beneath clutched strands of pearls. But our wealth, our prestige! Is nothing sacred?

If he had a gun! they said (he did), or if he’d had security! (he did), then perhaps he might have been saved;

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps;

But money can buy nearly everything, security included (however false it may or may not be), and so when the rest of the Gold Coast had paid some segment of their family’s fortunes to upgrade their alarm systems and militarize for cold-blooded thieves, they gradually forgot what had happened in the Parker mansion.

It took about a month before the house was put on the market. It was an architectural marvel, built from the American dream and yet flooded with European finery, and had Tom Parker IV been alive when it was placed on the market (or had he otherwise offered up a house with bloodless walls) it would have sold in an instant, or perhaps even less.

But as it was, the house sat unwanted for weeks that stretched into months.

Largely because it was haunted.

When Tom Parker had first opened his eyes and found himself incorporeal, he’d been more than a little inconvenienced.

“Fuck,” he’d announced, looking down at his body. “That’s a lot of blood.”

Nobody answered.

He understood very quickly that he was dead. He wasn’t an idiot (sure, he was privileged, but he’d certainly done a thing or two to deserve his spot at U Chicago) and it hadn’t taken much time to realize that he couldn’t touch anything, or do much to get anyone’s attention. He had some control over his environment (he often toyed with the lights in the room, if only to entertain himself when people came through to fuss with his family’s belongings) but in the broad scheme of things, he was little more than a piece of furniture.

It was no great reassurance that he was trapped in his family home. Rather, it was the first on the list of things he couldn’t explain, as he had known perfectly well that he no longer lived there. The mansion had been largely a museum in more recent years, part of it open for tours since the early passing of his mother, and Tom himself had lived in a Streeterville penthouse, artfully sparse, with style defined mostly by clean lines and space. He’d never cared much for the Parker mansion, and wasn’t pleased in the slightest to be trapped there for what could conceivably be eternity.

When the house was put up for sale, however, Tom was even less pleased, which he tried desperately to let people know, resorting to electricity failures and noises that were regularly blamed, foolishly, on old, substandard wiring.

As if anyone in his family would have settled for anything less than the best, he’d thought, scoffing.

It was only when Viola Marek came to sell Tom Parker’s house that everything changed.

“HEY,” he shouted, scowling, as he presumed he would once again go unheard. “YOUR MOTHER’S A WHORE, AND YOUR FATHER’S A—”

“Well that hardly seems polite,” the girl who had turned out to be Vi had said, and Tom promptly stopped flailing, staring at her.

“You—” he paused, glancing around. “You can see me?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, with a brisk sort of impatience that he might have expected from a prettier girl; not that she was unattractive, per se, but—

“How did you get in here?” she demanded.

He stared at her, and then looked down, wondering if perhaps the bloody mass at his chest were less visible in the dim light of the hallway.

“Seriously,” she pressed, her brow furrowing. “This house is—”

She paused, frowning at him, and then groaned, throwing her hands up.

“Oh no,” she said, rubbing her temple. “Are you not really there?”

“What?” Tom demanded, managing to find his voice. “Of course I’m here.”

“But are you—” Vi sighed. “Are you alive?”

“No,” Tom said, and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Are you?”

“Yes, obviously,” she said, holding up the baguette she was slicing. “Look.”

He looked.

He found he was a bit let down.

“You don’t seem very startled,” he commented. “I’m disappointed.”

“I’ve seen weirder things,” she offered apologetically, and then brightened, pleased. “You’re my first ghost, though.”

“What do you think?” Tom asked, swooping down to stand beside her. “Good, right?”

She considered him.

“Good?” she echoed. “A little translucent, maybe.”

“I mean, I’d prefer to change shirts,” he agreed, gesturing to the stabbing in his chest. “But, you know. Whatever.”

“Well, I take it you have unfinished business, then,” she said, returning her attention to the spread she’d been preparing. “Are you Tom Parker?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, pleased enough, though admittedly he would have been far more surprised if she hadn’t known. “And you are?”

“Viola Marek,” she said. “Call me Vi.”

“What are you doing?” he asked, gesturing to the pieces of bread. “Who let you in?”

“I did,” she said, gesturing to the keys on the table. “I’m selling the house.”

He’d guessed that by then.

“Who gets the money?” Tom asked. He’d never cared much to discuss such things while he’d been alive, but he found most of his poignant theories on social behaviors seemed far less applicable when nobody was available to applaud them.

“Dunno,” Vi said, shrugging. “I’m selling on behalf of your trust, I think. But,” she added emphatically, sweeping the bread onto a platter, “I’m just the realtor, so—”

“Wait,” Tom insisted, stomping a foot that set off an ear-ringing current of static. “You can’t sell the house.”

She looked consummately unamused.

This expression, he found, seemed to suit her far more, as if it were a natural reflex.

“I can, actually,” she informed him. “Though it’s been on the market for an awfully long time, so—”

“No, you can’t,” he said. “I refuse to share it.”

“Well, then, get out,” she invited, gesturing to the door, and he scowled.

“I thought I was going to like you,” he sniffed. “But I don’t think I do.”

“Why not?” she asked. “Because I’m selling your house?”

“BECAUSE YOU’RE SELLING MY HOUSE,” he confirmed, not altogether quietly. “Is this supposed to be some kind of joke? You can’t just sell it—”

“How’d you die?” she interrupted, resting her palms on the counter and pulling herself up, perching atop it. “I mean. Knife, obviously,” she acknowledged, waving at the blood on his shirt. “But in terms of details—”

“Get off,” he commanded, swiping a hand at where she’d so uncouthly seated herself, and she shrugged, ignoring him. “Come on!”

“Not yours,” she reminded him, knocking twice on the counter for emphasis. “Can’t tell me what to do.”

“Can too,” he said briskly, and he quite figured he could. As a living person, he’d very successfully gotten his way without much trouble, and didn’t see why that had anything to do with the physical possession of bones. “Have some respect for my home, would you?”

“I respect it,” she informed him. “I’m trying to sell it, aren’t I?”

“Well, that’s quite an attitude,” he remarked loftily.

She smiled, or smirked.

It irritated him, or aroused him.

Neither observation seemed helpful.

“So, your death,” Vi continued, swinging her legs. “What happened?”

He grunted his opposition.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “I don’t remember.”

“Well, there’s your unfinished business, then,” she commented, and he frowned.

“Who says I have unfinished business?”

“You’re a ghost,” she reminded him. “You’re not haunting a person, right?” she added, gesturing to the empty house. “Nobody lives here.”

“No,” he confirmed. “But why haunt my house? Seems restrictive.”

“It is,” she agreed. “But I really don’t make the rules.”

He wondered if he hated her.

And then he remembered that she was the only person he’d spoken to in months, and that perhaps she’d be the last person he’d ever speak to, and it seemed to strike him with a sense of divine force that perhaps that wasn’t a coincidence at all.

“I think you’re wrong,” he realized, glaring at her. “I think my unfinished business is to prevent you from selling my house!”

She paused, considering it.

“Nah,” she disagreed, shaking her head. “Seems unlikely. Maybe something happened here,” she postulated. “Besides the murder, obviously. Was anything taken?”

“How should I know?” he demanded. “It’s not like I can use the internet.”

“You really don’t remember anything?” she asked. “I mean, why were you here?”

Tom sucked in his cheeks, sighing.

“I really don’t know,” he said. “Honestly. I remember very little about the entire day.”

“Well,” she prompted. “What do you remember?”

He paused, considering it.

“Tom,” Lainey purred into the phone. “Please.”

“Thank you for the offer, Elaine,” he said, “but it’ll have to be a no.” He glanced over at the woman beside him. “I’m busy.”

“It’s just one small favor,” she said. “Just an eensy one.”

“That’s what you said before, but—”

“Hold on,” interrupted Vi. “Who’s Lainey?”

“My girlfriend,” Tom said, and Vi frowned.

“I thought you said you were with a girl?”

“Well, my ex-girlfriend,” he clarified. “But I was probably going to marry her.”

“Oh?” Vi asked skeptically. “Why’s that?”

“Good for the company,” he supplied listlessly. “She’s a Wood.”

“A what?”

“A Wood,” Tom repeated emphatically. “Don’t you know anything?”

“I take it that’s like Parker?” she asked, and Tom shrugged.

“Older name, but slightly less money,” he said. “You’ve heard of the Cubs, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Vi confirmed. “Obviously.”

Tom shrugged again.

“Then you’ve heard of Lainey.”

“The last time you asked me to do a ‘small thing,’ I nearly got arrested,” Tom replied, as the girl beside him stirred; Sarah, or Lauren, or possibly Megan. “I swear, if I’d been any younger, Uncle Benji would’ve smacked me.”

“You’re still not too old for a spanking, Tom,” Lainey said.

He glanced at the woman at his side.

“Down, girl,” he murmured into the phone, and Lainey laughed.

“Come on, Tom. Just this one thing.”

He scoffed. “No.”

“Not even if I wear the—”

“No.”

“But I’ll bring the—”

“No!”

“I’ll suck you off so hard you’ll cry,” she whispered, and to his dismay, he shuddered.

“Don’t need you,” he told her, eyeing his fingernails. “I’m over it, Elaine.”

He could practically taste her displeasure through the phone.

“Stop calling me that.”

“Stop calling me at all, then—”

“Never.”

“—Elaine—”

“I don’t understand,” Vi cut in, and Tom groaned. “What exactly is your relationship with Lainey? Or is it Elaine?”

“She preferred Lainey,” he sniffed. “I, on the other hand, preferred to unnerve her.”

“What makes you think you did?” Vi asked, and Tom frowned.

“Of course I did,” he snapped, and then shook himself, unwilling to reconsider. “And anyway, that’s not important.”

“Yes, actually, it is,” Vi pointed out, rather obnoxiously. “You don’t seem to have had any power in the relationship, do you?”

“What?” Tom asked, aghast. “Of course I did.”

“You were in bed with another woman,” Vi reminded him, “talking to your ex on the phone.”

“Yes, telling her to leave me alone,” Tom countered. “How is that not having power?”

“She called,” Vi said. “You answered.”

“Yes, but—”

“You answered,” she repeated, and he glared at her. She smiled. “What was the ‘small thing’ she’d wanted from you before? The thing you’d get smacked for,” she clarified, and he rolled his eyes.

“I came to pick her up from somewhere once,” he said. “It was three in the morning.”

He thought it sufficient to stop there, but Vi disagreed.

“Well?” she prompted, expectant. “Where were you picking her up from?”

He cleared his throat.

“Her house,” he said, and Vi frowned.

“Why’d you almost get arrested, then?”

“Well,” Tom sighed. “Because she’d just robbed it.”

“Tom,” Lainey said. “Last thing, and I’ll leave you alone forever.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s not a big deal—”

“You always say that.”

“You’re too careful, Tom,” she lamented. “One of these days you’ll rub off on me.”

“Frankly, I wish I would.”

“Tom.”

“Elaine.”

“This is no fun,” she whined. “Come over.”

“Why?”

“Because saying ‘rub off on me’ and not physically doing the rubbing is boring.”

“I thought you said we were done, Lainey.”

“We’re never done, Tom.”

“Yes, we ar-”

“I’ll let you do that thing you like,” she interrupted. “You know. That thing you always want.”

He paused, swallowing.

“I told you—”

“I know you, Tom. I heard your voice change. You want me to, don’t you? Want me handcuffed to your bed,” she said with a laugh. “That’s the only way you can keep me, isn’t it?”

He sighed.

“Elaine.”

“Tom.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“It’s not, no,” she agreed. “It’d be funny if I could watch.”

“Watch what?”

“Watch you struggle,” she murmured. “You have a tell, you know.”

“What’s that?”

“Your dick,” she laughed. “It gets unmercifully hard.”

“Unmercifully,” he grunted in agreement, and he heard her smile.

“Come over,” she whispered.

He swallowed.

“Ten minutes.”

“Oh my god,” Vi laughed. “She owns you!”

“She doesn’t,” Tom insisted, and Vi shook her head.

“You poor sap,” she said, chuckling.

His last concrete memory was of Lainey’s blue dress.

On her, firstly, and then as it looked on the floor.

He remembered the sex. Sex with Lainey was always memorable, and it wasn’t because she was flexible (though she was), or because she was adventurous (though, again, she was), but because there was something intuitive about her; about the way they were together. It was poetic, really, in a filthy sort of way; in a way that robbed them of their hard-fought independence, lessening them to halves. There was a mutual longing when they were together, and it had never, ever been filled by anything except her sigh in his ear, or his gasp in her mouth.

It wasn’t an evening gown; it wasn’t silk.

It was a sundress, he remembered, feeling the cotton beneath his fingers.

It was summer.

It was hot.

He was sweating but her air conditioning was off; she hated the sound. Hated most sounds, most things; half-hated him, too, except when her nails were digging into his hips and then she loved him, told him so, told him just how much.

“You’re bad for me,” she whispered, her hair slicked to the back of her neck and clinging to her shoulders. “Aren’t you?”

“I’m good for you,” he told her. “I make you so good, Lainey, so fucking good—”

“Stop,” she interrupted, her fingers on his lips. “I’m serious.”

He stopped.

“You’re bad for me,” she said again, staring at him.

He held his breath.

Counted.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four—

“I need this, Tom,” she said, slipping her thumb across his jaw. “I need you to do this for me, baby, please.”

He wanted to ask why, but he knew she’d never tell him.

“I’m still inside you,” he pointed out.

She smiled.

“Rock my world, Tom,” she invited, falling back, stretching out, shamelessly luxuriant beneath him. “And when you’re done, we’ll talk.”

“So you slept with her,” Vi said, unceremoniously. “Then what?”

“That’s it,” Tom replied, shrugging. “All I know is I woke up here. There, actually,” he corrected, pointing to where there had once been a rug on the floor; a Persian, and a favorite of his mother’s, which had clearly been bespoiled by his rather grisly murder. “Well,” he amended. “I didn’t wake up, but—”

“I get it,” Vi assured him. “Spiritually, you awoke. Arose,” she ventured fancifully.

“Arose,” he agreed, and grimaced. “Fucked, isn’t it?”

Vi gave him something of a half smile.

“So where’s Lainey now?” she asked. “Obvious question, I guess—”

“Don’t know,” Tom said honestly. “At some point I heard the detectives mention that she’d arrived when she heard I was dead, but after that they couldn’t find her, so—”

He trailed off.

“Any chance she asked you to steal from your own house?” Vi asked thoughtfully. She seemed to be mulling it over, toying with it, analyzing the story from every angle, and he couldn’t tell if he appreciated it or not; it was effort, obviously, but he didn’t quite relish the implication. “I mean,” Vi clarified, “if she’s the type of person to rob her own, then maybe she needed the money.”

“Lainey never needed money,” Tom said, shaking his head. “She never did anything because she needed to.”

“Except you,” Vi pointed out.

Tom frowned.

Considered it.

Rejected it.

“Nah,” he said eventually. “Doubt she ever really needed me. She didn’t come to the funeral,” he added. “A lot of people came to the house to ‘pay their respects’ or whatever, but—” he swallowed. “She didn’t.”

“Huh,” Vi said, tapping her fingers on the counter. “Any chance she killed you?”

“Seems like that would be the obvious answer, wouldn’t it?” Tom asked, half-laughing. “And honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me if she wanted me dead, whatever her reasons might have been. If she even had them,” he added. “She didn’t always find them useful.”

“What, reasons?” Vi asked.

Tom shrugged. “Yeah,” he said ambiguously. “But whether she had reasons or not, I don’t think she did it. I mean, she could have at any time,” he pointed out. “I guarantee she kept a gun in her nightstand. A knife, even,” he murmured. “Could’ve just gutted me. I mean, she did,” he amended, forcing a laugh. “But, you know. Literally.”

Vi gave him a sympathetic look.

He wondered again if he hated her.

“So not Lainey, then,” she said.

He cleared his throat.

“Not Lainey,” he agreed.

Vi opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it; she tried again, tilting her head, but then she looked up, both of them catching the faint echo of a future sound from down the hall.

“Potential buyers,” she said, glancing back at him. “They want to turn the house into a rehab facility for rich people.”

“Mm,” he said. “Well.” He paused. “I’m going to probably break something.”

She shrugged.

“Fair enough,” she permitted, indifferent. He squinted at her, looking for evidence of deception, but she seemed genuine enough. “I would prefer if you didn’t, of course, but—”

“Vi,” he said, facing her. It was a trick his father had always used; face the person, lock eyes, and very deliberately use their name. Sort of an imitation of intimacy, Ed had always said, and Tom had always made a point to listen.

“Listen,” Tom said now, conspiratorially. “The thing is, I like you.” He paused. “Actually, that might be a lie.”

She nodded. “Go on.”

“I like you, probably,” he amended, “so this is nothing personal, but—”

“I get it,” she interrupted, waving a hand. “Haunt away.”

He blinked.

“Really?” he asked.

She nodded. “Really.”

She slid from the counter, turning to leave, and for whatever reason, he suffered a bit of disappointment at the idea that she was going, and that it meant he would inevitably be left alone.

“Talk later?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes, picking up the platter and taking it with her to the dining room.

“Talk later,” she agreed, dusting off her blazer and heading for the door.

Modern Myths

“So you’ve got a ghost,” Isis said.

“I’ve got a ghost,” Vi confirmed. “A very chatty one.”

Very chatty. She’d thought that if Tom warmed up to her he might ease up on the haunting, but that had not been the case. The last potential buyers had all suffered some variety of electromagnetic shock from every surface in the house. Just a hot day, she’d suggested, but they seemed about as willing to buy the excuse as they were to buy the house.

Fair enough. She wouldn’t have, either.

“And I take it,” Isis continued, “that people aren’t really into the idea of buying a haunted house.”

“Most people just think the house’s pipes are old, or that there’s something off with the materials, but the cost of tearing a historical building apart and redoing it all—” she shrugged. “Scarier to them than a ghost, really.”

“Rich people,” Isis lamented. “Why are they always so fucking cheap?”

“Human people,” contributed Sylvester, the computer-hacking fairy called ‘Sly’ for short. “The worst.”

“Dead people,” Louisa the siren interrupted, shaking her head. “Or was that not the topic at hand?”

“Right, dead people,” Vi confirmed. “One dead person, actually.”

“A dead Parker,” Isis told them pointedly, and Sly frowned.

“Which one?”

“Which one?” Vi asked, bewildered. “Is this a thing?”

“The curse,” supplied Isis, nodding.

“The curse,” Louisa sighed wistfully. “I miss curses.”

“You miss curses?” Sly demanded. “I should think I’m the one who—”

“Stop,” Isis warned, snapping her fingers. “Focus.”

“The curse,” Vi pressed, turning to Isis. “You mentioned this before, about the Parkers being cursed. Is that a—” she paused. “Like, a human thing, or—?”

“Humans talk about it,” Isis confirmed ambiguously, and the other two nodded. “Sort of like a modern mythology sort of thing.” Her gaze drifted, somewhat longingly. “Reminds me of the old days, really.”

“Yes, exactly,” Louisa agreed, with a rare enthusiasm that flared around the room, prompting a thrill up every spine. “You know, like the stories.”

“Stories?” Vi asked, once she’d recovered.

“Stories,” Sly said firmly, flipping his chair around to face her. “Once upon a time, there was a man who cheated Death, and so, on the third day after a donkey shed its skin and a snake made a wish on a bridge, Death took him for his own.” He shrugged. “You know. That sort of thing.”

“People used to believe those things,” Louisa told her. “They don’t now. People sort of embrace coincidence now,” she added, picking listlessly at her nail polish. “They welcome chaos.”

“Not everyone,” Isis countered. “Clearly. Or they wouldn’t call it a curse, would they?”

“Okay, so, hold on a minute,” Vi said again, holding up a hand. “I take it more than one Parker has died, then?”

“All the Parkers have died from something that’s been either fully unexplainable or highly improbable,” Isis said, leaning forward. “And this one was stabbed, right?”

“Right,” Vi confirmed. “But nothing was stolen, and no alarms went off, and—”

“—there was nothing on the security footage,” Sly finished, sounding bored. “Not that that means much. If you can hack into the alarm system—”

“But nobody did,” Isis reminded him. “Remember? It was a whole thing. We checked.”

“You checked?” Vi asked, frowning. “Why?”

“Sort of obligated to. Creatures are always suspected first,” Louisa explained. “Lupo thought one of us had something to do with it.”

“Not really,” Isis assured her hastily, as Vi glanced around the room, helplessly searching it. “Not seriously. But hey, you gotta ask, right?”

“I guess,” she permitted warily. “So, a millionaire—”

“Billionaire,” corrected Sly.

“—billionaire, then,” Vi amended, “was murdered, mysteriously, and with no suspects, and nobody knows how or why?”

“Not a soul,” Isis confirmed. “Creature or otherwise.”

“Not true,” Louisa said. “I bet Death knows.”

Vi laughed.

She stopped laughing, though, when the others didn’t.

“What?” she asked, disbelieving. “Death?”

“You know, he has a godson,” Sly suggested, as though he were talking about a distant relative and not, as it were, a manifestation of natural phenomena. “Lives in Wicker Park.”

“Bucktown,” Louisa corrected.

“Ack,” said Sly.

“Common mistake,” soothed Louisa.

“Hold on,” trumpeted Vi. “Death has a godson?”

“He’s a medium,” Isis supplied. “He’s not technically a creature, but we know about him.”

“How?” Vi asked.

“Disruptions, you know,” Sly said, waving ambiguously around their heads. “Haziness between realms, if you want to call them that. Rumor has it he’s been alive for hundreds of years.”

“Though who hasn’t, really,” Louisa commented dully.

“Well, precisely,” Sly agreed.

“But he’s human?” Vi interrupted, confused. “So—”

“He’s human, yes,” Isis confirmed. “Entirely mortal. But I think when you’re raised by Death, there’s a chance he sort of lets you do whatever you want. He’s definitely mortal,” she added, “he’s just also—” she shrugged. “Privileged, I guess you could say.”

“Nepotism,” muttered Sly, disapproving, and Vi frowned.

“You said he’s a medium?”

“A fraud, more likely,” Louisa supplied gruffly. “But he might be a good place to start, if you’re wanting to get rid of your ghost.”

“I am,” Vi confirmed. “Very much wanting to.”

She was getting quite tired of fielding calls about it; it cut into her evening time, and she had never developed a fondness for speaking while in feline form. There was an unpleasantness to it; hurt her throat.

Small things, she figured.

But still.

“You sure?” Isis asked, grinning. “You seem a little fond of Mr Parker. It’s all this concern you have,” she explained, nudging her. “Makes it seem like you kind of like him.”

Vi scowled.

Like was a definite stretch.

“I feel bad for him,” Vi corrected, and she did; that much she could easily admit. “I’d hate to not know something. To be trapped like that. But,” she emphasized, shaking her head, “the bottom line is that I need to sell the fucking house, and there’s no getting around that.”

“Fair enough,” Isis said. “I can come with you to see the medium, if you want. I’ve always been curious.”

“Same,” Louisa said, nodding somberly. “But he knows a creature when he sees one, so he’s not exactly friendly, or so I’ve heard.”

That, Vi thought, sounded less than promising, but she wasn’t about to press the issue.

“What’s his name?” she asked instead.

Isis smiled.

“Fox D’Mora,” she supplied. “The motherfucking godson of Death.”

Miscreations

“Expecting anyone?”

“No,” Fox said warily, and approached the door, glancing through the peephole. He frowned, taking in the sight of two women. One was fairly innocuous, with a subdued, non-threatening look to her. The other, unnervingly, was eyeing him through the peephole, as though she were looking directly back at him. Fox shuddered, forcing the feeling aside, and cracked the door slightly.

“Yes?” he asked, not altogether patiently.

The women exchanged glances; one, the unnerving one, who was athletically built and some sort of Latin American flavor of aggressive, nudged the other forward.

“Hi,” the other one said. She was sort of pale-skinned; possibly Polish, if he had to guess, though he was comfortably certain he’d have just as easily overlooked her altogether. “Are you Fox D’Mora?”

“I am,” he confirmed, though in the moment he wasn’t particularly happy about it. “And you are?”

“I’m Viola Marek,” she supplied, and took a breath, as many of his visitors often did before admitting their intentions. I need to speak to someone, they might prepare to say, wringing their hands, or I need to access the other side. Most of them had labored with it; after all, the need to visit with the dead was often a compulsion. An obsession, for some. A need, and many struggled with it themselves before they arrived.

Not this woman.

“I have a ghost problem,” she said flatly.

Fox blinked.

It wasn’t new, exactly, but the delivery was surprisingly unburdened.

“Interesting,” he permitted, without elaboration.

Viola glanced at the woman beside her, who shrugged.

“The thing is,” Viola pressed, incorrectly interpreting Fox’s silence as an invitation to continue, “I’m a realtor. I need to sell this house, right?” she said, with a spirited air of conspiracy. “And I can’t—”

“Because of the ghost?” Fox guessed, and Viola nodded.

“—because of the ghost,” she confirmed.

He paused, considering it.

“How’s Death?” the other one interrupted, her teeth cutting giddily against her lip.

Fox blinked.

Frowned.

“Sorry,” he said, though he wasn’t. “What?”

“Is it true you call him Papa?” the unnamed woman asked, and at that, Fox growled impatiently, recognition dawning with an irritating clang of clarity.

“You’re creatures,” he deduced without pleasure, realizing now why he’d found them so unsettling. “I don’t do creatures. Best of luck,” he offered, moving to shut the door. “Really, good luck selling the h-”

The was a loud bang against the door as Viola’s hand shot out, preventing it from closing.

“Sorry,” she said, though she didn’t look particularly sorry either, and Fox wondered how long such mutual insincerity would persist. “I’m kind of not going to let you go that easily, I’m afraid.”

“Bold claim,” Fox commented.

“Oh, come on,” Mayra coaxed behind him, and he jumped, startled by her voice. “Let them in, would you?”

“Oh, hi,” the other woman said, peering through the crack in the door. “Angel?”

“Ironically, yes,” Mayra said, “as clearly, you’re a demon.” She hummed thoughtfully, turning to look at Viola. “You’re something else, though,” she noted, tilting her head with curiosity.

“Yes,” Viola agreed, glancing over her shoulder. “Though I’m not entirely sure it’s appropriate for the entire hallway to hear.”

“Something dead,” Mayra ruled, apparently still trying to sort out Viola’s particular brand of miscreation, and then brightened. “Huh,” she said, and reached out, dragging Fox back by the collar of his shirt to allow them entrance. “Come in.”

“Yes, welcome to my home,” Fox said irritably, glaring at Mayra. “Never mind that rules are rules, and no matter what they say, I still don’t work for creatures—”

“What’s going on?” Cal asked, rising to his feet as they processed into the living room, Fox sulking behind Mayra as she led the two creatures inside. “Who’s this?”

“Isis,” the demon offered, extending a hand. “You’re a reaper, then? Hey,” she said, gesturing between them and smirking. “Same team, right?”

“Sure,” Cal said, as Viola frowned.

“What’s a reaper?”

“A soldier of Lucifer,” Isis supplied, with the air of someone who was usually in possession of the answer; which was, relatedly, one of Fox’s least favorite qualities for other people to have. “And this one,” she went on, gesturing to Mayra, “is an accountant of God—”

“I prefer auditor as a term,” Mayra corrected. “More accurate.”

“Okay, first of all, stop bonding,” Fox announced, and both Isis and Mayra gave him skeptical looks of disapproval, but gestured for him to speak. “Look,” he said, turning to Viola, “I understand that you need help—”

“I do,” she said. “He—the ghost,” she clarified, as Isis nodded encouragingly, “doesn’t know how he died, or why he’s still there.”

“Which is totally understandable,” Fox assured her a second time, unfazed. “But still, I don’t work with creatures. No creatures, no gods, no demigods. Always ends up being something fishy,” he added, sniffing. “Curses, you know, et cetera. Comes with the territory. Always more sacrifice involved than I’d like.”

And it was true. Though, ‘always’ was a bit of a stretch; in reality, the one time had been enough.

“Well, can’t you at least talk to him?” Viola asked. “Or, you know. To Death?”

Fox scoffed loudly.

“Believe me, Death would be even more opposed to this than I am,” Fox informed her. “It would be quite a favor, honestly, and I’m not even sure you have anything that I want.”

“He says, lyingly,” Mayra contributed, and he glared at her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a collector, Fox,” she reminded him, gesturing around the room. “It’s why you kept my relic, and why you have Cal’s tags, and don’t get me started on that watch—”

Fox shifted uneasily, tucking the watch beneath his cuff as he caught the demon’s eyes wandering greedily to his wrist, flashing with interest.

“So?” he muttered.

“So,” Mayra said, “I’m sure a demon and a—vampire?” she guessed, and Viola nodded, prompting Mayra’s golden cheeks to flush celestially with satisfaction. “Surely they have something of value, don’t you think?”

“Not to mention the ghost in question is a Parker,” Viola added hastily, taking a quick step towards him. “The house is full of heirlooms, so—”

“A Parker?” Fox asked, surprised. “Not Tom Parker? No wait,” he amended, frowning. “He’s dead.”

“Well, yes,” Viola said impatiently. “You know, which tends to happen, what with the whole ghost thing—”

“No, I meant the first Tom Parker,” Fox corrected her. “I heard about him once or twice. A long time ago,” he clarified, shaking his head at the thought. “Clearly, seeing as we were contemporaries when I first came here. But this must be the—”

He trailed off, thinking. “Fourth?”

“Yes, fourth,” Viola confirmed, nodding. “Thomas Edward Parker IV.”

“Well, fine, then,” Fox sighed. “I guess we can call him, but—”

“Oh, no,” Viola said quickly. “Actually, we need you to come to the house, because he can’t seem to leave it.”

Fox felt his mouth tighten, displeased.

“I don’t make house calls,” he said flatly, as Mayra groaned aloud.

“Do you need me to pull out your ledger, Fox D’Mora?” she demanded, snapping her fingers to produce a golden scroll from mid-air. “Sorry to inform you that you’re in the negative,” she said, as Isis the demon leaned over, struggling to view the scroll’s contents as Mayra pulled it out of her sight. “Deeply in the negative, actually—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Fox reminded her briskly. “Or do I really need to remind you that I’m not dying anytime soon?”

“Nepotism,” Isis commented to Viola, which Fox resolutely ignored.

“Come on,” Mayra urged, adjusting her wings to accommodate a coaxing shrug. “I’m out of miracles, Fox. I need something to do.”

“Oh, so you’re coming too, then?” Fox demanded. “You’re suddenly interested in ghost stories, are you, Mayra Kaleka?”

“I’ll come,” Cal offered, with his usual quiet solemnity. “What?” he asked, as Fox deliberately stared at him, arching a brow. “I’ve never been inside the Parker Mansion. Seems like it could be interesting.”

“Sure,” Fox drawled, narrowing his eyes as Mayra innocently considered the ceiling. “Of course that’s why—”

“Okay, great,” Viola judged aloud, nodding firmly. “Well, the thing is, tomorrow there’s an open house, but if you can come right after that—”

“Now you want to schedule me?” Fox demanded. “What’s wrong with right now?”

“What’s wrong with right now,” Viola supplied without expression, “is that if I don’t get on the L quite soon, I’m going to turn into somewhat of a terrifying hell-beast. By which I mean a cat, of course,” she clarified, “but they’re certainly beasts of their own.”

“True,” said Cal, and the others turned, staring at him. “What?” he asked, ruffled. “I don’t care for them.”

“You realize I’m a demon,” Isis reminded him, and he shrugged.

“Not a far cry from a cat,” he muttered, and Fox sighed loudly.

“Fine,” he said. “Tomorrow, then—”

“Excellent,” contributed Mayra, plucking a loose feather from her wing and gifting it, with a certain grandness, to Viola. “When you’re ready for me to arrive, make a wish on that feather, would you?”

“A wish?” Viola echoed. “How fanciful.”

“Fanciful bullshit, more like,” Isis said, and Mayra nodded.

“Inconvenient,” she permitted. “Overly whimsical, certainly, but not wholly without some facets of interest.”

“And you?” Viola asked, turning to Cal. “How do I find you?”

“Oh, I’m just staying with Fox,” he said.

“The hell you are,” Fox retorted. “You’ve barely been helpful, Calix, and—”

“Mayra,” Cal said, turning to her. “What was that about Fox’s ledger?”

Mayra cleared her throat. “Deeply in the negative, beginning with the time he first stole a bit of—”

“OKAY,” Fox said, rolling his eyes. “Fine. So I have an appointment with some creatures at a dead man’s house and a reaper sleeping on my couch—”

“I don’t sleep,” Cal reminded him, and Fox threw his hands up.

“Have any of you ever watched a sitcom?” he asked. “You know, where the zaniest thing that most people imagine is that one of the characters gets a monkey, you know, or they sleep together on holiday? And to think, this is my actual life—”

“Real life is much more interesting,” Isis interrupted. “I mean, for one thing, have you ever watched Jersey Shore?”

“Don’t talk anymore,” Fox told her wearily. “You’re hurting my head.”

“Great,” Viola said again, turning to the door. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“Not great,” Fox corrected. “Decidedly not great, but yes, tomorrow.”

The demon paused at his side, glancing oddly at him.

“How old are you?” Isis asked him, and he groaned.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop talking?”

“I’m just curious—”

“How old are you?” he snapped, and she smiled.

“Ageless,” she replied, with an air of eternality.

He pursed his lips.

“I’m twenty-seven,” Fox said. “Happy now?”

She smirked. “Been twenty-seven for long?”

He stared at her.

“How mortal of you to wonder,” he said, and she laughed, dazzlingly.

“Well, I strive to make myself relatable,” she returned, and his stomach twisted.

A thousand thoughts contorted in his mind, birthing a thousand more. He swallowed them all. He dragged them from his soul and cast them aside.

“You remind me of someone I used to know,” he said eventually, traveling a long way down steep paths of his memory. “And I hate them.”

She looked oddly triumphant.

“Fair enough,” she agreed, and smiled.

It was an unsettling smile, and Fox, lost for words, headed to the door, holding it open and ushering them through it.

“Goodbye,” he said, without watching them go.

“You think she knows?” Mayra asked later, curling her hand around Fox’s shoulder.

Of course she doesn’t know, he thinks.

She cannot know.

(Can she?)

(This is why he doesn’t work with creatures.)

“Yes,” he said, frowning.

Mayra smiled warmly. One of her smaller miracles, for which there was no price.

“Sleep well, Fox,” she said, and kissed his cheek.

“Goodnight,” he whispered.

“Juice pack?” Isis offered, holding one out to Vi as they took the L back to their respective homes. She accepted, glancing uneasily around the train.

“Something feels off,” Vi commented, puncturing the box and pausing, bringing it carefully to her lips. “Something just feels … wrong,” she murmured, shaking her head and letting the blood spread slowly around her mouth, soothing the chapped crevices of her lips.

Isis looked around, making a face.

“There are more creatures here than normal,” she noted, confirming Vi’s theory. “There’s a general undeadness to the air.”

Vi shuddered. “How can you tell?”

“I can tell a lot of things,” Isis said, shrugging. “Sort of comes with the territory.”

“You know, I never really asked what being a demon entailed,” Vi noted, glancing at her. “You’ve always said that like it means something, but I guess I just never asked.”

“Well, there’s some poeticism to it—to the whole ‘casting off your demons’ thing, you know,” Isis replied, waving a hand. “Abilities vary, obviously, but down to the quick of it, we exist to remind mortals of their inner selves. I daresay being around the godson of Death will do wonders for my complexion,” she added, preening in her reflection from the train’s fogged up windows. “We really thrive on blood sacrifice, but psychological trauma will do in a pinch. Especially the kind he’s been through.”

“Seems—” Vi paused. “Slightly immoral, doesn’t it? Taking advantage of him like that?”

Isis nodded, but shrugged. “Can’t do much about it,” she supplied. “Demons feed on misery. It’s why I live in a city—always plenty to come by, especially with weather like this. I tried L.A. once,” she added, with a bit of wistful nostalgia. “There’s sort of a vacuousness there, though. Melancholia and misery really aren’t the same, you know?”

“I don’t think I realized this about you,” Vi remarked, and Isis shrugged again.

“You’re a creature,” she said, with a fraternal sort of nod. “I leave creatures alone. Got their own thing going on and anyway, I’m a demon, not a monster. But Fox, on the other hand—”

“Why was he so upset?” Vi asked. “It seemed like you were reading his mind, but that’s—”

“I was,” Isis confirmed bluntly. “Well, less reading it—that’s a bit, you know, elementary. It’s more like catching imprints of it. Tracing the bits of it that matter and feeling out the pressure points.”

“And what are Fox’s pressure points?” Vi prompted.

“Abandonment,” Isis said, without hesitation. “Disillusionment. Resentment. Guilt.”

“Guilt? Really?”

“Yes, guilt,” Isis confirmed, nodding. “Tends to happen when one lives for several hundred years. Can’t really help picking up a crime or two along the way.”

Vi gave a perfunctory nod, her attention already drifting by then, and took another sip of her juice box, looking around. She noted that the moment she’d opened it, several heads had swiveled her way, sniffing it in the air; there was an eerie sort of creeping up her spine, now, as if too many eyes rested on the back of her neck.

She forced a swallow and turned away, leaning towards Isis.

“So do you think Fox is going to be able to fix this?” Vi asked, aiming for neutrality, and Isis smiled.

“Well, I certainly hope so,” she said. “I mean, if we’re going to go through all this trouble,” she added, glaring at a man who seemed to be helplessly reaching out for her juice pack. “Here,” she said, tossing it to him. “Drink your own and move along, would you?”

He seemed surprised but nodded gruffly, stumbling down the train.

“Ghoul,” Isis offered in explanation, as Vi raised a brow. “I think. Something dead, for sure. Probably something that likes corpses, too, by the looks of it.”

“Gross,” Vi determined, shuddering.

“Says the vampire,” Isis reminded her, giving her a firm nudge. “The aswang, even. Don’t you have a whole thing with babies?”

“Yes,” Vi permitted, “but I’m managing it.”

“You can’t manage everything,” Isis told her firmly. “And anyway, I’m not totally sure you’ve thought this through. You know that if Fox is successful, Tom will be gone, right?”

“It had occurred to me,” Vi replied drily. “Though it’s only my primary goal, of course—”

“Gone,” Isis said again, “forever.”

“Yes,” Vi agreed.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Isis prompted. “No little nigglings of opposition?”

Vi turned towards her, battling the strangest feeling that she was being thoroughly invaded.

“I thought you said you leave creatures alone?” she asked tartly, and Isis smiled.

“Sorry,” she sang in reply, without a trace of apology. “Force of habit.”

Interlude I:

Acts

Fox is human, and so he dreams. That night, he has the same dream; the same dream he always has, every night. He watches it like a play.

[The scene opens upon two lovers in bed; the candles are low, and the bed, meant for a single occupant, is far too small for the both of them. Still, they huddle together, bathed in each other’s warmth, and they whisper; not because they fear they will be overheard, but because they fear retribution; they fear their words will come back to haunt them, and so they restrict them, hold them close.

The scene begins with a young man; too young. Young men are fools.

Act I, Scene I. Begin play.]

The fool: Will you still love me, do you think? If we are ever to be old and grey.

The thief: You’ll never be old, Fox. And I certainly will never be grey.

The fool: You will. Someday.

The thief: How mortal of you.

The fool: You’re mostly mortal too, you know, despite your efforts to hide it.

The thief: Well, I strive to make myself relatable.

The fool: You know, sometimes I wonder …

The thief: Wonder what?

The fool: If I hate you.

The thief: You don’t hate me. Didn’t you just say you loved me?

The fool: No. I asked if you would still love me.

The thief: Ah.

The fool: Well?

The thief: The question doesn’t apply, Fox. Go to sleep.

The fool: Why?

The thief: Because.

The fool: That’s not an answer.

The thief: You’re a child.

The fool: I’m not a child.

The thief: —he says, childishly.

The fool: It’s a simple question. Will you love me still?

The thief: You’ll never grow old, Fox, and neither will I. I won’t let us, remember?

The fool: But you see my concept, don’t you? Say we don’t get old. Say we live forever. Will you love me, then? Well into forever?

The thief: Fox.

The fool: It’s a simple question.

The thief: Yes, but it’s not a simple answer.

The fool: So it’s a no, then. You won’t love me. Do you love me now?

[Silence.]

The thief: What if I tell you that I will love you, Fox D’Mora, every day that I walk this earth—would that make you happy? Is that what you want?

[More silence.]

The fool: Are you lying?

The thief: Impossible to tell. Do you think I’m lying?

The fool: I think you enjoy lying to me.

The thief: Then why do you love me?

The fool: Because I’m a fool. Why do you love me?

The thief: Because you’re a fool.

The fool: And because you’re a thief.

The thief: And what, pray tell, have I stolen?

The fool: This watch, for one. My affections, for another.

The thief: Ah, yes. Rather an incidental theft.

The fool: Do you regret it?

The thief: For your sake? Perhaps.

The fool: How philanthropic of you.

The thief: Go to bed, Fox.

The fool: You go to bed.

The thief: Clever, aren’t you?

The fool: Kiss me.

The thief: Clever and demanding, it seems.

The fool: Please?

[A kiss occurs; it is neither given nor taken. The kiss is shared.]

The thief: Happy now?

The fool: You taste funny.

The thief: Well, that’s what I get for indulging you, I suppose. Mockery.

The fool: No, I mean—you taste different.

The thief: Different how?

The fool: Different, like … like how the air smells different after the rain.

The thief: Like change, you mean?

The fool: Yes, I suppose. Like change.

[They marinate in silence.]

[It drags, and falters, and pulses.]

The thief: I’m afraid I will cost you quite greatly, Fox, and I’m desperately sorry for it.

[The fool battles his folly. Temporarily, he wins.]

The fool: I think perhaps I’ll go to bed now.

[The thief swallows heavily.]

The thief: Alright.

The fool: Will you stay until I fall asleep?

[A pause.]

The thief: Always.

The fool: Are you lying now?

[The thief is lying, and they both know it.]

The thief: No way to tell, is there?

[There is no Scene II. The fool wakes alone. End Play.]

Open Season

“I remembered something else today,” Tom remarked, and Vi inclined her head, acknowledging him discreetly as she watched people wander around the Parker home. “It was someone’s birthday that day. You know,” he added, gesturing to his chest. “That day.”

“I didn’t realize you’d want to chat,” Vi commented warily, not looking at him. “Thought you’d be busy poltergeist-ing.” She waved a hand, gesturing ambiguously around the room. “What with all these potential buyers here, I mean. Your opportunities for mayhem are spectacularly boundless.”

Tom shrugged.

“None of these people are serious buyers,” he admonished her with a scoff, and Vi arched a brow, permitting a wary show of interest. “My dad always had an eye for that. Look at that guy,” Tom explained, pointing at someone in the corner. “He’s studying that painting far too closely for that not to be what he’s really here for. Probably expecting it to show up at an estate sale or something. And that woman,” he noted, gesturing, “her suit’s been re-tailored more than once. She doesn’t have the money for this.”

A fair point.

“Maybe she works for someone else,” Vi suggested.

“Nah,” Tom sniffed. “She’d be taking notes, taking pictures; someone else buying the house would want details on the investment, presumably. If you ask me, she looks like a blogger,” he guessed. “She’s checked all the rugs and I swear she’s looking for blood stains.”

“God, what a bunch of vultures,” Vi murmured, shaking her head in disapproval. “But maybe she just likes the suit.”

“She doesn’t,” Tom corrected. “Watch,” he added, and Vi obliged, considering the woman as she shifted, tugging at her skirt. “I think she finds the material uncomfortable. More likely it’s her only suit. She’s gained some weight, I think,” he noted. “Hence the re-tailoring.”

“You’re good at this,” Vi noted.

“Nothing better to do,” Tom replied. “Plus I checked her purse, and the alteration receipt’s in there.”

Vi rolled her eyes.

“You’re the worst,” she said, which he did not contest. “And anyway,” she added, watching the woman closely, “I think she’s pregnant.”

Tom shrugged, unfazed.

“So anyway,” he continued. “It was someone’s birthday.”

Vi glanced at him.

“Not yours,” she noted. “I looked it up.”

Tom made a delighted, terribly irritating cooing sound.

“Vi-ola,” he sang, holding his hand over his bloodied heart. “You know my birthday?”

“More like I know it wasn’t your birthday because it also wasn’t Christmas,” she reminded him smartly. “Because as you might recall, to the rest of the world, December 25th registers as something slightly more significant than simply Thomas Edward Parker’s birthday.”

“Thomas Edward Parker the fourth,” he reminded her, wagging a finger. “Important distinction.”

“Quite,” she said, stifling a yawn. “So whose birthday, then?” she pressed, glancing over at him. “Lainey’s?”

“Nah,” he said. “One of us would have mentioned it in the phone call. And anyway, usually on her birthday I take her to this diner she likes in the South Loop. She likes the red velvet there because they add a side of whipped cream to the cream cheese frost-” he paused, catching the look on her face. “What?”

“You take your ex-girlfriend to dinner on her birthday?” Vi asked, amused. “What was all that about ‘we’re done here,’ then? Just you playing games?”

Tom gave her a look of spectacular irritation.

“We’d fought,” he explained. “We had our ups and downs, and that was definitely a down—but still, I’d have taken her out for her birthday. Tradition, you know. When you’re the fourth person with the same fucking name,” he muttered, “you tend to attach to things that feel meaningfully repetitive.”

Vi shrugged. “So what’d you fight about?”

“Not sure,” Tom admitted, grimacing. “I keep trying to remember, but it feels like something’s blocking me somehow.” He leaned forward, rubbing his eyelids. “Makes my head hurt, actually.”

“Odd,” Vi remarked. “Seems like you shouldn’t feel things like that.”

“I sort of thought I’d feel less in general,” Tom agreed, and brightened. “Remind me to ask Death about it when we see him.”

“Did you not see him before?” Vi asked. “I mean. Presumably he came for you, right?”

“Maybe I did,” Tom said, shrugging. “Maybe I didn’t. The memory lapses, you know. Who knows. Maybe he performed a full rendition of ‘I Ran,’ and I just lost the whole thing—”

“That,” Vi interrupted, “is a classic, whatever anyone says.”

“I know,” Tom said stiffly, “which is why I imagine it’s in Death’s repertoire.”

“Excuse me,” someone ventured, interrupting their conversation and sidling up to Vi. His golden-blond hair, which contrasted strangely with his pale blue eyes—a bit like mixed metals, Vi thought, reminded of flashes of gold and silver—was slicked back neatly from his face. She caught the slim, jagged line of a scar across his upper lip and watched it level itself as the man smiled, the white line of it stretching idly above his canines. “You’re the real estate agent, yes?” he asked. “Ms Marek?”

“Yes, that’s me,” Vi confirmed, offering him a hand. “May I help you?”

“I’m just curious,” he began, accepting her proffered grip with a firm but unremarkable amount of pressure, “I know there are sometimes tours hosted in this house.” He gestured vaguely around the room, and she nodded, confirming. “When are those?”

“Weekends, late morning,” Vi supplied in answer. “Which will, of course, willingly cease once the house is purchased. For now, though, the Parker foundation has a controlling stake in both the house and the offices. They say that Wynona Parker—the wife of Ned Parker, who built the house—started the tours herself nearly a hundred years ago,” Vi added, leaning into a bit of anecdotal charm. “She was particularly fond of the solarium.”

“Yes, yes, interesting,” the man said disingenuously, glancing around the room. “What’s the security like?”

“Poor,” Tom said. “Clearly.”

“Hush,” Vi said through her teeth, as the man continued to inspect the ceilings. “It’s excellent, sir—though most things in the house are insured,” she added, sensing something off about his behavior. “And protected by dogs,” she threw out wildly, momentarily inspired.

“No it isn’t,” Tom scoffed. “Dad was allergic, so—”

The man turned, glancing eerily where Tom was standing.

“There’s no dogs,” the man said flatly, “but good try. You don’t think I’m a serious buyer?” he prompted, offering her a full spin so as to appreciate the finery of his suit. “I assure you, if I decide I want the house, it’s as good as mine.”

“Oh, no sir,” Vi assured him, “I just—”

“Viola,” the man interrupted, and then glanced warily at her. “May I call you Viola?”

“Call me Vi, even, if you like,” she invited, and he nodded, pleased.

“I see I’ve given you the entirely wrong impression, but you should know that you do some lovely work with staging, and that I’ve slipped myself one of your cards for future use. Not a bad picture, by the way,” he commented, holding it up between two fingers. “You pull off a collarless blouse with aplomb.”

“Maybe not with aplomb,” Tom disagreed. “Something slightly lower. I mean, you look fine, but—”

“Thank you,” Vi told the man, speaking over Tom. “It’s a good blouse.”

“Isn’t it funny how objects endear themselves to us?” the man asked, reaching into his pocket and producing, oddly, a small yellow apple, almost like one of the apple-pear hybrids Vi knew they sold in an obscure corner of the supermarket. He buffed part of it, shrugging, and then took a bite, chewing quietly. “Like, this blouse,” he said, holding up the card again. “It’s good, because it makes your neck look, you know—” he gestured, using the hand with the apple. “Makes it look, like—regal. You know. Like a pillar.”

“I suppose,” Vi permitted, and then, for whatever inane reason, she continued the conversation, adding, “possibly a bit more to it, though. Material and all that.” She shrugged. “Fits right every time, et cetera.”

“Yes, sure, but to that point, nobody’s questioning your material,” the man said, somewhat outrageously. “Anyone ask you what you’re made of lately? I’d guess not,” he answered himself, taking another bite into the apple. “Because you are good or bad separate from whom you serve, right?”

“Well,” Vi said, glancing askance at Tom, who looked equally bewildered. “What’s your philosophy on houses, then?”

The man paused, thinking it over.

“Well, what makes a house good or bad? Its foundation, I suppose,” he postulated, nodding to himself. “It’s got anatomy too, though. Guts and stuff. This house,” he said, abruptly tapping his foot against the floor. “It’s got guts, for sure. Good bones. Good face. How’s its soul?”

He stopped, waiting, and she blinked.

“I—” Vi faltered. “What?”

“How’s the house’s soul?” the man asked again, a little impatiently. “Has it got one, firstly?”

“It’s an inanimate object,” Vi reminded him slowly, and he shrugged.

“Houses’ve got souls,” he said. “You know, when you walk into a house and you can smell the home cooking, hear the children laughing, playing? That’s the soul of it. A soul, anyway, but not this one’s soul. This house, well—” he shrugged again. “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s got a soul like a church, you know? Seen too much. Seen everything. Austere. Real sense of hierarchy to it.” He shifted, taking another bite, and gestured towards the ceilings, sweeping his arm around to reference the room. “Churches, man. They’ve got tears on the floor, though,” he said, somewhat thoughtfully. “You can feel them. Taste them. This place isn’t quite that.”

He paused again, chewing slowly.

“This place’s got blood on the walls,” he said, somewhat eerily.

Vi inhaled sharply.

“Are you—” she began, and grimaced. “Is this—are you a blogger or something?”

“Nah,” he said, getting down to the core of his apple and tossing it in the garbage at her side. “Why?”

“That’s—I just—”

“Oh, is there actually blood on the walls?” he asked, laughing. “Just a guess, jenta mi.”

Vi didn’t recognize the term, but she frowned anyway, ambiguously displeased.

“Not that it changes anything for me,” he assured her. “I’ve got blood in my veins, haven’t I? Haven’t you?” he prompted. “Why should it scare me if it also lives in the plumbing?”

At that, Vi looked around, agitated; someone a few feet away looked up, frowning at their conversation.

“Could you possibly not say things like that?” she asked, as politely as she could manage.

The man grinned, the thin scar on his lip stretching up again.

“Sure thing, my,” he said.

“My?” she echoed, and he shook his head.

“My,” he said again, and because she couldn’t hear the distinction, he reached up to draw it into the air. Møy, he wrote, and she nodded. “Means ‘pretty girl,’” he explained, “so take it as a compliment.”

“Mansplaining,” Tom muttered, rolling his eyes. “So passé.”

“Isn’t the whole thing with compliments that they sort of … give off a complimentary impression?” Vi asked the man drily, and he laughed.

“Not to worry, møy,” he told her, “my intentions are pure. Or, at least, purer than you suspect, I imagine.”

“I’m mostly curious about your purchasing intentions,” she reminded him.

“Ah, right,” he agreed. “Well, those too, I think, are not what you expect.”

“Huh,” she permitted. “So you’re interested, then?”

“Oh, certainly I’m interested,” he agreed. “But I can see I have monopolized your time, so I think at this point, I’ve seen what I need to. Best of luck, Viola Marek,” he offered, and tipped his hat. “And you, I think, could possibly use some laundering, but best wishes to you as well,” he said to Tom, and then walked away, leaving the other two to stare at each other in confusion.

Vi frowned. “Did he just—”

“Wait,” Tom said, glancing at Vi. “Hold on.”

He disappeared, and as instructed, Vi waited, watching the crowd.

The man was clearly strange, she thought firstly, though she didn’t know what to make of him, and so she didn’t think it worth the time to consider.

Her second thought, shortly after, was that the juicebox in her purse was particularly tempting; though, again, she wasn’t quite sure what to make of that either.

She felt off, slightly, which was difficult to explain, even to someone who understood, like Isis. For whatever reason, Vi felt extremely conscious of her teeth. Wanted to sink them into something. She glanced over at the pregnant woman, trying not to eye her stomach. She learned that anything that attracted her attention these days was likely something to be avoided.

“How far along?” Vi asked the woman. It was a question Vi had worried about asking as a human, but no so much as … whatever she was now. By now, she knew a pregnant woman when she saw one—knew the pulse of a living thing, even when it was inside another—which was, in truth, far more disconcerting than practical.

Though the practicality of it was, obviously, not altogether foregone.

The woman looked surprised.

“Ten weeks,” she answered. “Still in my first trimester. Do you have children yourself?” she asked, though she looked dubious. “Most people think I’m just getting fat.”

“People,” Vi said, shaking her head. “The worst, aren’t they?”

The woman stepped closer, and Vi’s heart, were it functional, might have raced.

“Listen, I have to be honest,” the woman said, somewhat conspiratorially. “I’m not actually here to buy this house. I’m writing a book on the Parker family, and—”

Don’t come closer, Vi thought instantly, and forced herself to focus.

“It’s okay,” she managed to respond, feeling a bit dazed. “Naturally people are curious. But you—” she paused, feeling a twitch in her fingers; a strange sensation up her spine. “You should probably go,” she finished quietly, and the woman’s brow furrowed.

“Sorry,” she said, looking delicately betrayed. “I just thought—”

The tension in Vi’s spine roared through her limbs and her hand shot out, closing around the woman’s arm. The woman blinked, staring down at her fingers, and Vi gave herself another internal shake.

“Sorry,” she said, forcing herself to turn the motion into a reassuring pat. “I understand, but in the future, try to make an appointment with the Foundation. This is about the sale,” she clarified, “so I’d rather not be distracted.”

The woman nodded, stepping away. Vi let out a breath of relief.

“Thanks,” Vi exhaled.

“No problem,” the woman replied, and glanced down at the food spread before gesturing to the tapenade. “And sorry about partaking,” she added, “but I swear, all the baby seems to want is oliv-”

“I have to go,” Vi cut in, turning sharply. She looked around, trying to spot Tom, and checked her watch, wondering where he’d gone.

Ten minutes.

What was he possibly doing?

“Hey,” Tom called, chasing the man as he walked towards the door and then grimacing as the stranger nearly left the premises, not bothering to look over his shoulder. “HEY,” Tom shouted again, sending a wave of electromagnetic tension through the air, and the man paused.

For a moment, he stood perfectly still, staring into nothing.

“I’ve missed something,” the man remarked, “haven’t I?”

He pivoted sharply and faced Tom, narrowing his eyes.

“Ah yes,” he said, nodding with certainty. “You’re dead. My mistake.”

Tom gaped at him.

“That,” Tom remarked, “is not the usual reaction.”

“Well, I suppose I’m not all that ‘usual,’ but thanks,” the man replied. “The lines between realms are inherently faint, I’m afraid. Sometimes it doesn’t occur to me to wonder if one has been crossed.”

Tom gauged him for truth; arrived at certainty.

“Christ,” he remarked, having ascertained belief. “What are you?”

The man shrugged.

“Unimportant,” he said. “What are you?”

There was another pause; this time for estimation.

“A ghost, I think,” Tom answered. “Vi thinks I’m a poltergeist.”

“Vi?”

“Viola,” Tom explained. “The vampire in there. Sorry,” he realized, amending the statement. “I meant the realtor.”

“Oh shit, no kidding,” the man said. “Missed that too, I guess.”

“You don’t seem too concerned,” Tom commented. “Come across us supernatural types often?”

“Well, like I said, there’s only a distinction if you make one,” the man told him, with a strange sort of dignified ease that struck Tom as though his grandfather might have said it. “A short redhead served me my coffee this morning, but that doesn’t mean he’s a leprechaun. Doesn’t mean he’s not, either,” the man conceded, “but the coffee was good, so the distinction is moot.”

“I guess that’s one way to look at it,” Tom said slowly, and then frowned. “But I don’t think you’re here to buy my house.”

“Oh, it’s your house?” the man asked. “Interesting.”

“Yeah. I’m Tom,” explained Tom. “Tom Parker.”

“Brandt,” the man returned. “Solberg.”

“Is that an alias?”

“It’s been updated to suit the times,” Brandt confirmed. “Americans have a hell of a time with Old Norse.”

“How old is your Old Norse, exactly?” Tom asked.

“Old enough,” Brandt said. “Otherwise I’d have just said Norse.”

That was fair, Tom thought.

“So,” he pressed. “About the house—”

“I’m not going to buy it,” Brandt said, confirming Tom’s suspicions. “Actually, I’m going to rob it.”

Tom blinked.

“What?”

“Look, it’s not like you can do much with the stuff in here,” Brandt reminded him. “And you seem like a nice enough guy. Not sure I can base that on much,” he commented, gesturing vaguely to Tom’s knife wound, “since most nice guys I know have never been stabbed in the chest, but, you know.” He shrugged. “I’m not really the lying type.”

“You seem like you probably are,” Tom ventured slowly, and Brandt grimaced.

“No real way to tell, is there?” he asked.

Tom, by that point, felt vaguely dizzied.

“I’m just not sure I want you to rob my house,” he said.

“Well, that’s fair,” Brandt agreed. “Most people don’t.”

There was a pause.

“I’m still going to,” Brandt assured him, somewhat apologetically. “There’s something I need.”

“Oh,” said Tom.

“Besides,” Brandt added, “it’s technically mine.”

“Doubt that,” Tom commented.

“People often do,” Brandt permitted.

Tom paused, thinking it over.

On the one hand, a robbery—especially a burglary—would draw quite a lot of attention to the house, making it a crime scene once again. It would also once again expose the house as a high-profile place with deeply ineffective security, which would contribute to its continuing lack of sale.

On the other hand, Vi would be furious.

Or perhaps that was still the first hand.

“I could help you,” Tom offered.

“That,” Brandt remarked, “would be transcendent.”

“There you are,” Vi said, catching sight of Tom as he hovered back into the living room. “It’s been nearly twenty minutes!”

“Miss me, did you?” Tom prompted obnoxiously, and she rolled her eyes.

“What’d he say?”

“Not much,” Tom told her. “He’s something weird, though, that’s for sure. Said something about not seeing lines between realms.”

“Realms?” Vi echoed. “That just sounds nutty.”

“Didn’t you say that an angel, a reaper, and the godson of Death were coming this afternoon?” Tom prompted. “I hardly think you’re one to discuss being nutty, Viola.”

“Viola,” she noted, tutting. “Are you trying to ‘Elaine’ me now?”

“No,” Tom said. “If I were, I’d call you Elaine.”

Vi sighed.

“Whatever,” she said. “In any case—”

“In any case, he’s gone now,” Tom said. “I don’t think he’s a buyer.”

“Don’t think so either,” Vi agreed, “but what else is new, really. I’m thinking I’ll try talking to commercial developers next,” she commented, glancing around. “This place might make a good boutique hotel, you know?”

“God, you have no imagination,” Tom said, rolling his eyes. “This is just now occurring to you? Uncle Benji tried to get the board’s approval for that about twenty years ago. They never agreed to it.”

“Well, maybe they will now,” Vi said, aiming for optimism. “Unless it’s expressly stated somewhere that they can’t, obviously—”

“It is,” Tom informed her. “It’s a stipulation in the house’s ownership. People have to live here,” he explained. “Don’t know why, but Wynona made sure Ned Parker put it in his will. My grandmother,” he clarified unnecessarily. “She said it was important.”

“Of course she did,” Vi sighed, shaking her head. “Your family’s a bunch of oddballs,” she added. “No wonder they’re cursed.”

“Hey, don’t joke about curses,” Tom warned, gesturing to himself. “I did, and look at me.”

“I don’t think you died from a curse,” Vi told him. “I think you died from a violent stabbing.”

“Well, you can think whatever you like, Viola Marek,” Tom said, “just don’t ever think yourself safe.”

She thought it sounded ominous.

“Fair enough,” she agreed, feeling more than a little unsettled.

Cause and Effect

“We have a problem,” Raphael announced, his weightless footfall disturbing little of the nebulae below him save for the airy breeze it conjured, apple-scented and crisp. “Death appears to have shirked his duty.”

“Shirked,” Gabriel echoed, lifting his head. “Sounds serious.”

“It is,” Raphael agreed. “He’s nowhere to be found.”

“Who, Death?” Gabriel prompted with a frown, sitting up. “Impossible. Something must be wrong.”

“Hence the problem,” Raphael agreed. “I should think that would be obvious.”

(And it was, of course, but still.)

(Some things simply needed to be said.)

“Well, pause for a moment,” Gabriel ventured, and Raphael folded his arms over his chest, waiting. “Which job are we talking about, specifically?”

“The main one,” Raphael supplied. “The transportation bit,” he added for further clarification, “not the security part.”

“Well, presumably the thing is safe, then,” Gabriel said, exhaling. “That’s a relief.”

“Not nearly as relieving as I’d like,” Raphael countered gruffly. “You’ll notice there’s no receiving line.”

(Gabriel had noticed, but rather hadn’t wished to remark.)

“So there have been no Ends, then,” he guessed, and Raphael grimaced.

“Not quite,” he said. “The Ends are still going ahead as scheduled.”

Gabriel waited, perplexed.

“But—”

“But without Death to transport them, they’re not arriving at the gates,” Raphael continued, indulging his irritating love of dramatic pauses. “There is much unrest.”

“Wait,” Gabriel said. “So where are they? The dead, I mean.”

Raphael hesitated. “They’re—” he paused, coughing. “Not quite dead.”

“How ‘not quite’ are we talking?” Gabriel asked, and Raphael shuddered.

“Let’s just say this,” he offered. “We should probably pay a visit to Death’s abode.”

Gabriel grimaced.

“Not my favorite abode,” he lamented.

“Hence the problem,” Raphael confirmed.

Where does Death reside?

In the dead, of course, and in the souls of the living; in their fears of the future and in the losses of their pasts. Death lives in the too-quiet silences, in the deepest parts of night. Death makes a home in the moments of stiffness, the seconds before a fall; in the heavy-hearted candor of the surgeon’s hands, the archer’s bow, the executioner’s axe, the injectioner’s needle. Death lurks, he stalks, he waits—or so we would believe, anyway, in our selfish vanities and prides, because Death lives so vibrantly in our consciousness that it is exceedingly difficult to imagine he might actually have a home of his own.

But despite our misconceptions, he does have a home, as do most people and things and beings, and Death’s abode is not a grim Tudor manor house, nor a hard-stone castle, nor a spindly Victorian. Death resides, rather, in the Tree of Life, which sits above a cave of his own making. He sleeps (metaphorically, of course) in a treehouse of sorts, built from enchanted wood lent to him by the tree itself, but he lives down below, where the jeweled interior of a solitary cavern reflects the light of his many treasures.

Death’s cave is illuminated by itself, and to see the inside is to see the manifestation of wishes, of fanciful wonder, for Death himself is a collector by trade, and his collection is quite grand.

“Well,” Raphael said, careful not to drag his seraphic wings on the mossy, damp ground of Death’s cave. “I’d say he’s not here.”

“I’d say you’re right,” Gabriel agreed. “Much as I abhor it.”

They paused, considering their predicament.

“He’s never been gone before,” Raphael commented, to nobody in particular. “I really don’t like it.”

“Well, I doubt he meant to upset you personally,” Gabriel offered kindly, and Raphael sighed.

“Do you think anyone else has noticed?” he asked. “You know the others will want to be alerted as soon as possible. Him,” he added, pointing upwards, “and him,” he determined, tapping his foot against the floor.

“Unless we can find him first,” Gabriel suggested. “Him, I mean,” he clarified, gesturing around Death’s cave.

At that, Raphael brightened.

“Perhaps we find him first,” he agreed, and paused. “We’ll have to fetch someone,” he realized. “But who?”

Gabriel tilted his head, weighing their options.

“It is a matter of urgency,” he ventured tentatively. “So perhaps it would be unorthodox, but per-”

“Don’t say it,” Raphael muttered, flinching.

“-haps we should simply summon both sides?”

Raphael sighed.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” he lamented.

“Hence the problem,” Gabriel contributed sagely.

“Hence the problem,” Raphael agreed.

Interlude II:

Wishes

There is nothing more telling about a person’s character than the silent wishes they keep to themselves, buried in the little nooks and crannies of their hearts. Mayra Kaleka has been borne aloft on many a person’s wish and can say with requisite authority that some hearts are darker than others, and can possess an intriguing opalescence; but however dark or light or multifaceted a heart may be, all things pertaining to a person’s true self can be read and measured by someone (like Mayra, for example) who knows precisely where to look.

Were Mayra to impart one piece of wisdom for your benefit, it would be that wishes are darker things than we imagine; because they are so close to wants, and from there only inches from desires, and thus can so easily devolve headlong into vices—which are the precise business Mayra is employed to tally and, when possible, prevent. She is a soldier of her own kind, fighting her many tiny wars, and in her experience, even the darkest of human natures can be read by the intent of something as fanciful as a wish.

To believe a wish is always pure and good is to embrace a misconception.

To glimpse what a person’s heart beats for, though, is to understand who they are.

At the moment when Mayra is not-awake-not-asleep she hears a distant whisper that stirs gently beneath the feathers of her wings. She cannot refuse when a heart calls for her, and so her eyes flutter open as she listens.

I wish to feel something, she hears, and it possesses the somber pain belonging to exhaustion, which is a feeling Mayra remembers well. She still feels an echo of it from time to time, resounding in her feather-light bones, and though death and life and afterlife have very little in common, Mayra is as she always was, and memory has not escaped her.

She sends a little rustle through the air; the girl will feel it as a delicate breeze that alights around her shoulders.

Good or bad? Mayra asks.

The shudder of the question climbs the notches of the girl’s spine.

I wish to feel something much, much larger than I am, the girl’s heart replies.

I wish to stand on the edge of ruination and defeat, to leap into a chasm full of danger. I wish to feel my blood turn cold with fear and my cheeks burn bright with shame; I wish to feel joy that fills my lungs, and sadness that swells within me like a current. I wish to feel so much and so deeply that it washes over me in waves. I wish to drag myself towards something; I wish to lose pieces of myself along the way. I wish for hunger that drives me, for passion that fulfills me, for sensations of taking and having and losing and wanting, and I wish for all of it to come with a price, and a steep one—and then I wish for the courage to pay.

Isn’t it all good because it’s something? she asks.

Isn’t it all bad because beneath it—any of it, her wish sighs—I may collapse?

Mayra listens and she wonders.

She is out of miracles, she knows, and this one would be no small feat.

But some things only need a little push.

“What’d you wish for?” asks Isis, swinging her legs from atop the kitchen counter as Tom glares at her from across the room.

“World peace,” Vi quips, tucking the feather back into her pocket.

“Should’ve aimed for something more likely,” Isis says. “Like calorie-free cheese.”

It’s a valid point; though, in fairness, Vi has some familiarity with impossibilities.

“Next time,” is all she says, pairing the statement with an evasive shrug.

Call and Response

To say that the Parker Mansion is gaudy is rather an unrepentant understatement, though Fox has seen houses like it before. One of the hazards of having lived through history is having witnessed the many cycles between opulence and devastation, and ultimately having learned to distrust them. Thus, Fox no longer possesses much patience for turrets or balconies or vines; he knows they all turn to rot eventually.

The house is beautiful to most eyes, though, Fox is sure—or if not truly beautiful, then at least possessing a certain kind of grandeur; the untouchable, inimitable kind. It stands alone on a smaller-than-average city block near Lake Shore Drive, and it seems more in communion with the lake than it does with the streets and homes around it. It has been cared for, of course, in all the superficial ways; but still, a sense of longing remains, like that of an older generation. Around the house, for instance, time has visibly moved forward. Architecture has changed, neighborhoods have grown and aged and flourished. Around the Parker House, the city has been born anew in different forms, bigger and smaller and new and different, but still always in conversation with the busy city streets.

The Parker Mansion, however, sits alone and speaks to no one. It faces its back to the city and its inhabitants and sulks wistfully towards Michigan, as though it would rather sink below the surface of the lake than continue to stand.

At first glance, the house seems stiff and haughty. Even birds seem unwilling to rest on the shoulders of the house, opting instead to circle overhead.

After a few moments of contemplation, though, it seems lonely, in the way that people who have outlived their purposes seem lonely, and then it seems to be a little sad.

After about a minute of staring, Fox thinks he understands the feeling.

“Oh good,” Vi said, permitting them entry through the front double doors and stepping deftly to the side. “You’re here, then.”

“Yes,” Fox sighed, as Cal peered curiously around the Parker sitting room. “I said I would be, didn’t I?”

“Well, either way, it’s appreciated,” Vi said, turning over her shoulder and leading them through the parlor. “Have you been here before?” she asked, briskly making small talk as Cal dragged in their wake.

Fox shook his head. “No,” he admitted. “I only really knew anything about the original Parker; the first one, with the dry goods store. He was the only one remotely in my circles at the time. But this house was built by—”

He paused, shuddering from a sudden chill, and Vi turned over her shoulder, glaring at what appeared to be the air next to Fox’s right shoulder before turning back to Fox.

“Ned Parker,” she supplied for him. “Tom’s grandfather.”

“Ah,” Fox said, glancing at his right side with a grimace. “That must be the ghost, then,” he added; Vi, however, didn’t appear to be listening, having already turned her attention back to empty air.

“Yes, I know it’s Thomas Edward Parker IV,” she sighed irritably, talking to the space between Fox and an aged gallery wall featuring dead Dutch herrings and delicately spiraling lemon peels. “I just thought, you know, Tom, seeing as that’s the name you actually use—”

“Tom, hm?” Fox echoed, eyeing what he assumed must have been the ghost. “Like his ancestor, then,” he mused, hazily recalling his experience with the first Tom Parker, whom he’d bumped into at a bar over a century ago.

“Did you know him well?” Vi asked, and then immediately let out a loud groan.

“No, as I mentioned, I didn’t, but—” Fox began, disgruntled, but again, she held up a hand, addressing the ghost.

“I don’t know what you expect,” she informed him. “You are hardly the first person in the world named Tom.” She paused, her expression melding to impatience. “I’m not going to ask him that, Tom. I don’t have all the time in the world, and I’m not in the business of antagonizing people whose help I need.” Another pause. “Yes, Thomas, I know very well that it’s your preferred business, but once again, I continue to not share enthusiasm for your hobbies—”

“So,” Fox noted, equally speaking to empty air. “This is fun.”

At that, Vi paused, her gaze sliding to his with a slow, contemplative air of suspicion.

“You know,” she commented dubiously, “I thought the whole point of being a medium was that you would be able to speak to him yourself.”

“Oh,” Fox said grumpily, “so are you talking to me now?”

Vi folded her arms over her chest, exchanging what looked to be a snotty glance with the ghost next to him.

“He’s not a fraud, Tom,” she said flatly, glancing at Fox. “He better not be, anyway.”

“I have a process,” Fox reminded her. “And anyway, you’ve dragged me out here. Would I have come if I weren’t actually capable?”

Vi’s grimace tightened.

“Yes, I know it’s a good argument,” she muttered to the ghost, and Fox sighed.

“Is there even a ghost?” he demanded. “Or are you simply unhinged?”

“You’re right, Tom,” she replied, still thoroughly engrossed in an entirely other conversation. “He is deeply unpleasant.”

“Did you see the engravings on the stairs, Fox?” Cal noted, hurrying forward, and nudged Fox, pointing over his shoulder. “Ornate. Immaculate. And really quite—”

“Showy,” Fox supplied, indifferent.

“You’ve no appreciation for the arts, Fox D’Mora,” Cal sighed, as Vi led them into the kitchen where Mayra and Isis were waiting.

“It’s a beautiful house,” Mayra remarked in agreement, catching Cal’s comment and nodding in greeting to him and Fox respectively. “Not to my taste, really, but to be honest, very little is.”

“And it’s really not to many buyers’ tastes,” Vi confirmed with a grimace. “Though, admittedly, the inseverable poltergeist that haunts it without respite might have something to do with it, but I suppose I haven’t conducted a thorough survey—yes, I know, Tom, that you don’t appreciate the reference, but I don’t know what you want me to tell you—”

“He’s telling the demon to get off the ‘very expensive’ marble,” Cal commented, leaning towards Fox and providing a fully unnecessary translation. “She’s ignoring him.”

“I can see that, Calix,” Fox muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Well, sure, but you know,” Cal said, shrugging. “And now he’s—”

He broke off as the foundation of the house gave a brief, violent tremor.

“He’s displeased?” Fox guessed drily.

“Yes,” Cal said, unironically. “He’s shouting ‘HELLO’—”

“No need,” Fox assured him. “Thank you, but I’m good.”

“Yes, hello,” Isis flippantly agreed in the ghost’s direction, and Vi sighed.

“Well, now that you’ve all met Tom,” she continued, turning to Fox, “I presume we can get started?”

“What exactly does this whole thing entail?” Isis asked before Fox could answer, finally removing herself from the kitchen counter and taking a few steps towards him. “Is there some sort of blood-and-bone ritual involved?”

“Oh no,” Vi said, looking queasy. “Please no.”

“Well, a magician never reveals his secrets,” Fox informed her stiffly, suffering again the demon’s unnerving stare. “But no, there’s little to no blood involved.”

Isis, however, did not look disappointed.

“Interesting you would liken yourself to a magician, you know,” she remarked. “So you admit this is all smoke and mirrors, then?”

Fox opened his mouth, about to argue that she was quite obviously oversimplifying matters, but he forced himself to reconsider, shaking his head with a growl.

“Do you want help,” he prompted bluntly, “or do you want to antagonize me?”

“Me? Antagonize you, obviously,” Isis said, gesturing to Viola. “She wants help.”

“I do,” Vi agreed. “To sell the house.”

“Among other things,” Isis chirped.

“No,” Vi corrected, glaring at her. “One thing.”

“The ghost says ‘how unspeakably rude,’” supplied Cal, leaning into Fox’s ear again. “I don’t think it’s about you,” he added unhelpfully.

“It’s fine. She’s lying,” Isis assured the vacancy of the ghost’s presumed location, and Fox threw out a hand, silencing them both.

“Listen,” he said. “I’ll call Death, we’ll get a few answers, and then we’ll part ways for the rest of time. Understood?”

“Sure,” Vi permitted.

Cal leaned in again. “The ghost says ‘still rude,’ so—”

“Brilliant,” declared Fox, and looked around the room. “Now,” he sighed. “Let’s get started.”

Upstairs, Brandt Solberg paused his search through the carved wooden chests, catching the sounds of conversation below.

“This,” he murmured to nobody in particular, “is less than ideal.”

And it was.

Less than, that was.

The ideal? Silence, presumably, though a thief must always know not to trust silence too implicitly. While some hear silence and assume innocence, a thief knows better; silence only means something too quiet to hear, too noticeably tampered, and anything so calculatedly furtive as to make no sound and cast no shadow more often means misbehavior underfoot. In this case, a bit of noise would be fine—the natural creaking of the old house, the empty aching of the swollen floorboards—but not any obvious indications of human presence. The sounds of voices down below were, unfortunately, fully unanticipated, and therefore wholly undesirable.

Brandt’s displeasure (the unfortunate turn of events, specifically, in realizing there were several people elsewhere in the house) was due to several factors; not the least of which being his ongoing burglary.

Well, not a burglary, per se. He hadn’t broken in, exactly. The ghost, Tom Parker, had told him where to go—which door to enter through and how to avoid detection—so Brandt supposed it was less a matter of breaking and entering than it was simply entering.

If anything, he’d been invited, so the burgling was more or less theoretical.

Really, the intent to commit a crime was somewhat opaque as well, if one were so inclined to get into the particulars. Sure, theft was involved, but on a higher level of analysis, was anything really theft when the item in question was something that belonged so deservedly to oneself? Essentially, Brandt had been invited into the Parker mansion and proceeded to then go about his extremely normal business; if anything, the unanticipated crowd was only a minor inconvenience.

Less than ideal, yes, but not catastrophic.

It was certainly not devastating in the slightest.

Or, at least—it wouldn’t have been, that is, had Brandt Solberg not recognized a voice he’d once been quite positive he would never hear again.

“This dining room seats fifty people,” Cal declared, looking around the room. “My entire village could have eaten in here, Fox, and it wouldn’t even have been crowded—”

“Calix, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m busy,” Fox told him, arbitrarily instructing Viola, Isis, and Mayra to stand at various points around the room. “You,” he said, snapping his fingers into empty air for Tom, “come over here.”

“He says ‘yes, wonderful, please summon me like an animal,’” Cal supplied, dragging his gaze from the room’s crown molding to once again translate unhelpfully. “He also adds, ‘I love it, I live for it,’ and—”

“You don’t live at all,” Vi snapped at the ghost, groaning. “Will you stop?”

“He says no,” Cal whispered loudly. “He also suggests that that should be obvious.”

“Okay, great,” Fox exhaled definitively, shaking his head. “Cal, if you would?” he asked, gesturing to a spot beside Mayra, and the reaper nodded, abandoning his place beside Fox’s ear to stand where he’d been instructed. “Okay. Are we ready?”

“There’s not some kind of meditation involved, is there?” Isis asked, yawning at the prospect. “No, you know—‘centering’ or ‘balance,’ right? And not to be redundant, but if there’s no human sacrifice, then I don’t know if I want to stay.”

“I’d love for you to leave,” Fox growled, glaring at her, “but I’d love even more to get this over with.”

Across from him, Cal tentatively raised a finger.

“The ghost says that if he’s not going to be considered a priority in his own exorcism—”

“This is not an exorcism,” Fox snapped, rolling his eyes. “I feel like it should be clear that he’s not possessed.”

“True, he’d be the possessor, wouldn’t he?” Vi posed thoughtfully. “Seems like the house is possessed, really, which would make Tom some type of—I don’t know, vengeful spirit, perhaps?”

“He says ‘that, as ever, is exceedingly unflattering,’” Cal informed her, and she growled her impatience.

“Listen, I can hear him—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Fox cut in, and then grimaced, snapping the rubber band on his wrist. “Fine. Anyway, let’s just—” he paused, closing his eyes in frustration before reaching down to twist the ring on his left hand. “Listen, Papa,” he began, letting out a heavy sigh, “I know this is unorthodox, but the thing is—”

“Who are you talking to?” Isis interrupted.

Fox paused, opening his eyes.

“Oh,” he said, glancing back down at his ring. “Huh.”

He gave it another twist, waiting.

“Papa?” he asked, looking around the room, and Isis grinned.

“That’s super cute,” she said.

“We’re German,” Fox told her. “It’s not cute. Nothing is cute in German.”

“Isn’t it, though?” she sighed. “Papa. Adorable.”

“Not now,” he muttered, frowning. He glanced up, looking around the room. “It should just work, but—”

He heard a sound behind him and sighed with relief, turning over his shoulder.

“Thank god,” he exhaled. “Papa, you can’t just—”

He froze, the air swelling in his lungs, and blinked.

“Hello, Fox,” said Brandt Solberg.

Fox closed his eyes.

The room spun.

The walls collapsed.

It all came back in a rush.

“You’ve kidnapped my godfather? You can’t kidnap my godfather!”

“In fairness, I didn’t realize he was your godfather. I was just informed he existed on this plane sometimes—though, admittedly, that’s in fairness to me. In fairness to you, I suppose I should mention that I don’t particularly care whether he is or isn’t of any particular relation to you. Also, he isn’t kidnapped. And anyway, if that’s all—”

“Who are you?”

“Is that relevant? We’ll likely never see each other again.”

“The hell we won’t! Where is he?”

“I’ll bring him right back. Well, if he is where I think he is, anyway, he’ll be back soon enough regardless—”

“But—”

“—I simply needed to see if he wanted to help me with something.”

“He doesn’t!”

“Well, I wouldn’t be so hasty. We’ve made deals before, your godfather and I, so I don’t see why now would be any different.”

“Before?”

“Yes, before. Meaning ‘prior to this moment,’ or, alternately, ‘none of your business’—”

“Don’t do that. Don’t be—”

“What? Clever?”

“Flippant!”

“I’m never flippant. I am, however, quite busy, so—”

“Tell me who you are, or I swear, I’ll—”

“My goodness, no need to get so squeaky. I’m Brandt, derived from Brandr, of little repute and littler consequence. And you are?”

“I—you—listen, you can’t just—you can’t—”

“Oh, what a relief. I was worried you’d be exceptionally articulate.”

“You’re a thief!”

“Well, yes, and you’re clearly a fool. And on that note, goodbye forever—”

“Don’t you dare walk out on me! Where’s my godfather?”

“I told you. I’ve borrowed him. Well, if I’m right, then the tables have technically borrowed him, and I’ve only—”

“You’ve stolen him!”

“Well, once again, I didn’t, but I do feel it’s relevant to point out that you did say I was a thief. Frankly, by your own admission, this shouldn’t surprise you.”

“If you’ve taken him, I’m coming with you.”

“Ah—no. No thanks. Not interested. Goodbye, best wishes, enjoy whatever remains of your adolescence, and—”

“I said I’m coming with you!”

“And I said you aren’t, didn’t I?”

“I don’t care what you said. If it comes down to your will and mine, whoever you are, I promise you, mine will win.”

“You really are a fool, then, aren’t you?”

“I just don’t like being kept in the dark.”

“Exactly a fool’s position on the matter.”

The dining room contained the ghost called Tom, the vampire-realtor called Vi, and a number of strangers. There was an angel, her lovely eyes narrowed with either concern or suspicion; a reaper, his faintly curious expression tainted only slightly with surprise; a demon, her eyes flaming with a certain worrying delight.

And then, of course, there was Fox, who hadn’t yet spoken, and who looked highly unlikely to speak anytime soon.

“Ooh,” the demon trumpeted with relish, pivoting wide-eyed towards Brandt. “Who’s this?”

Tom, however, was thoroughly unamused.

“You were supposed to come after dark,” Tom groaned, glaring at him. “Don’t you listen? Or is your conception of instruction limited to realms, too?”

Across the room, the reaper leaned towards Fox.

“He says,” the reaper began, and then paused. “I actually have no idea what he’s saying. Lack of context,” he offered apologetically, and Fox blinked. “I’ll wait.”

“Wait a minute,” Vi declared, staring at Brandt. “Aren’t you that buyer from the open house?”

“Hm? Not technically,” Brandt offered gently, and then paused. “Well, not at all, really. Sorry,” he added insincerely, before she abruptly rounded on Tom.

“What do you mean he was supposed to come after dark?” Vi demanded. “Did you hatch some sort of deviant plot about the house, Thomas?”

“Well, I tried to,” Tom replied irritably. “But clearly that’s just not in the cards for me, is it?”

“Clearly not, but—”

“Fox?” the angel asked him gently. “Fox, are you with us?”

“What is this?”

“I told you what it is. It’s a game.”

“Looks … seedy.”

“Well, looks can be deceiving.”

“Can they?”

“Theoretically? Of course. Not this time, though. In this particular instance, I’d say ‘seedy’ is spot on.”

“Are you always this infuriating?”

“Hopefully. I certainly aim to be, but everyone has off days.”

“I think I might hate you.”

“Ah, but you might not, and more’s the pity for that, frankly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Nothing much, anyway. Just that you’d have been wiser leaving me to my business and waiting for your godfather to return—which, again, he will. The tables close at dawn, and then he’ll be right back in your little cottage. Or hut. Dwelling?”

“Sorry, but I find it difficult to believe that Death is some sort of … gambling aficionado. Doesn’t that strike you as immensely odd?”

“I find it more odd that he has a godson, truth be told. I’ve played several games with him, and at no point did he mention you—though I suppose I wouldn’t either, if I had a vulnerability and couldn’t protect it. Never a good thing to reveal a pressure point, and particularly not with this crowd. You said your name was Fox?”

“Yes.”

“Fox … what?”

“Just Fox. It’s not like I need a surname.”

“Well, nor do I, but I have one, and so should you.”

“What’s yours?”

“Solberg. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“What do you think about D’Mora? For a surname, I mean. You know—‘of Death.’ Seems fitting.”

“That’s—stop it. You’re distracting me. Where’s my godfather?”

“Usually at the head of the table. He generally takes on the winners.”

“Why? Does he always win?”

“Well, hard to say. The game is unusual. Sometimes there isn’t a winner. Sometimes both players win—which is I suppose the same outcome, depending on how you look at it.”

“But how—”

“The object of the game is to win the game, not simply to beat your opponent. So yes, Death always wins, but sometimes there’s another winner, and in that case it can be equal parts win and loss. I’ve beaten him once myself.”

“What did you get for beating him?”

“A secret.”

“Well, fine—”

“No, I mean that’s what I got: a secret. I asked him for a particular secret, and he gave it to me for beating him. There was a trade involved, but—that’s a longer story, really.”

“What did you beat him in? Cards?”

“No, not exactly. The game is more a battle of wits. Well, and wills, I suppose. More like a gauging of wills.”

“What does that mean?”

“Hard to explain.”

“Can’t be that hard. What was the secret you won?”

“Can’t tell you, can I? Or the purse for winning will be worth nothing, since it would no longer be a secret.”

“He’ll tell me.”

“Perhaps he will. Perhaps I’ll even tell you. Or perhaps you’ll never know. All equal possibilities, I think. Do you ever think about the world that way? In the many slivered pieces of what could be? Astronomically unending possibilities, but with infinitesimally small likelihoods of each—”

“You’re unbearable. You said it was a battle of wits?”

“Well, it’s a game. And thanks ever so for listening, by the way.”

“If it’s just a game, then teach me the rules.”

“No. You’re a child. And who says there are rules?”

“Everything has rules. And also, I’m not a child.”

“You are, and this is not a game for you, Fox.”

“You don’t even know me!”

“Don’t I? You’re clearly loyal. You’re obviously good-hearted, good-natured. A good and worthy fool, all in all.”

“Oh, and I suppose suddenly that’s a bad thing?”

“In a sense. Well—more accurately, it’s dangerous. You’re quite dangerous, whether you realize it or not.”

“For what? For whom?”

“Isn’t it obvious? For me. For Death. For everyone here.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well. If you don’t know, then you’re a bigger, sadder fool than I thought.”

Fox’s eyes snapped open.

“Where is he?” he demanded.

There was a moment where Brandt seemed to struggle with his tongue, and Fox took advantage of his absence of wit to stare at him, scrutinizing the man who stood before him.

Brandt Solberg looked the same, really, and it was maddening. He looked the same, as though hundreds of years and crippling heartbreak had not stood so inescapably between them, and it stung like a blistering slap to Fox’s sensibilities that nothing—not the betrayal, not the lies, not even the absence of Fox himself—had been enough to carve even a single line of sorrow or age around Brandt Solberg’s mouth.

Not that Fox had expected him to look different; he’d known, after all, that Brandt was never going to get older. Fox had lamented, in fact, that he could not even presume Brandt Solberg to be dead, because such a thing was so laughably impossible as to be struck wholly useless from his consideration of what had gone wrong. Eternal youth had been a process Brandt had begun long before they’d met, and clearly the window of his dalliance with Fox had not made enough of an impact to change it.

But still. It would have been gratifying to see his hair appear less golden, at least.

“I didn’t take him, if that’s what you’re implying,” Brandt said slowly.

“You’ve said that before,” Fox muttered irritably.

Brandt sighed.

“Centuries, Fox,” he murmured, “and all you have for me are admonishments?”

“Don’t patronize me. Where is he?” Fox pressed, stepping forward. “You can’t possibly tell me that your appearance in his absence is some kind of coincidence.”

“And yet it is,” Brandt replied languidly. “You know how possibility can be. Astronomically large,” he added wryly, “and yet infinitesimally small.”

Fox swallowed hard.

“Don’t,” was all he managed.

“Fox,” Mayra attempted again, stepping towards him. “Are you—”

She paused, tilting her head, as if she were listening to something that hummed overhead.

“Oh balls,” she murmured, and promptly disappeared.

“Okay then,” Brandt remarked. “Didn’t realize I insulted her, too.”

“You didn’t,” Cal grumbled, staring mournfully at the place Mayra had been. “She’s clearly been—”

He broke off, looking a tinge green, and glanced down at his ankles.

“Rats,” he muttered.

And then, with a small pop, Cal vanished.

“Well,” Brandt exhaled. “That’s—”

“They’ve been summoned,” Fox said gruffly, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s nothing, and more importantly, you need to answer the question, Brandt. What the hell are you doing here?”

Brandt paused, opening his mouth.

Then, in opposition, he snapped it shut, which—by the feel of the suddenly crackling air in the room between them—seemed to have fundamentally disgruntled their translucent host.

“Be quiet,” Vi hissed, as an unsettling shockwave manifested underfoot. “None of us need reminding of your ‘gruesome murder,’ we all know perfectly well why we’re here—” A pause. “Did I do this? Are you serious? First of all, you’re the one who conspired to have your own house robbed, and secondly, I was trying to help you—”

“Hush,” Isis told them, staring between Brandt and Fox. “I’m trying to enjoy this deafening silence, if you don’t mind—”

“Maybe I should just hand this off to some other realtor and be on my way,” Vi growled, but Fox, however much he wanted to strangle every other person in the room, was incapable of listening.

All of his senses were dulled in the presence of Brandt Solberg, and rather than indulge the mindless chatter of the woefully undead, he instead turned his attention to the man from his past, staring him down from his side of history.

“Hey,” he snarled, taking a few threatening steps towards Brandt. “I asked you a question. It’s—”

It’s a simple question, he nearly said, and stopped, faltering.

Yes, but it’s not a simple answer, he heard the ghost of Brandt reply easily, as if it had not come from the confines of his memory; as it if had not been from centuries and lives away as the real one stared down at him, offering nothing more than an uneasy swallow.

“So this is that voice in your head,” Isis commented, jarring Fox out of his reverie with a faint smattering of laughter as she looked from Fox to Brandt.

Fox turned towards her, glaring.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Don’t tell me you’re reading it—”

“I’m a demon,” she reminded him curtly. “What did you think that meant?”

“I see your choice of company hasn’t improved much, then,” Brandt murmured, and Fox rounded on him.

For a second, Fox almost yelled; he half-expected himself to rant with fury, to accidentally (or intentionally, and at the top of his lungs) spill out the many, many items on his list of grievances and demand an explanation, an apology, a supplication. Part of him wanted to hold out his empty hands and wait for Brandt to fill them with everything he had so achingly been without, but he didn’t.

Instead his limbs dangled at his side, useless.

Lillegutt, Brandt would say if Fox yelled (child, as if that had ever been fair), and Fox was certain he would break beneath the sound of it; of mockery and affection and history combining to shatter him all at once.

“You don’t deserve to talk to me like that,” Fox managed instead.

Brandt shut his eyes; opened them.

“I know,” he said eventually.

“He’s not so innocent, you know. Your godfather.”

“What does that mean?”

“That he cheats, of course.”

“But you said there are no rules.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are the rules?”

“There’s not really rules.”

“You just said—”

“Well, fine, there’s one rule. Don’t lose.”

“… and to think I thought you might be vague about it.”

“But you see why you can’t afford to lose, though, don’t you? Because Death cheats. He takes from you either way, but if you win, he gives you something, too. Sort of a shadowed reward.”

“He takes?”

“Yes.”

“He took from you?”

“Yes, when I won the secret.”

“Is what he took a secret, too?”

“No. Not at all, actually.”

“So what was it, then?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“What? But why would you—”

“No, I mean it—I physically can’t tell you, Fox. That’s part of what he took.”

“Why would you agree to that?”

“Why would anyone agree to anything? Because I wanted something else more, of course. You have to be willing to sacrifice everything to gain one thing that matters more than everything else. Of course, the problem with the game is that the more you have to lose, the harder it is to win. I had nothing to lose then, and I still don’t, so—”

“Hardly seems like much of a victory, then.”

“Well, that’s precisely it, isn’t it? You have to win. The ideal situation is the other player losing, but Death never loses, so—”

“But this just doesn’t seem like him.”

“What, because he’s Death he’s incapable of vice? This is the problem with the immortals, you know. This is why the game is so very dangerous—because they have played the game for so long and understand so easily that which can seem so inconceivable, but they are still subject to addictions and boredoms, just like any other beings. The stakes for them are so low that they’re impossible to beat; it’s simply a matter of outlasting, and their very natures have made that inevitable.”

“Fine. Papa curses sometimes; he has a temper. But an addiction?”

“Do you not have any addictions, Fox?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, then never play the game. You might find it to be one.”

“Doubtful.”

“You seem certain. Foolishly certain, in fact.”

“I am. Certain, I mean. Not a fool.”

“That’s up for debate. You’re quite young, aren’t you?”

“Aren’t you?”

“No. Yes, but no. I’ve been young for quite a long time.”

“You said I would be dangerous for you.”

“You will be. Or would be, if I were dumb enough to let you. Luckily we’ll never see each other again, so I doubt it’s worth contemplating.”

“Luckily?”

“Yes, luckily. Apple?”

“No th- wait, what kind of apple is that?”

“The immortal kind.”

“What?”

“Ever heard of Iðunn?”

“Who?”

“Iðunn. Goddess of youth—wife of Bragi, god of poetry. She guards the golden apples that are eaten by the Norse gods to let them live until Ragnarok, the battle of the end of the world.”

“I didn’t realize you were a … god?”

“I’m not. Well, half-not. My father is a god. Rather neglectful, too, but I can’t say I blame him for the inattention, much as I rather don’t care for it. I understand it, I think. Frankly, I’m not sure I’d be thrilled to discover my son was a thieving rapscallion either.”

“So you are a thief, then.”

“I suppose if you want to throw labels around, then yes. And even if you don’t, also yes. But as I said, I didn’t steal your godfather, so—”

“Wait a minute. Did you just offer me a bite of an immortal apple?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Seemed rude not to.”

“That’s an insane thing to say.”

“Well, we all have our flaws.”

“Aside from being a thief?”

“Well, fine. I’m a thief and I suppose technically also a liar. But I’m not impolite.”

“A liar?”

“Yes. Technically.”

“That’s—”

“Opaque? I know. See what I mean? Lucky you hate me.”

“Did I say I hated you?”

“Well, if you don’t hate me by now, Fox, then you’re simply not paying attention.”

“I can’t do this right now,” Fox grumbled, shaking his head and turning towards the door.

Much to his dismay (albeit his complete lack of surprise), a variety of protests swiftly broke out behind him. More troublingly, there was a cold, crisp, and intangibly oppositional chill that manifested in the air in front of him, freezing Fox in his tracks.

“He’s not wrong, you know,” Vi said brusquely, referring presumably to whatever the ghost had just expressed. “Did you somehow manage to lose Death? You said you weren’t a fraud, Fox D’Mora, so excuse me if I’m not entirely convinced—”

“Not to mention that you’re both so troubled,” chuckled Isis gleefully as she glanced between him and Brandt. “Oh, Fox, we’re just getting started—”

“Seems quite irresponsible, frankly—and yes, funny you would say that, Mr ‘Let-A-Thief-In-Unchaperoned’—right, yes, my sincere apologies, that would be Mr ‘Let-A-Thief-In-Unchaperoned’ the fourth—”

“—not sure if I should start with the abandonment,” Isis mused, “and then work my way to the heartache, or perhaps heartache, betrayal, and then abandonment—”

“Fox,” he heard in the midst of the chaos, and paused at the sound of it, ringing like a bell through the matter of his conscience. “Fox, please don’t leave.”

For a moment, Fox winced, struck by the quietude of the request.

But then the brittle truth of it registered, and he clenched a fist, spinning in place.

“DON’T YOU DARE SAY THAT TO ME,” he shouted, glaring at Brandt, and the others fell silent, startled into pause.

“Perfect,” Isis whispered, but Fox forced her to the periphery of his attention, waiting for Brandt’s response.

Brandt, meanwhile, took a step, shaking his head.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” he said quickly, “but you have to, Fox. The fact that this happened—that we—” he broke off, swallowing. “The fact that I’m here, Fox. It means something’s wrong. It means something’s gone very wrong.”

Fox felt his brow furrow.

“What?” he asked, though the answer was precisely as he feared.

“Something’s happened to Death, Fox,” Brandt said. “I shouldn’t be here. I couldn’t be here otherwise, and you should know that. Do you really think I didn’t look for you?” he pressed quietly. “Did you really not look for me?”

Fox stumbled back, as if forcing distance would save him. “I—”

“What’s going on?” Vi asked, curiously leaning towards them, and the ghost swept directly through Fox, sending him convulsing in a shiver as he manifested on the other side.

Fox, though, turned helplessly to Brandt, who let out a stifled breath.

“Death’s gone,” Brandt exhaled in answer, holding Fox’s gaze. “He has to be, or else I couldn’t have found you.”

Assembly

Everyone in the room, immortal and creature alike, generally agreed that they had never seen the man at the head of the room before. This, unsurprisingly, amounted to several layers of confusion. The first of which was their own summons, which had been unexpected at best, and wholly inconvenient by any stretch of the imagination; the second, easily, that eternal though they were in memory, the mortal who seemed to be addressing them did not register any familiarity; and third, that he, unknown though his face might have been, was eerily akin to recognition. His voice—his mannerisms, and particularly the way magic and devastation oozed from between his lips—was an unwelcome familiarity.

Besides, if that were not enough, the ostentatious crown rather gave it away.

“It is my understanding,” the king began, “that you have all been part of something from which I have been reprehensibly excluded. I must tell you, this doesn’t particularly thrill me. In fact, I find myself rather disinclined to be merciful.”

Artemis, finding the whole ordeal rather tiresome, drew her bow.

“Careful,” the king warned. “I come in peace. Or, at least, in something you won’t want to fight. Or won’t be able to.” He shrugged. “Entirely dependent on your priorities.”

“Meaning what?” prompted her twin, Apollo. “Is this a threat?”

“Oh, very nearly,” the king replied. “But more accurately, this is about Death.”

There was a pause.

“He’s no friend of ours,” commented one of the Muses, slowly appraising the room to take note of the nods of agreement. “He has taken something from each of us.”

“He cheats,” added a small deity in the form of a rabbit. “He’s cheated us all out of something.”

“Which is precisely my point,” the king permitted, nodding his approval. “He has been without consequence for too long, don’t you think? It’s about time he be met with remonstration.”

“Where is he?” asked Dracula. “Shouldn’t he answer for his grievances himself?”

“Oh, I have him,” the king replied, shrugging. “And he will answer for his grievances, and in supremely fitting fashion, he will suffer as we have suffered.”

“We, you mean,” one of the grandmother spirits maintained. “You have suffered for nothing.”

“Haven’t I?” the king prompted. “I have suffered exclusion.”

“Your pain is not our pain,” grumbled a blue deity. “What right do you have to our injustices?”

“This,” the king said, “is hardly the time for this sort of theorizing. Death will pay, and I will make him pay, and you will all help.”

“Why would we?” a fate protested. “We owe you nothing.”

“True. And should your own satisfaction at seeing Death brought low not be enough to motivate you, then consider this: you are all beholden to someone,” the king said. “You all serve the will of something above you, woven as you are within the tapestry of your worlds. You all stand to lose, therefore, by your disobedience. By the debts of your crimes,” he added, referencing a thin leather-bound volume, “which have gone unpaid.”

The king held the book up, licking a finger before gingerly turning the page.

“It appears Death and his keepers have been rather careless,” the king said, holding the pages up for the crowd around him to see. “I have in my hands each of your names, and each of your winnings and losses. I have, therefore, your cooperation, should you wish to avoid punishment for your own misconduct.”

Immediately, the figures in the crowd grew uneasy; they realized, now, what had transpired to lead to their summons, and what, in particular, they each had in common.

“There are rules, aren’t there?” the king prompted knowingly. “Even for the likes of you, and you’ve all broken the codified expectations of your roles. Boredom,” the king sighed, “is rather an easy trap, and Vice such an indulgent master. Aren’t I?”

Silence.

“Very well,” the king permitted loftily. “You may be trapped, but you’re hardly powerless. Do as you’re told, and all of this is merely temporary. I assure you, once I’ve assumed mastery of Death, all of this will have been in the name of a far brighter future.”

“Is that what you told the mortal,” Fortune postured slowly, “before you stole his skin?”

The king’s smile slipped only slightly.

“Nothing was stolen, and the deals I make with mortals are none of your concern,” he said blithely. “Any other questions?”

“How did you get that?” asked one fae queen, pointing to the book. “It should have been kept safe—”

“And why now?” asked a serpent god, his tongue flicking between his teeth. “Why is this the time to challenge Death?”

“Why now? Because I can,” the king replied simply, “and as for the book—” he shrugged. “The past is passed, and that’s a story for another time. Suffice it to say,” he continued, “I expect you all to comply with my wishes, and in return, I will continue to guard your secrets. I’m really not so terrible,” he remarked, flashing his mortal teeth, “am I?”

“What do you want with us?” Artemis asked. “There are more of us than you, and by your own admission we are by no means powerless; say we wish to fight?”

For a moment, the king’s expression darkened.

“I don’t want you,” the king snapped. “Once again, your egos befall you. You are not the ends; merely the means by which I plan to take my rightful place, and you forget the vulnerable state you presently occupy. I ask for little and offer much, and for my silence, you each owe me one simple thing: one turn each at the tables, wherein you will lose.”

“Lose?” a jinni asks. “But—”

“I am not Death,” the king cuts in. “I will not cheat you. Once the tables are opened, you will have no choice but to play; such is the consequence of contracts,” he clarified knowingly, holding up the book. “Many of you have lost before, and will lose again. All I ask is that you do so expeditiously, as I’m rather in a hurry. Death’s sovereignty has already been suspended,” he added. “With your help, it can be removed.”

“This was only supposed to be a game,” said a satyr, with a wary recognition of entrapment.

“It was a game,” permitted the king. “Now it’s a war.”

At that, there was no answer.

“Excellent,” proclaimed the king. “Now. Where can I find the two in charge? A game is yet to be played.”

Touch

You have your expectations of heaven and hell. The fact that you call them such things—that there is a polarity in your mind at all, and that they are indeed poles; opposites; a study in contrasts; and with such poetically alliterative names—is already a misunderstanding, but there is only so much that mortal minds can see. True, there is a duality of sorts; balance is king in all things, after all. But there is also a hinge you cannot see, and this is the place where the members of both sides are called.

You have your expectations of heaven and hell. Don’t you?

Now subvert them.

What is the holiest place you have been? A place of righteousness, a place of austerity, of gravity? Surely not amongst the clouds. No, the holiest place you have been is solid, from the floors to the walls to the authority; perhaps it is expansive, but it isn’t free, is it? You are restrained by your own smallness. You are caged by the littleness of what you are. What is holy? That which makes you fall to your knees.

What is the most sinful place you have been? A place of decadence, of opulence, of wrongs? Surely not cast out in flames. No, the most sinful place you have been is comfortable, isn’t it? In a sleepless way; in a too-full, swollen sort of discomfort, pressing down on your intestines even as your cheeks burn with pleasure, as your head rushes, your vision swims? You are restrained here, too, though you may not realize it when the taste on your tongue is so sweet. You are fooled, more likely. You are deceived by the pleasure of a freedom so clever it knows to seek you out for payment later, and thus, what is sin? It is the most fleeting of pleasures, and the true torment is in the waiting for what will inevitably come.

For ease of mortal conception, there is a place precisely at the midpoint of heaven and hell, and it is both holy and bolstered with sin, and all who sit within it wait for something they understand, somehow, that they cannot possibly know. The walls are gilded, dressed in untouchable finery, and though the ceilings are impossibly high, light shines in from somewhere, casting you in shadow. Your voice, were you able to speak, would echo from the marble floors, would bounce from the columns and return to your lips in a whisper. The air is still and stiff, filled with uncertainty and the particular smacking frizzle of impatience, because this is merely an axis. This is the hinge, and no one can remain here for long.

Perhaps you would walk inside and call it a courtroom, and perhaps you are right.

There is no telling what is real and what is not.

But here is where they meet.

“Well,” Gabriel announced, clapping his hands stiffly. “Now that you’re all here.”

“Naturally, you must have curiosities,” Raphael offered, gesturing around the room. “As you can see, we’ve felt it necessary to call in both sides.”

“Privately,” Gabriel added. “For now, we must ask this to remain private.”

“And by ask,” Raphael contributed, “we do mean unequivocally require.”

“On pain of further servitude,” Gabriel pronounced further, “and additionally, outright pain.”

“Not good,” one of the angels beside Mayra muttered. “You realize this is highly unorthodox, don’t you?”

“Oh, is it?” Raphael remarked facetiously, glaring at him. “I’d no idea. None.”

“By which he means that we know,” Gabriel barked. “And also, nobody asked you, Clement.”

“Tempers,” Clement tutted, displeased. “Surely I don’t need to remind you of the point value—”

“What is this?” one of the female reapers asked, stepping forward. Behind her, Mayra caught a glimpse of Cal; she furtively adjusted her place in the crowd, taking a few steps back to reach the perimeter. Cal, meanwhile, caught the motion, and unobtrusively managed to do the same.

“We would explain,” Raphael informed the reaper impatiently, “if you would all shut your gaping pieholes.”

“Name-calling,” bemoaned Clement, his voice piercing the tepid chatter from the center of the crowd. “That’s rather low, don’t you think?”

“Clement, one more word and that’s one more miracle gone,” Gabriel snapped, and the angel sighed, shaking his head and scribbling something down on his golden parchment, his head bent with disapproval. “In any case,” Gabriel continued, promptly vanishing the parchment from Clement’s hands, “we have a problem. Death is missing,” he clarified, and Clement immediately opened his mouth to speak, but only managed the sound of a soothing harp, crossing his arms and resigning himself to a charming, light-fingered rendition of Saint-Saëns. “It is of the utmost importance that we determine Death’s whereabouts immediately, if not sooner.”

“Does that mean ends are not being met?” someone asked. Mayra, meanwhile, stepped quietly through the crowd towards the reapers, hoping not to attract attention. Elsewhere, she watched Cal edge in her direction.

“Ends are being met,” Raphael confirmed. “Destinations, however, are not.”

“Messy,” lamented an angel named Beatrice. “Unpleasant.”

“WE KNOW,” yelped Gabriel and Raphael in unison.

“And you really have no idea where he is?” the first reaper asked. “Problematic, don’t you think? We’re trackers, certainly, but not psychics—”

“And we’re archangels, not detective-twins,” Gabriel retorted, his wings ruffling on a sharply conjured breeze.

“We recognize the difficulties,” Raphael offered, with a bristled sort of sympathy that suggested a half-hearted lament, “but circumstances notwithstanding, I’m sure we all understand that Death must be found, and with unutterable haste.”

“Do we, though?” contributed a reaper beside Cal. “This really seems like your problem, doesn’t it?”

Raphael paused before answering, abruptly catching Cal’s steady progression through the crowd, and Mayra grimaced, noting that his narrowed gaze subsequently found her with ease.

“That’s quite an attitude,” Gabriel snapped to the reaper, not having noticed Raphael’s distraction. “Clearly you’re in no hurry to amend your destination, are you, Rupert?”

With that, the reaper promptly closed his mouth, warily eying Clement as the latter soared wildly into the climactic trilling of a rather stirring Opus Ninety-Five.

“Just find him,” Raphael snapped, nudging Gabriel, and Mayra let out an unwilling sigh as both archangels swiveled to glare at her, just catching Cal’s arrival at her right side.

She reached down, letting her fingers hover above Cal’s.

“They see us,” she murmured to him.

“Let them,” Cal whispered back.

For a moment, then, Mayra closed her eyes, toying with the air between their hands. She curled her fingers towards her palm, crafting a delicate, patient current between them that swept through the gaps between her fingertips; a careful, conscious not-a-touch.

“Kaleka,” Gabriel said, his voice familiarly curt. “Sanna.”

Her eyes snapped open. They were alone now, the room abruptly shrinking to contain only the four of them.

“What now?” Mayra snapped, abruptly folding her arms over her chest. “I thought you’d had enough scolding us for one millenia.”

“First of all, impossible,” Gabriel replied. “Admonishment is quite literally the foundation of our respective constitutions. That, of course, and divinity.” He scoffed. “Obviously.”

“Secondly, much as we find this repulsive,” Raphael continued, glancing warily at Cal, “this particular case isn’t about you or your clandestine avocations. Though, as a reminder, if you’ve done anything untoward since our last little talking-to—”

“What, you’ll charge us with more time?” Mayra demanded, rolling her eyes. “Astounding. As if a longer eternity could possibly mean anything anymore.”

“Mayra,” Cal warned softly.

She grimaced.

“So what is it you want from us, if not to meddle further?” she asked the archangels, not altogether patiently. “You’ve lost track of Death, clearly.”

“We’re not his nannies,” Gabriel sniffed.

Mayra scoffed. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Kaleka, your opposition to us is hardly wise. We only keep Death’s secret because he keeps our secret, as you know,” Raphael reminded her, and Gabriel spared her a smug, intolerable nod. “Surely we don’t need to remind you of the importance of finding him, given what he tasked you with from the start.”

She did not need reminding. In fact, the archangel’s reminding of her not-needing reminding was wholly unpleasant, and she stifled a snip of disdain.

“You know,” Mayra began, lips pursed, “if anyone knew how corrupt you two really were—”

“Corruption is such a filthy lens,” Gabriel cut in sharply. “Particularly since you’re not so innocent yourself, Mayra Kaleka.”

An unhelpful observation.

An irritating one, really.

“I genuinely don’t know what you want me to do,” she told him. “Fox already tried calling his godfather and did not succeed. As his guardian angel, I can really only know as much as he does—and by your own rule, I might add.”

“Surely this is the first time Death failed to materialize at his godson’s behest,” Raphael postulated, and glanced questioningly at Cal, who nodded.

“That we know of,” Cal agreed. “Given the circumstances, the summons was rather unsurprising. Well,” he amended, “the summons themselves, I should say, though the context is admittedly unexpected. I didn’t realize we would both be summoned.”

“Unusual circumstances,” Gabriel pronounced somberly. “They call for unusual practices.”

“You seem nervous,” Mayra noted. “I take it this is about the tables, then?”

Raphael and Gabriel exchanged a glance, hesitating.

“Not entirely. The lack of fundamental transportation is distressing,” Raphael said, obviously hedging. “Traveling the worlds is tricky business, and within such a confined base of skills—”

“Though the security bit is, of course, slightly more so,” Gabriel permitted loftily, and Mayra rolled her eyes.

“It’s a bit late for an act,” she reminded Raphael, glaring between them. “Obviously you’re concerned about Death’s extracurriculars, aren’t you? As I certainly would be,” she added darkly, “if I were you.”

“Which you’re not,” Raphael reminded her gruffly.

“No,” she agreed, “I’m not. And therefore, why should his ability to guard your ledger concern me?”

Beside her, she felt Cal’s disposition change; Mayra (a woman who’d been cursed by touch all her life, both its oppressive monotony and its fleeting absence) had learned Cal Sanna’s motions from afar well enough to feel that he was wary now, and coiled; tensed. She could taste it in the air, and sensed it as though he’d taken her by the shoulders and shaken the truth from her lips.

“A ledger?” he asked, and though the untrained ear would hear nothing but curiosity, Mayra Kaleka could sense the stirring of consternation in his voice.

“The ledger,” she corrected. “For the game.”

“Ah,” Cal said. “The game.”

“Yes,” Raphael said, grimacing. “The game.”

Interlude III:

Games

There is a game that the immortals play.

It is played around tables that open at dusk, and close at dawn.

The stakes are impossibly high, and yet laughably low.

There is only one secret: the more you have to lose, the harder it is to win.

There is only one rule: don’t lose.

At first, the immortals only played each other; god against god, and all against Death, who could cost them nothing, and could ask for nothing in return.

But what is the fun in winning when there is so little to lose?

What is the point of playing when there is so little available to take?

Eventually, the tables were open to others on occasion.

(Though a sad fool you are indeed, to play the immortals’ game.)

The son of a god plays for immortality; for what should be his birthright, he thinks, though the world disagrees, and his father does, too. The son plays the game and wins it, and in his celebratory haze, he beckons Death for one thing: for the secret to a goddess’s heart, that he may possess the eternal youth he so desperately desires.

Death agrees. In exchange, he takes the son’s truth as his own reward.

“I have no truths,” the son says, and signs it away easily, greedily, thinking himself the victor; thinking that Death himself is fooled.

Death is not fooled, however, and he smiles.

“You will have one someday,” he replies, once the son of the god has gone.

The son returns once more, as Death had known that he would, to play for the truth that he has lost.

The outcome of this game cannot be told.

It is a truth too heavily guarded.

An angel plays for love; for the freedom to covet another’s heart without secrecy or remorse, but there is such a thing as asking too much. She does not win, she cannot win—she wants it too badly, and to want anything at such great risk to yourself is a cardinal sin in the game—but Death takes pity on her, and so he cushions her loss.

“These are things that I can’t give you,” he tells her, “but I offer you this instead.”

He hands her the gold bracelet she once wore, gifted to her by a suitor she’d almost come to care for during her lifetime; or perhaps she would have, if the inequity of belonging to him had not been a constant, and thus true love an impossibility.

“There is a man for whom your predicament will mean something,” Death says, in an invitation of sympathy. “It will echo in his soul as if he is living your pain himself, and this is the most I can do for either of you.”

She looks up at him, bemused.

“But I lost the game,” she says.

“Yes,” Death agrees, “and for your loss, you will have to do something for me in return. You will have to look after him. I will hold you responsible for his heart, and at times, this will dissatisfy you. He’s a right little shit,” he adds, and this startles the angel into laughter.

“I will watch over him,” she solemnly agrees, and Death smiles.

“And for your troubles, you will have windows of love,” he says. “They will be brief and wonderful and rapturous; they will fill your heart until it bursts. You will feel a kinship like you’ve never known, and pain like you have never imagined, and each parting will tear the breath from your lungs and fill you with a longing that will never be quelled.”

She takes the bracelet, her relic, and nods.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

A mortal plays for success where others have failed; it is a selfish wish, and Death does not challenge him too greatly, as he knows this man’s desires will cripple his humanity, and therefore it will be a loss whether the table determines so or not. Death would ask how the mortal came by the tables but he suspects he knows, and because Death is himself breaking a promise already simply by returning to the tables, he does not invite confirmation of his suspicions.

Death does not tell the mortal the cost; that his success will come with insatiability.

That this win will be not the filling of a vacancy, but the igniting of a fire.

That this mortal will die with hunger on his tongue, a hunger that cannot be assuaged, even as he possesses all that he could ever desire.

The mortal thinks he has cheated Death.

Death thinks he has cheated the mortal.

Both are wrong.

Neither knows it yet.

A water spirit—an aquatic sprite, a so-called mermaid, born from the sea foam itself—wishes for legs; not legs, she laughs as she details the circumstances of her prize. Nothing quite so primitive as that, she amends, but rather she wishes for humanity; specifically, for carnal pleasures: for the toe-curling ache of sex, for the heart-pounding thrill of the chase, for the adrenaline of theft and the swollenness of guilt that can only be soothed by the process cycling unendingly on repeat.

Death, who has heard this one before, finds himself fairly uninvested, but because this particular deity cares so little for anything at all there is no denying that she will win, and so he doesn’t bother to cheat.

“You’ll have all the pleasure you want,” he tells her, “but you will care so deeply that it ails you, and you will suffer the pain of your wrongs like knives.”

She laughs like the sea, and smiles like the crescent of a wave.

“At least I will suffer for something,” she replies.

He sees trouble on her horizon.

But she welcomes it, and so he relents.

A mortal who is no longer a mortal returns with a crippling debt to pay, but Death is no longer willing to entertain his supplication.

“You should not have played this game,” Death warns.

“Past is passed,” the indebted mortal replies dully.

There is a game that the immortals play.

It has no rules (save one, and a simple one at that) but it does have a keeper, and a ledger, and every success and failure is marked and bound in celestial ink, and the keeper of the ledger possesses a power that even the players themselves do not understand.

For he who controls the ledger controls the game, and whoever controls the game controls all of the players; even the players, like Death, who never lose.

The game has no rules, save one: don’t lose.

The game has no tricks, save one: you may play to beat the player, but even so, you must play to beat the game.

The tables have been closed for many years, but they are open on occasion, and an occasion is about to arise.

(Though a sad fool you are indeed, to play the immortals’ game.)

Prized Possessions

“You played again, then, didn’t you?” Fox said flatly. “That game.”

It was an accusation, clearly, but a dull one, rather unfaceted, as though he’d already known the answer and could therefore permit no prismatic alternatives. Brandt supposed that after centuries without possessing one, Fox must have considered every possibility.

“As I’ve mentioned many times to you, Fox, the nature of the game is that it’s impossibly addictive,” Brandt reminded him, dancing knowingly around the core of the issue. “You can hardly be surprised, then, if I went back to the tables—”

“What tables?” Tom and Vi interrupted in unison, both pausing to exchange a dissatisfied grimace.

“There’s a game that the immortals play,” Brandt said. “The stakes are impossibly high, and—”

“It’s gambling,” Fox cut in, as impatient and ruffled as ever. “Plain and simple, and after you left—” he broke off. “After you, Papa promised me he would no longer play.”

“Oh, and you’ve kept all your promises?” chuckled the demon, whom Brandt had to admit possessed quite a skill at getting under Fox’s skin.

“Why are you still here?” Fox demanded from her.

“This is good stuff,” she informed him, and Brandt sighed.

“I’m sure Death meant to keep his promise at the time,” he assured Fox, “but again, that’s the nature of addiction. It always comes to call, and the game is especially alluring.”

“I’ve heard of that game,” the demon offered, as Vi glanced questioningly at her, frowning with confusion. “I’ve also heard Death cheats.”

“He does,” Brandt said, just as Fox scoffed, “He doesn’t.”

“He does,” Brandt repeated, shaking his head at Fox. “Shamelessly, too, though not how you’d think.”

“Controlling the results isn’t cheating, Brandt, it’s simply retribution. And are you saying he’s playing now?” Fox prompted crossly, scowling.

“No,” Brandt said, shaking his head. “It must be worse than that if I’m here.”

“What do you mean here?” Tom asked gruffly. “Here as in my house?”

Brandt paused, thinking it over.

“Not exactly,” he conceded. “Well, your house, sure, but the house as it exists at precisely this moment, more specifically. The house ten minutes ago, or perhaps a year from now—not so much.” He let his gaze travel warily to Fox’s. “I presume you know what that means?”

Fox’s mouth tightened.

“So you gambled me, then,” he judged flatly. “I wondered if you had.”

Brandt hesitated, biting his tongue on the words I’m sorry and ultimately opting for silence.

No truth would satisfy Fox D’Mora, even if Brandt had had one to give.

“So is that how little I meant to you, then?” Fox pressed, but gratifyingly, the realtor cleared her throat, stepping between them.

“Much as I’m enjoying the obvious surplus of history in the room,” Vi said, “I do still have a problem I need resolved. Where exactly could Death have gone, and how are we supposed to reach him?”

“Unknowable, I’m afraid,” Brandt informed her. “Unsurprisingly, he is more enigma than man; and ironically, he’s hardly ever as constant as you might think. And now that we’re all on the same page,” he sighed, “considering my lack of contribution to the situation, I suppose I should be the one to take my leave—”

“Oh no you don’t,” Fox snarled, reaching out to grip his arm. At the contact, Brandt felt his breath catch, lodging itself firmly in his throat; he forced himself not to look down at where Fox’s slender fingers, always so deft and clever, pressed tightly around the fabric of his sleeve. “You’re not going anywhere, Brandt. You can’t tell me your appearance here now is just some kind of fluke, or I don’t know, some sort of—”

“Coincidence?” Brandt supplied irritably, yanking his arm free. “That’s absolutely what I’m saying. Just because the convergence of these events happens to be this house doesn’t mean that I’m somehow involved in your predicament.”

“Well—”

“But then—”

“What exactly were you here to steal?” Vi and Tom trumpeted in unison, and then froze, each sparing the other a narrowed, indignant glance.

“Nothing important,” Brandt informed them. “And alternatively, none of your business.”

“It is my business, actually,” Tom corrected stiffly, “considering that this is my house—”

“And even if it weren’t our business—seeing as this is no longer your house,” Vi reminded Tom before turning back to Brandt, “it seems somewhat relevant, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, more than,” the demon remarked, delighted. “I’m Isis, by the way.”

“Brandt. And what are you all doing here, anyway?” Brandt ventured, abruptly changing the subject.

“I’m trying to sell the house,” said Vi.

“I’m trying to leave the house,” said Tom.

“I couldn’t give a fuck about the house,” said Isis, shrugging. “I’m just here to feed on whatever energy comes out of it.”

Brandt paused, turning to Fox.

“And you?” he asked expectantly.

Fox resisted for a moment, in his usual sulky way. He was always so adolescent that way, so childish; Brandt may have possessed eternal youth much earlier than he had, but Fox always wore it so perfectly, so authentically, with that melancholy something-nothing-everything that always curled warily around his mouth and furrowed itself stubbornly in his brow. If anything, that little rivet of youth jarred the handsomeness of his face; soured him a bit, like a swollen bruise on the otherwise unblemished surface of a peach. Fox would be pristinely undeniable, without a doubt, if he would ever learn to set his sullen opposition aside.

As it was, though, Brandt had always found him thoroughly irresistible.

“I’m working,” Fox pronounced brusquely.

“Of course you are,” Brandt agreed. “Doing what?”

“My job.”

“Ah, and I was so worried you’d be specific.”

Fox’s expression angled itself downwards, sloping to displeasure. “It’s none of your business.”

“No, it isn’t,” Brandt agreed, turning facetiously to leave, “so I suppose I should go.”

“Fine,” Fox said through gritted teeth, pausing him in place. “If you must know, I’m a medium.”

Brandt turned slowly.

Frowned.

Stared at him.

Barked, “You’re a what?”

“A medium.” Fox’s mouth tightened. “You might be familiar with the term?” he prompted. “I communicate with the dead.”

Brandt froze, stiffening for a moment with disbelief, and then watched Fox’s glower turn sallow as he promptly doubled over, succumbing to the ridiculous notion that Fox D’Mora, ruler of the moral high ground, would be able to say something so absurd without any remorse whatsoever.

“Now who’s a thief!” Brandt crowed, letting out a harsh bark of laughter. “You can’t even identify the other side, Fox, much less communicate with it—you can’t even see the ghost, for fuck’s sake—”

“Helpful,” Fox muttered. “Incredibly helpful.”

“So is this what you’ve been doing, then?” Brandt asked, stepping towards him. “Fox,” he murmured, catching the tail end of a breath Fox had been holding. “You tried so hard to make me better,” Brandt lamented, “and instead you made yourself over into a liar, didn’t you?”

Fox’s mouth tightened.

“Don’t you think that you owe me enough to try to help?” he asked bitterly. “Or does sympathy continue to evade you?”

“Neither,” Brandt said, and paused. “Both.”

“He called you a liar,” Isis whispered to Fox, leaning towards him and placing a cool hand merrily on his shoulder. “That has to sting, doesn’t it?”

Fox wrenched himself free, stepping furiously towards Brandt.

“Take me to him,” he demanded. “You did it once, didn’t you? You can do it again.”

“Yes, I did do that once, and it didn’t go well the first time,” Brandt reminded him. “Not to mention that I don’t know where he is.”

“Where else would he be?” Fox pressed. “You said it yourself. You said so, just now, that the game is addictive—”

“Of course it is,” Brandt sighed, “but I still wouldn’t know. I haven’t played in—”

He stopped, faltering just shy of a confession, and then forced it out anyway, determining it more fact than truth.

“I haven’t played the immortals game,” he announced slowly, “in one hundred and seventy five years. If Death’s back at the tables again, there’s no guarantee I can actually get there. In fact, I’m almost positive I can’t. Unless—”

He trailed off, grimacing, and Fox stepped towards him.

“What were you here to steal?” he asked bluntly. “It had to do with the tables, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” Vi agreed, nodding firmly. “Whatever that is,” she determined, shrugging, and the ghost nodded.

“Your purpose here does seem increasingly relevant,” Tom pronounced, making a face. “And frankly, I rather don’t appreciate how long it’s taken to bring that to your attention—”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Brandt attempted firmly, but he could see there was no escaping it. The others advanced on him, waiting, and he could feel the tepid pressure of impending admission, knowing there was no way to remain silent now.

“It has to be about the tables. I know it couldn’t be about money,” Fox told him, taking another step. “You never need money, not from people like this—”

“Unlike you, apparently,” Brandt retorted, but Fox didn’t waver.

“If there’s something extraordinarily valuable in this house, that could be it, but I doubt it,” he continued. “It’s a house full of mortals, Brandt, and I’ve only ever known you to venture out for two things. One of them was the game,” he said knowingly. “The other was me.”

He paused, waiting, and Brandt looked away.

“So,” Fox pronounced, deflated, “since it couldn’t have been me, it was obviously the game. The tables. Wasn’t it?”

Brandt waited, biding his time, and finally scowled, seeing there was no way around it.

This wasn’t a truth, either; it was true, but it was merely a fact.

“It was a ledger of sorts,” he said. “Inside of a book.”

“What?” Vi and Tom asked, confused, but Fox’s face immediately went white.

“You didn’t,” he said, and beside him, Isis clapped her hands with glee.

Brandt heaved a sigh.

“I did,” he exhaled.

Interlude IV:

Snippets

“You told me I would be done soon,” a woman who is not a woman whispers in the dark.

“You will be done when I am done,” a creature who was once a man returns.

“I can’t keep doing this,” she says.

“You should have thought of that before you agreed to play the game,” he tells her, not for the first time, “and especially before you agreed to a deal with me.”

“Do you really feel nothing?” she presses, her voice hushed. “No remorse whatsoever?”

“Me? Of course not,” he replies, chuckling. “My host, on the other hand—”

“It must be killing him,” she murmurs.

“His debt to me is what’s killing him, as well you know. If he had ever truly wanted to gain a life worth living, he might have been less short-sighted.”

“And you blame the mortal for that? You do realize this is Death’s fault, don’t you?”

“Ironic, isn’t it? Or it would be, but maybe it’s not precisely Death’s fault. Not that it isn’t Death’s doing, but to some regard, it’s actually life’s fault—though that leaves us with so little to blame. In any case, he’s withering, and I’ll need more.”

“And what exactly is ‘more’?”

“What I am owed. No more, no less. I’m not unreasonable.”

“What has he promised you?”

“The mortal? Never mind what he’s promised me. Your debt is unrelated to his.”

“Is it, though?”

“Well, I suppose not in the grand scheme of things. But I’d hardly think it worth your time to worry prematurely.”

“But if you can’t get what you want from your host—”

“Well, I won’t take it from you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Not just me, you mean.”

“Ah, true. I do have my eyes set on a larger prize.”

“Then why am I still necessary?”

“Because the ledger is of no use to me on its own. Surely you realize? The game must still be played, and the process is draining, even for me. For us, I should say. May I presume you know where I’m going with this?”

“Are you saying that you want me to play the game again? You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious. Dead serious, in fact, which is another delightful irony. Mortals do produce the best phrasing—”

“But how can you even know your host is right? You know how unreliable the game can be, and he could easily be trying to appease you.”

“True enough; desperate mortals have a tendency to make grim pleas. But it’s a win-win, in my view. Those angels are far too comfortable with their corruption, and as for Death, he’s come far enough without retribution. Didn’t you say so yourself?”

“No, I didn’t, and I won’t. I don’t want any further part in this. I won’t do it.”

“Actually,” he says, “I rather think you will, Elaine.”

She shudders.

“Don’t call me that,” she says, swallowing hard.

He conjures a smile, or something like one.

“Get that under control,” he advises, gesturing to the torment that’s evident on her face. “Or it’ll be a hard loss, and there’s only one rule, isn’t there?”

“Don’t lose,” she whispers in confirmation.

He nods his approval.

“Don’t lose,” he confirms, rising to his feet and tipping his hat in her direction. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said genially, “I have somewhere else I need to be.”

Two archangels, the appointed stewards of righteousness, continue a lengthy discussion that has been ongoing since nearly the birth of Time.

“I don’t care if it’s love between them or not,” one says, “that shouldn’t change anything.”

“You care about nothing,” the second chides the first.

“I’m not built to care,” the first says. “Only to last.”

This they agree on. In general, though, they agree.

“Boredom,” the second laments tangentially. “An affliction of the everliving.”

“The forevermores,” the first agrees. “Truly, this isn’t our fault.”

“Not in the least,” the second says. “Faulty construction.”

“No consequences,” contributes the first one. “No integral system of punishment and reward.”

“Not for us,” agrees the second. “And not for Death, either.”

“Flawed,” the first one says. “And him being such a king of vice.”

“Careful, or Volos will hear you,” the second says. “Being the actual king of vice.”

They look apprehensively over their shoulders, wings skittishly ruffled.

“He flatters himself,” sniffs the first, after a moment.

“He does,” agrees the second, because in general, they agree. “A very good thing that we excluded him from the game.”

“Should have excluded Fortune, too,” the first comments thoughtfully.

“Why? Fortune never beats Death,” says the second. “She sometimes even loses to Destiny.”

“Hence her hands being so precariously tied,” sighs the first. “A lovely fool, Fortune.”

“And we her fools if we don’t sort this out,” reminds the second. “If anyone takes hold of the ledger, we are all of us at risk. Death most of all, I would think.”

“Mortals, you mean,” the first says. “Not we. Only mortals suffer in the aftermath of Death’s conceivable loss. He has no power over us.”

“But we are more connected than that, aren’t we?” the second corrects primly. “Isn’t that the very danger of the ledger, how terribly connected we all are? How inescapably? If one of the players falls victim to the game’s control,” he laments solemnly, “don’t we all have something to lose?”

“The entire game is sacrifice,” the first permits thoughtfully. “It’s not a game at all without some universal sense of loss, I suppose.”

“So we’ll have to keep it safe,” the second rules firmly, and pauses. “There are no other copies, are there?”

“Who would be fool enough to make one?” the first scoffs. “Someone stupid.”

“Someone desperate,” the second corrects.

“Same thing,” says the first. “And who has lost so badly in the game that they cannot recover?”

They lock eyes, afraid to answer.

“You don’t think,” the first one begins, and the second grimaces.

“It couldn’t possibly be,” he says, though even he looks as though he might be wrong.

Soon, though, they discover that they both are.

Within seconds, a man who is not a man (though he looks very like one) arrives in their courtroom, snapping his fingers.

The celestial argument is frozen.

“Time to go,” says the not-man, cheerily. “A game is yet to be played.”

Something Wicked

“How did you possibly get ahold of the ledger?” Fox demanded, just as the angel and reaper reappeared.

“Oh, good, you’re still here,” the angel said, marching up to Brandt with her finger brandished at his face. “Mayra, Cal,” she offered, gesturing wildly to herself and the reaper respectively, “and we have a thing or two to say to you, Brandt Solberg—”

“Who are you?” he cut in, frowning.

“Ahhh, she’s his guardian angel,” Isis whispered loudly to Vi. “That’s why he has her relic.”

“Her relic?” Vi echoed.

“Some angels have an item from their lives that binds them to earth,” Isis explained, waving towards Fox. “He has hers.”

“It’s only ‘a’ ledger,” Brandt told Fox, ignoring the others. “That I happened to scribble down in a book, so really, it’s more of an imitation than an official one—”

The reaper, Cal, looked taken aback.

“Not Death’s ledger,” he interrupted uneasily, sounding as if he very much needed the answer to be no, and beside him, Mayra turned beatifically pale.

“Ooh,” Isis said greedily, glancing at Vi. “Now this is getting good.”

“Not Death’s ledger,” Brandt agreed. “My ledger. Well, the ledger I’ve been working on,” he amended, “though I’ve kept it here for the past several decades.”

“Here?” Tom echoed. “How is that possible?”

Brandt opened his mouth to answer before deciding against it, shrugging.

“You know, you’re all getting excessively worked up over this,” he noted. “So I suppose rather than spin you into an unnecessary frenzy, I should just remind you that I simply need to find it and be on my way—”

“That’s it,” Fox announced, shaking his head. “Cal? If you would?”

“Are you sure?” Cal asked, hesitating.

“He’s a flight risk,” Fox supplied gruffly in confirmation, and Cal sighed, snapping his fingers to make a pair of cast-iron handcuffs appear around Brandt’s wrists.

“Fox,” Brandt growled, trying and failing to wrest his hands apart, “is this really necessary?”

“Yes,” Fox replied curtly, “it is, and I’ll tell you why. If my godfather is missing, then he’s at the tables. If you have a ledger and it is missing, then someone else is at the tables, too. And seeing as you’re the only one who can get me there—”

“Can’t your angel do it?” Brandt snapped, and Mayra eyed her fingernails before giving him a pursed look of annoyance.

“I’m out of miracles,” she informed him. “Traveling between conceptions of reality isn’t exactly standard, so without miracles, I can only function within the constructs of the reality I’m currently in.”

“How is it you can do it?” Isis interrupted, staring incredulously at Brandt. “Even I can’t, at least not easily. Not without, you know. A fair amount of murder, and several uninterrupted hours of yoga—”

“I have a key,” Brandt said, “not that it’s any of your business.”

“Well, it’s our business now,” Fox informed him reflexively, and then grimaced. “I mean,” he amended, “it’s mine, anyway—”

“And mine,” Mayra said. “Fox isn’t going anywhere without me.”

“And mine,” Cal agreed. “I’ll keep an eye on—” he broke off, his gaze narrowing as it settled on a fidgeting Brandt, “this one.”

“And mine,” Isis said. “And also Vi’s. Just because.”

“Wait a minute,” Vi interrupted. “I don’t see why—”

She paused, startled, as a low chime flooded the house, clanging through the foyer and flooding the high ceilings of the dining room.

“Doorbell,” barked Tom, zooming out of sight. “I’ll take care of it.”

“He will,” Vi lamented as he went. “This is just one in a long list of reasons why the house still isn’t sold. But anyway, as we were saying—”

“As I was saying, I’m not going,” Brandt said. “Death banned me from the tables a long time ago, Fox, and I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Which, to be clear,” he added, falling back against the sofa amid the cushions’ soft cough of dust, “I don’t.”

“Oi,” Tom said, abruptly reappearing. “It’s for the medium.”

“He says ‘it’s for the medium,’” Cal supplied.

“He’s not a medium,” Brandt muttered.

“It’s not for me!” Fox agreed. “For fuck’s sake—”

“Band,” Brandt said, and Fox rolled his eyes, dutifully reaching for the rubber band on his wrist before pausing abruptly, freezing in place.

“I—” Fox began, and stopped, staring at Brandt. “How did you know about that?”

“I said I was banned from the tables,” Brandt informed him stiffly. “I never said I hadn’t seen Death.”

“But how would you—”

“They had wings,” Tom supplied. “Big ones. Bigger than hers,” he added, pointing to Mayra, whose eyes widened. “Were also extremely annoying,” he mused in an afterthought, and then Mayra and Cal exchanged a glance.

“Were they, by chance,” Mayra began tepidly, “finishing each other’s sentences?”

“Yes,” Tom said, making a face. “Definitely.”

“Well, rats,” Cal sighed.

“What is it?” Fox demanded. “Honestly, Calix, the one time I need you to tell me—”

“Let me put it to you this way,” Cal said. “If it’s who I think it is, then everything is worse than we thought.”

Worse Than They Thought

One Hour Ago

“Oh balls,” Raphael muttered, regaining proper use of his voice once the knots had been tightened around his hands and feet. “You again.”

“Yes,” the man replied curtly. “Ta-dah!”

“I see you’ve found yourself a new mask, Volos,” Gabriel commented sourly. “Was the last one not to your liking?”

“Well, this one’s a bit tight,” the demon king called Volos agreed, sighing. “I’d prefer a more pleasing fit, but this particular mortal’s turned out to be rather useful. And you know I never maintain any particular skin for very long—dulls my edge,” he lamented. “Hardly worth the effort.”

“Why are you even here?” Raphael asked, exasperated. “You know we don’t allow you to play the game.”

“Correction,” Volos countered. “You don’t allow Volos to play the game.”

“Minor detail,” Gabriel grumbled. “Easily loopholed.”

“Yes—so easily loopholed, in fact, that here I am,” Volos reminded them. “Along with a couple of other unfortunate souls. You do know Elaine, don’t you?” he added, snapping his fingers to make Lainey appear beside him. “She had the misfortune of making a couple of extremely flawed deals with me after she played the game with Death—”

“As did the mortal,” Raphael said knowingly, “but that doesn’t mean we’ll permit you to play simply because you wear his skin. You are Volos, no matter whose corporeal state you occupy.”

“Well, see, this is the fun thing,” Volos informed them. “The mortal played the game—as did my little friend Elaine, here,” he added, tapping her nose. “So, once I initiate the ledger, they will both have to play, by virtue of the ledger itself.”

“We don’t have the ledger,” Gabriel informed him gruffly. “So you’ve miscalculated.”

“Actually, I have one of my own,” Volos said, holding up what looked to be a slim leather volume with some of the pages torn out. “All I need you to do, gentlemen, is to enforce the game’s rules, which is hardly too much to ask.”

“You know perfectly well that there’s only one rule,” Raphael reminded him.

“Everyone knows that,” Gabriel agreed. “Our enforcement of it is highly unnecessary.”

“That may be the case for the game, but the tables themselves,” Volos clarified, irritated, “answers to you, as you know. The game cannot start until you permit it. I have Death,” he explained. “I have the ledger, I have my players, I have my prize. Now I need the tables awoken.”

“What do you mean your prize?” Raphael echoed, balking. “What exactly is your goal, Volos?”

“You already have possession of a mortal. And a water deity, by the looks of it,” Gabriel commented, eyeing the almost certainly not-a-woman. “Haven’t you learned not to get greedy, Volos? Balance is king.”

“Correction,” he informed them, “Volos is king, and I’m tired of being relegated to less,” he added. “Plus, the mortal owes me more than simply the use of his body. Far more. Frankly,” he added with a scoff, “a mortal capable of this sort of debt should never have been allowed to play at all, don’t you think?”

Gabriel and Raphael exchanged a look.

“That wasn’t our fault,” Gabriel said tightly, as Raphael nodded his agreement. “Mortals aren’t permitted at the tables.”

“Well, neither was I,” Volos said cheerily, “and now look! It seems there are even fewer rules than you thought, seeing as your exclusions about who can sit at the tables don’t seem to hold.”

“Shows how much you know,” Gabriel muttered, making a face. “Nobody sits at the tables—”

“Yes, antagonize me,” Volos drawled. “What an excellent and surely consequenceless decision.”

“I don’t see what you want us to do about this, Volos,” Raphael said. “We’d be stupid to let you play.”

“You are stupid,” Volos said. “You’re immensely stupid, but more than that, your hands are unutterably tied. I’ll turn you in,” he added, gesturing upwards. “I’ll turn all of you in, and then what will you do, when you have God and Lucifer to contend with along with every other creature and immortal who’s ever played? A precarious position,” he warned, though Gabriel and Raphael already knew as much, and exchanged apprehensive glances.

“You have to give us a chance to win, Volos,” Raphael attempted, turning back to their kidnapper. “There has to be a way we can win, or else there’s no fun in playing at all, is there?”

“That’s true,” Gabriel contributed hastily, catching a momentary glint of pause in Volos’ eye. “The game does require an opponent to be worthwhile.”

“The opponent is Death,” Volos said, clearly sensing the intimations of a trap, but Raphael shook his head.

“No, the prize is Death,” he corrected. “In order to get your intended result, Death is merely the last of the players. You need a true opponent; a challenger. Let us choose one,” he offered. “Let us choose our opponent in the game, and we’ll open the table.”

“It won’t be any fun,” Gabriel warned, “unless there’s a chance you could lose.”

Volos hesitated.

“Winning is fun,” he protested suspiciously.

“Yes,” Raphael permitted, “but it’s not the most fun.”

“After all, you have to beat both your opponent and the game,” Gabriel reminded him. “There’s no satisfaction without sacrifice. Is there, Volos?” he asked. “Otherwise, why would the king of vice himself stoop so low as to toy with a mere mortal?”

Volos narrowed his eyes.

“I won’t share my ledger,” he said. “Your opponent will have to find his own way to reach me at the end.”

“Fine,” Raphael said, shrugging. “Doable.”

“And if I win, I win outright,” Volos said. “No deals. If I win, I play for mastery of Death.”

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed. “And if we win—”

“If your opponent wins,” Volos corrected.

“Fine,” Raphael said again. “If our opponent wins, they take mastery.”

“No ties,” Volos warned. “The game must be won, properly, and the opponent must be defeated.”

“Fine,” Gabriel said. “Do we have a deal?”

Volos considered it, toying with it one last time.

“Who is to be your chosen opponent?” he asked suspiciously. “None of the deities will play for you,” he added. “I’ve already secured their loyalty. None of them will dare to challenge me—not with the leverage I possess.”

Raphael and Gabriel exchanged another searching look.

“Not an immortal, then,” Raphael postured slowly.

“Right,” Gabriel agreed, and frowned. “So … a mortal?”

“A mortal?” Volos scoffed.

“Yes,” Raphael said, blinking rapidly. “Yes, a mortal.”

“A mortal,” Gabriel exhaled, “called—”

“—Fox D’Mora,” they said in unison.

“Never heard of him,” Volos said, frowning. “Who in the cosmos is that?”

“A mortal,” Raphael said.

“Just a normal mortal,” Gabriel added.

Raphael nodded. “Nothing in particular about him.”

“Low born,” Gabriel inserted hastily.

“Generally talentless,” added Raphael.

Volos scoffed.

“A mortal?” His lips curled up indolently, stretching to accommodate a slow, wicked smile. “Well then gentlemen, you have yourself a deal.”

Thirty Minutes Ago

“Well,” Volos began, adjusting his crown before addressing the vast sea of immortals, “now that I have you all here again—”

“We never left,” one of the minor domestic gods grumbled, sitting up from where he’d been fussing beneath the floorboards. “Or have you forgotten that you imprisoned us here?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Volos informed him, “nor have you been imprisoned.”

“Strange,” Aphrodite said, “but ‘don’t move’ and ‘don’t argue’ seems a bit like imprisonment, Volos.”

For a moment, the king of vice was silent, letting his gaze slide coolly around the room.

“Do you all feel this way?” Volos prompted, glancing at each of the immortals under his purview. “You think I’ve trapped you?”

“You have, haven’t you?” asked one of the ancestral spirits. “We are no friends of Death, true, but nor are we friends of you.”

“You merely threaten us all with exposure,” a shapeshifter said, transforming from hawk to golden-scaled dragon and back again in her fury. “You blackmail us—”

“And all but put us in cages,” Artemis added thunderously, her raised bow met with mutters and nods of agreement around the room.

“Well,” Volos hummed to himself. “If that’s how you feel—”

He waved a hand, prompting a series of twining gold bars to rise up from the floor, towering from underfoot, as above them, thick strands lowered like vines from the ceiling and snaked out from the walls, hooking around crooks of elbows and hollows of necks to anchor each immortal. Shouts of protestation echoed throughout the fold between worlds, cast out into the voids, and Volos himself waited, falling back in a throne that grew up from the ground and sprung up in spires, embracing him as fully as his soon-to-be uncontested reign.

“There,” he said, eyeing his fingernails once every immortal had been bound in place. “Now there’s no need for ‘all buts.’ Comfortable?” he added, and the others glared at him.

“You cannot hold us,” a fire-god said. “You should not even be able to now, but—”

“But you’re all bound to the game,” Volos supplied for him, pointedly holding up the book that contained the ledger. “So long as the game is in play—and all of you slaves to your own errors,” he added pointedly, gesturing to the restraints that seemed to hold tighter the more they struggled, “you are all more subject than ever to the particularities of my gifts. Not to worry, though. I expect it will all be over soon.”

“How?” one of the moon’s purveyors pressed, as a plague beside them frowned.

“Even if you win against Death—”

“When,” Volos corrected. “When I win against Death.”

“—what will you do?” the plague-deity demanded. “Put all of humanity in chains?”

“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t,” Volos replied, shrugging. “After all, they entertain me much more than all of you. Look at this one,” he added, gesturing again to his current host; the mortal whose bones and flesh he presently wore. “He simply let me in, didn’t he?”

“You can’t keep us forever,” a sylph insisted. “Once the game is over—”

“Once the game is over, I will possess mastery of Death, and will hardly need any of you,” Volos reminded them. “I tried to do this civilly,” he added, sighing in feigned lamentation, “but seeing as none of you can be counted on for affability, then I will simply have to keep you here until the game is through.”

“Are we prisoners of the game, or of you?” asked one of the fae queens.

“Both,” Volos said, “and also, neither. Prisoners of your own boredom, aren’t you? And by the way, the two who run the tables can’t save you,” he added firmly. “They’re as afraid of their own masters as you are, and as ineffectual as ever. When all of this is over, you may take your anger out on them,” he ruled, turning away. “In the meantime, I have a game to attend to—”

“Did the archangels at least choose an opponent?” one of the ancient spirits asked, her voice ringing out through space and time.

At that, Volos paused, turning over his shoulder.

“Yes,” he ventured, toying carefully with his response. “Which reminds me—has anyone ever heard of a mortal called Fox D’Mora?”

A few heads shook; mostly, though, dumbness reigned.

“Is he some type of hero?” Volos pressed. “An Achilles, perhaps? A Jason or a Hercules?”

More scattered murmurs.

“Arthur, even,” Volos attempted. “Karna? Sigurd?”

A few groans of defeat.

“I see,” Volos determined cheerfully. “So he really is a nobody, then?”

This time, nobody dared to speak, choked to silence by their own impending losses.

“Well,” Volos said, straightening his lapel and trotting towards the tables, “then I suspect we’ll be done here quite soon indeed.”

Ten Minutes Ago

The two archangels departed the red line stop at Chicago Avenue, ducking their heads and hurrying east towards the lake.

“I don’t see why we had to do it this way,” Gabriel muttered, shaking out his wings and shivering as a gust of wind smacked abruptly into their faces. “Couldn’t we have simply summoned him? It’s not as though we have much time before we’re required to oversee the tables—”

“Oh, sure, so we should just zap him to a netherworld and then say ‘we need you to play an elaborate game to gain mastery over your godfather, who by the way has been kidnapped’?” Raphael prompted sarcastically, nudging Gabriel past a large group of tourists. “Yes, I’m sure he would have taken that quite well.”

“How he takes it is hardly the issue,” Gabriel hissed in return. “I recognize that he’s our only choice, but still, if he doesn’t win against Vol-”

“Don’t say his name,” Raphael warned, glancing uneasily over his shoulder. “I’m beginning to wonder if that doesn’t simply summon him directly.”

Gabriel sighed, not wanting to be agreeable; though for the record, he fully agreed.

“I simply don’t see how he’s occupying a mortal’s body,” he muttered instead, turning his agitation back to the so-called king of vice. “Just being around mortals is disturbing enough, personally. Have you looked at them lately?”

At that, Raphael paused, looking around for the first time.

To his right, something that was almost certainly not a mortal was sorting through the rubbish bin, moaning quietly; across the street, a zombie-looking creature clutched at an old Dunkin’ Donuts mug, stumbling through traffic. On the wind, too, Raphael noted a translucent form that gave a wretched, impatient howl as it flew, joining a thick cloud of fog that lingered ominously atop Lake Michigan’s glassy surface.

“Have you looked at them?” Raphael echoed, frowning. “Because I hate to say it, but I don’t believe these are normal mortals.”

Gabriel’s eyes widened, noting the ghoul who was sorting blithely through the trash.

“Oh balls,” he said, snapping his fingers to change the stoplight and darting in front of several screeching cars. “It appears we’re going to have to hurry.”

Put It On My Tab

Fox knew better by then not to answer an unexpected knock (or in this case, the sound of the Parkers’ melancholy doorbell) but as was becoming a thematic consistency, his refusal to budge wasn’t quite enough to keep the outsides out.

“You know, it’s very impolite to keep us waiting,” one of the archangels began, gratuitously parting one of the walls to step into the Parker dining room.

“Is it?” Fox mused drily, and Mayra flashed him an impatient glare.

“Be sure to add this to the ledger, Kaleka,” the other added, glaring at Mayra as he followed behind the first. His gaze then flicked briefly to Cal. “Imprisoning people, are you, Sanna?” he asked drily, gesturing to where Brandt sat handcuffed on the sofa. “Tsk, tsk.”

“Not that we care much for the godling either,” the first cut in brusquely.

“Raphael,” Brandt muttered in greeting to the first. “Gabriel,” he added to the second.

“Godling,” they replied in unison.

“Nice to see you’ve managed to stay out of trouble,” said the one called Gabriel, before adding facetiously, “Oh, wait—”

“What are you two even doing here?” Mayra prompted, her brow furrowed. “I thought you were supposed to be looking for Death.”

“Yes, well, we found him,” Raphael said.

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed. “We did.”

“More like he found us,” Raphael amended.

“Yes, and if we’re aiming for accuracy, then what we mean is that his captor found us,” Gabriel corrected, glancing again at Raphael. “But who has the time for exactitude, really?”

“Where is he?” Fox demanded, stepping towards them.

“Ah, how to put this delicately,” Raphael murmured to himself. “Well, you see, Fox D’Mora, your godfather is—”

“Bound to an immortal game by a reprehensible demon king,” Gabriel supplied. “And as a result, we’re going to need you to do a few things for us.”

“Another demon?” Fox scoffed, and looked around, realizing that Isis had disappeared. “Speaking of demons—”

“So you agree, then?” Raphael said hopefully. “It’s really rather important that you do so expeditiously.”

“By which he means now,” Gabriel agreed, “so take whatever you need. A coat, perhaps, and—” he frowned, turning to Raphael. “What else do mortals need prior to travel? A discus? Some small shampoos?”

“There was something about a grail at one point, wasn’t there?” mused Raphael.

“I’m sorry, what?” Fox cut in.

“The holy grail is for dinner parties, not for travel,” Brandt informed them.

“I thought that sounded wrong,” Raphael said, frowning.

“No, I mean—what?” Fox pressed, blinking. “Where is it you want me to go? Where is he?”

“Metaphysically? Trapped,” Gabriel supplied.

“I meant geographically,” Fox snapped.

“Oh,” Raphael said. “Well, then he’s at the tables.”

“So he’s just playing the game?” Fox asked.

“Not exactly,” Gabriel said.

“Not of his own volition,” Raphael amended.

“By which we mean,” Gabriel ventured delicately, “no.”

“I’d like to know more about this game,” Vi commented thoughtfully, and turned as the air beside her rippled slightly. “Yes, I’m glad you agree, Tom, but that’s hardly the point at the moment—”

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel trumpeted, glancing at Raphael, “but did she just say ‘Tom’?”

“Tom Parker?” Raphael asked, producing a golden scroll from nowhere and giving it a brief, hasty scan. “Yes, yes, I see, Thom-”

“-as Edward Parker the fourth,” Vi supplied, rolling her eyes. “We know, Thomas—”

“Right, okay then, two more things,” Raphael determined, turning back to Fox. “One, as we were saying, we need you to play the game against Volos, the demon king.”

“Right,” Fox said. “Yeah, I’m not doing that.”

“Secondly, we need you t- I’m sorry, what?” Gabriel broke off, turning to Raphael. “Did he just say no?”

“Can he do that?” Raphael asked in apparent disbelief. “Is that—can he—”

“He isn’t dead,” Brandt reminded them. “He’s alive, he’s a mortal, and he’s out of your jurisdiction, so you can’t make him do anything. Believe me,” he added, pursing his lips as he flashed Fox his best glare, “I’ve tried.”

“Still,” Gabriel pronounced, aghast. “He’s—why—”

“Hold on,” Cal interrupted. “Maybe if you explained why you want him to do this—”

“No,” Fox said.

“Did he just do it again?” Gabriel asked. “Did I hear that correctly?”

“You must have dreamt it,” Brandt told him.

“Shut up, godling,” Raphael said.

“Tempers,” admonished Brandt.

“SHUT UP,” said Gabriel.

“Fox,” Mayra sighed, drifting towards him. “You might want to listen to them.” She glanced uneasily over her shoulder. “They’re terrible, but they wouldn’t have come if it weren’t very much necessary.”

“No,” Fox muttered. “I’m not playing any games, certainly not this one, and I’m not going anywhere with them—”

“Oh, you can’t come with us,” Gabriel informed him. “We have a demon tail, mortal. We can’t exactly hold your hand and help you discover the wheel—”

“They already have that,” Brandt cut in. “It’s been reinvented several times, actually.”

“Really?” asked Raphael, scoffing. “That sounds wildly impractical. Isn’t one wheel enough?”

“Mortals,” Brandt offered with a shrug. “They just love wheels.”

“Really?” Gabriel echoed.

“Totally bonkers for them,” Brandt replied, stone-faced.

“Hold on,” Fox interrupted, sparing Brandt a silencing glare before turning back to the archangels. “I can’t travel between worlds. If you weren’t planning to do it yourselves, then how was I supposed to get from place to place?”

“Kaleka?” Raphael asked Mayra expectantly, and she grimaced.

“We already played this game,” she assured them. “None of us can do it, except for …”

She trailed off, everyone in the room slowly turning to look at Brandt.

“What?” he asked.

“You have a key,” Cal reminded him.

“No I don’t,” said Brandt.

“You just said you did,” Vi commented.

“Did not,” sniffed Brandt.

“There’s only one key,” Raphael informed them. “And I keep it right—” he paused, paling, as he opened his palm to nothing but empty air. “Oh.” He turned to Gabriel. “How long have we been missing a key?”

“It’s just a spare,” Gabriel said.

“Well, it’s also gone,” Raphael muttered, glaring at Brandt as Gabriel rounded on him.

“Did you take our key, godling?” Gabriel demanded.

“No,” Brandt said, eyeing the ceiling.

“It’s your key?” Fox asked the archangels. “He definitely has one.”

They turned back to Brandt, expectant.

“What does he know?” Brandt retorted, scoffing. “He’s a mortal.”

Fox glared at him.

“Fine,” Raphael said, throwing his hands in the air. “You can keep the key, godling, if you use it to transport the godson of Death.”

“Come to think of it,” Brandt mused, “I might have a key.”

“Your ledger,” Mayra sighed at him, shaking her head. “It’s a mess.”

“Speaking of ledgers,” Raphael said, “that’s the second thing we need.”

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed. “We need you to get Death’s ledger.”

“Why?” Fox demanded. “And also, no.”

“Yes,” Raphael corrected, “and because in order to beat the demon king in the game, you need to determine who to play to reach him.”

“Like a tournament,” Brandt explained.

“How do you know?” Fox demanded.

Brandt shrugged. “Fairly straightforward,” he said, though Fox noted that Brandt didn’t meet his eye as he said it.

“Okay, so,” Raphael pronounced, “we just need you to find the ledger, win the game, and—” he paused, thinking. “That’s it, I think.”

“Oh, is that it?” Fox echoed sarcastically. “And here I thought it was going to be complicated or difficult, but no, I see, I merely have to beat a demon and win an immortal game by traveling through worlds, not remotely a problem—”

“Ah, sorry, the other thing,” Gabriel said, snapping his fingers. “Tom Parker.”

“Ah yes, Tom Parker,” Raphael agreed. “He needs to come.”

Beside them, a glass lamp rattled unsteadily, edging towards the floor.

“He says he doesn’t want to,” Vi supplied, sighing.

“That, plus a few more things inappropriate for present company,” Cal added.

“It’s really rather important,” Gabriel informed them. “You don’t seem to have grasped that all of mankind is at stake.”

“In fairness, you hadn’t mentioned it,” Brandt told them.

“Oh,” Raphael said, looking concerned. “Didn’t we say something?”

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed. “I’m pretty sure I said that with Death kidnapped, all recent ends have been improperly transported, leaving restless creatures to roam the planet untended and without hope for their proper destinations—”

“Right, and then I said that if the demon king defeats Death, all mortals will fall within his purview, leading to a world wrecked with vice—”

“And I continued that only one person can save us, of course, and that, for reasons unknown, is Fox D’Mora, the best-kept secret in all of the worlds—”

“—which isn’t saying much, except that we are not so good with secrets—”

“You said absolutely none of that,” Fox informed them. “Could I really have refused if you’d said all those things?”

“Oh,” Raphael said, glancing sideways at Gabriel. “Did we not say them?”

“Mortal brains work slower,” Gabriel said. “It’s possible he missed it.”

“Seems irresponsible not to listen attentively,” Raphael commented, flashing Fox a brief glare. “Aren’t you paying attention? Your world is at stake—”

“I grasp the concept now,” Fox muttered, turning to Cal. “And I take it this is what you meant when you said things were worse than you thought?”

Cal shrugged. “Yes,” he said simply.

“Fox,” Mayra attempted, “the reverberations of this decision will be felt in every world, not just this one. The consequences of the game falling into Vol-”

“SHHHH,” Raphael and Gabriel snapped in unison.

“—the demon king’s hands,” she amended, as they nodded in relief, “and of Death himself falling into his hands beyond the outcome of this game, would be severe for everyone.” She glanced down, eyeing her feet. “More people than you think.”

“But,” Fox began, and withered, watching Mayra interlace her fingers tightly.

He sighed, feeling immensely trapped.

“You wanted to find your godfather,” Brandt reminded him unhelpfully. “You found him, and this time he’s not coming back unless you do something.”

“What do you care?” Fox asked, hurling the question at him.

Brandt didn’t answer. Instead he eyed his restrained hands carefully before looking up, his gaze falling steadily on the ring on Fox’s finger.

“I care,” he said quietly, and Fox, recalling another moment from their past, shuddered and said nothing, resigning himself to silence.

“So will you do it?” Raphael asked, interrupting his silent, pained meandering.

Everyone’s gazes swiveled to Fox, who let out a troubled sigh.

“Maybe,” he muttered eventually.

“That’s a yes, right?” Gabriel prompted, turning to Raphael. “It sounds like a yes.”

“It’s a yes,” Brandt assured them, glancing at Fox. “He’ll do it.”

“It’s a maybe,” Fox corrected.

“Which, in Fox-speak, is a yes,” Brandt told the archangels, unfazed.

“You know, we speak actual fox,” Raphael commented. “They’re a much less evasive species than you’d think.”

“Very true,” Brandt said. “But shouldn’t you go?”

“We have this handled,” Mayra assured them, glancing at Fox. “Don’t we?”

Fox shrugged.

“Maybe,” he said again.

“We do have a few problems on our hands,” Raphael remarked.

“There’s a bit of a management crisis,” Gabriel agreed.

“There may or may not be some imprisoned immortals and creatures,” Raphael offered in half-hearted explanation.

“Allegedly,” Gabriel corrected.

“Yes, precisely,” Raphael said, and Fox let out a groan.

“Fine,” he half-shouted. “Brandt will take me. I’ll get the ledger and meet you at the tables.”

“And bring the ghost,” Raphael reminded him.

“Don’t forget the ghost,” Gabriel said.

“The ghost is very important,” Raphael agreed.

“The ghost is stuck, though,” Vi said, raising a hand. “Sorry, but—any ideas how to actually get him out of this house?”

Raphael and Gabriel exchanged a glance.

“Nope,” Raphael said.

“Best of luck, though,” Gabriel offered.

“You two are the worst,” Fox informed them.

“We know,” they said in unison, and all at once, they were gone, leaving the others to wonder if they had ever, in fact, been there at all.

For a moment after the archangels disappeared, the room was engulfed in bewildered silence. It wasn’t long, though, before confusion slipped audibly between their lips.

“Wait a minute,” Fox said bluntly. “What just happened?”

“I agree,” Isis said.

“Oh,” Vi chirped, “you’re back,” just as Tom groaned, “fuck, you’re back.”

“Well, if I’m going to do this, I want the handcuffs off,” Brandt informed the room. “I mean, if you plan to follow the instructions you were given. Which, to be clear, is my inarguable condition for involvement.”

“You’re bound by previous thefts,” Fox reminded him. “You don’t get a condition.”

“Well, I want one,” Brandt replied, “and I can be difficult, you know.”

“Oh, can you?” Fox scoffed. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Wait,” Tom said, disappearing from his place beside Vi and re-materializing next to Brandt. “Why me?”

“He says ‘why me,’” supplied Cal, and Fox glared at him.

“Don’t know,” Brandt said smoothly. “Only have guesses, but I’m going to assume it has something to do with the ledger. Possibly your blood, or your name—”

“Oh, his blood,” Isis sighed happily. “That would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

“Excuse me?” Tom demanded.

“I’m confused about ledgers,” Vi cut in, frowning. “How many are there? I thought that Mayra said they were for some sort of deficit—”

“And anyway, what exactly are your guesses?” Tom interrupted, staring at Brandt. “What would my blood or my name have to do with anything?”

“A few things,” Brandt replied. “By which I mean possibly everything, but I don’t see why that should be important for you to know.”

“How exactly are we supposed to bring him?” Fox demanded. “He’s a ghost—”

“So, about the ledger,” Vi attempted loudly, only to be interrupted again by Brandt.

“If a live mortal can come, I don’t see why a dead one can’t,” he admonished Fox. “You’ve been there yourself, haven’t you? What’s the difference?”

“Well, for one thing, I can’t leave the house,” Tom said. “Ask Vi.”

“Yes,” Vi agreed, “and on the topic of me, and questions—”

“I’m sure that’s simple enough, isn’t it?” Brandt prompted. “Probably just a flaw in the house’s foundation.”

“Actually, it has very solid bones,” Vi said, “but—”

“Not that foundation,” Brandt corrected her. “Its moral foundation.”

“It’s a house, Brandt,” Fox muttered. “Can you manage to not philosophize wildly for just one moment?”

“No, Fox, I can’t,” Brandt retorted, “because my ‘philosophizing’ is the crux of the thing, whether you like it or not. The house has a foundational structure of moral intent that, when corrupted, upsets the natural balance of things. Creeps up on its inhabitants. Et cetera.”

“The will!” Isis exclaimed at once, turning to Vi. “Didn’t you say there’s a provision in the house’s legal documents that says it has to be used as a residence?”

“Yes,” Vi said, “but I don’t see why that would—”

“There it is,” Brandt agreed, pointing both cuffed hands towards Isis. “That’s the flaw in the foundation. The demon’s got it.”

“Well, I’m a demon,” Isis reminded him smartly. “I’m always right, especially when it’s annoying.”

“What are we supposed to do about that, then?” Fox demanded. “I just want you to take me to my godfather, Brandt—”

“—and I, meanwhile, already told you my conditions,” Brandt cut in firmly, raising his hands again. “The handcuffs go, Fox, or I won’t help you—”

“And Vi has to come as well,” Tom supplied, “or I won’t go.”

Cal opened his mouth. “He says—”

“Calix,” Fox sighed, “when I want to know, I will ask. In the meantime—”

“Listen, I’m still waiting for—wait, what?” Vi asked, turning to stare at Tom. “Why me?”

“Because I know you won’t let anything happen to me,” Tom replied. “Self-preservation.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Brandt informed him, and Tom scoffed.

“I’m sorry, but nobody ever says ‘possibly your blood’ in a story where everyone comes home with all their limbs,” he growled. “Forgive me if I want some sort of insurance—”

“You’re already dead,” Brandt reminded him. “What on earth do you think is going to happen next?”

“I DON’T KNOW,” Tom shouted, ruffling Mayra’s feathers from afar.

“Okay, listen,” she said, perturbed. “I’m legally obligated to tell all of you that your motivations are highly suspect. Yours is generally fine,” she assured Fox, “but the kidnapping is going to cost you in terms of your ledger. If you decide to help Raphael and Gabriel and to let Brandt help you of his own free will rather than force him, that would be the morally responsible, and therefore celestially preferred, method of action. As for you,” she said, turning to Brandt, “you’re so far gone as to be rendered relatively defunct in terms of ledger, so I’m not going to bother—”

“Thank you,” he interrupted grandly, inclining his head.

“—and as for the matter of the ghost—”

“TOM,” contributed said ghost, prompting the lights to flicker.

“He says Tom,” Cal clarified.

“—obliging his wishes would be the morally right alternative as well, meaning that Viola will have to come.” She glanced between Fox and Brandt. “Have I made myself clear?”

“I still don’t think I’m necessary,” Vi ventured tentatively, “but if I have to go, then Isis is going.”

“Oh no,” Fox and Tom said in unison.

“Thank you, I accept,” Isis said graciously.

“But the house,” Cal ventured, quietly raising a hand. “If the ghost—” he paused, hesitating, as the fireplace threatened to flame. “I mean, if Tom can’t leave the house, then—”

“I have a thought about that,” Isis said, and as their attention swiveled to her, she smiled, sighing contentedly. “Look at me,” she remarked, nudging Vi. “Useful already.”

Fox waited until the creatures had left the room to place a phone call before turning to Brandt, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Tell me everything,” he said flatly.

“Well, where to start?” Brandt drawled. “I’m fine, by the way, thanks for asking. I’ve recently mastered the perfect braise, so all’s well on my end, you might say—”

“I meant with the ledger,” Fox cut in. “And you know that.”

“Ah, yes, well, I’ve always advised you to be more specific, Fox,” Brandt said. “Efficiency is king—”

“Balance is king,” Mayra corrected him. “And also, answer the question.”

“You know, I’m not sure I like you,” Brandt informed her stiffly. “But don’t think I haven’t caught the aura of wrongdoing. You’re a little more ambiguous than the average angel, aren’t you?”

“Focus,” Fox snapped, and Cal nodded his agreement, narrowing his eyes. “Why were you making a ledger to begin with?”

“You know I keep a book,” Brandt said, and paused. “Many books, actually.”

“Yes,” Fox grumbled, ignoring Cal’s glance of recognition, “but still, I don’t see why you’d continue recording the details of the game.”

“Because, Fox, I’m banned from playing it,” Brandt replied. “To get back in, I needed to keep tabs on it.”

“Why would it even matter?” Cal asked. “It’s only a game.”

Beside him, Mayra looked down, meticulously eyeing her feet.

“It’s not ‘only a game’ once you’ve played it,” Brandt informed the reaper. “Especially since Death cheats.”

“He doesn’t cheat,” Fox grumbled, “which you should really understand by now, considering how many times I’ve said it—”

“Still, why did you make a ledger?” Mayra asked, daintily side-stepping Fox’s comment. “How would that get you back into the game?”

“Well, there was a rumor,” Brandt explained, “which the archangels have clearly confirmed. They have a ledger themselves, kept safe by Death, wherein they keep track of everyone who’s ever played. A token of leverage, most likely,” he added, as Mayra eyed her fingernails this time, and Cal turned questioningly to Mayra. “The other Norse gods used to postulate that if you could challenge your way through the previous players, you could theoretically compel Death to sit at the tables again by virtue of enacting a new game.”

“Like a tournament?” Cal asked, and Brandt nodded.

“Just a rumor, though,” he warned. “Until a few minutes ago, that is.”

“One that you clearly believed to begin with,” Fox pointed out, “or else you wouldn’t have summoned the effort. Creating a replica of that ledger couldn’t possibly have been easy to uncover.”

“It wasn’t,” Brandt agreed. “As you may have noticed, I’ve been trying to replicate it in full for the last two centuries.” He glanced up at Fox, considering him from afar. “For something worth playing for, I might add.”

“You shouldn’t have gambled something you couldn’t afford to lose,” Fox informed him gruffly. “Or did that thought not occur to you?”

“Sometimes, Fox, the purse is more important than the cost,” Brandt replied easily. “Sometimes, the reward is more important than anything.”

“Said like a loser,” Fox grumbled.

“It’s not all that easy to win,” Mayra murmured, and they turned, looking at her with surprise. “Not that I would know, of course,” she said quickly. “You know. Celestial wisdom and all that. In any case, I could have told you that at least one part of the rumor was true,” she added, turning to Brandt. “Raphael and Gabriel have always kept track of who plays at the tables, and most of the angels know it.”

“What about the second half?” Cal asked. “Clearly Death could be compelled to play again, but how?”

“I don’t know,” Mayra said, and Brandt let out a scoff.

“The same way any bit of leverage works,” he said irritably. “Though, seeing as it’s my ledger the demon king has, then it’s incomplete. I never sorted everyone out; I was missing at least one player.”

“You do realize how dangerous it was to have recorded that, don’t you?” Mayra asked him, not altogether politely. “Whether Death could be forced to sit at the end, every immortal who’s ever played the game can be manipulated by the presence of a ledger. Knowing who’s lost to whom is dangerous information in the wrong hands.”

“In the right ones, too,” Cal said. “I wouldn’t want Raphael and Gabriel knowing things like that. Would you?”

“Of course I know how dangerous it is,” Brandt insisted. “This isn’t the only bit of dangerous information I’ve recorded, and to begin with, that’s why I took precautions. It was well hidden,” he added. “And inaccessible—”

“Except it was accessed, wasn’t it?” Fox muttered gruffly. “And Tom’s dead, isn’t he? The last Parker was murdered, and you don’t think that’s a coincidence?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t,” Brandt retorted. “I was just hoping you hadn’t noticed as well.”

“Well, they’re an unenviable mess,” Isis said gleefully, hanging up the phone and gesturing into the dining room. “This is going to be an utter fiasco. The only problem,” she murmured, sighing, “is that I don’t know who the fuck to root for.”

“Huh,” Vi said. “I sort of got the feeling we were supposed to be pro-Fox.”

“Well, he is technically the injured party,” Isis permitted. “I think there’s more to it, but the other one—”

“Brandt?”

“Yes, him,” Isis confirmed. “Yes. He’s not totally mortal. Obviously, since he can see Tom, but—” she shrugged. “Can’t quite sort him out. But I will,” she murmured happily to herself. “I will, and then I’ll get back to you.”

Vi nodded, glancing around the kitchen.

“So what is this ‘immortal game’ like?” Vi asked, aiming for neutrality, and Isis shrugged.

“I would hope it would be interesting,” she said. “I mean, if we’re going to go through all this trouble,” she clarified. “But for the record, I’ve never played. Demons are sort of unofficially banned from the tables.”

“Would you even want to?” Vi asked. “I mean, by the sound of it, it would be a terrible mistake to attempt, don’t you think?”

“Depends how you view it,” Isis replied, shrugging. “Also depends what you would be willing to sacrifice for the things you desire most.”

“What,” Vi scoffed, “like riches? Treasure?”

“Yes and no,” Isis said. “I mean, if you’re a pirate, then yes and yes. But it’s an immortal game, Viola, and immortals can do a hell of a lot more than creatures. They can give and take life. They can give and take beauty, fortune, fame. The things on earth like victory and success that take a lifetime to achieve—and which still come with a price,” she added, with a hint of warning, “can be gifted in the bat of an eye by an immortal. And there’s no other way to get an immortal’s gift without sacrificing something for it.”

Vi thought instantly of her own wish, shoving it brusquely from her mind.

“Still,” she said uneasily. “Seems risky.”

“Well, everything is a risk,” Isis agreed, “and that sort of thing is much more intoxicating to someone who can’t die. It would be absolutely terrible to play the game as a mortal,” she added with a shudder. “Mortals are so short-sighted, and creatures are only marginally better. We still have eternity to contend with, so the consequences are different, but the draw of it for us is basically the same.”

“I don’t really see it as much of a draw,” Vi said, but Isis looked skeptical.

“Maybe not yet,” she said, “but you do have a creature’s urges, no matter how you suppress them, and with Death missing, they’re going to be considerably stronger. Especially the more you’re around mortals,” she warned. “Be sure you don’t actually play the game yourself. You probably shouldn’t even touch the tables.”

Vi grimaced.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this, then,” she said.

“Ha,” Isis agreed, looking smug. “No, we certainly should not. But it’ll be fun, won’t it?”

Vi sighed.

“Doubtful,” she determined.

Reinforcements

The doorbell’s moody minor key dinged again exactly twenty minutes after Vi and Isis had placed the phone call.

“Oh, good,” Isis said, opening the door. “I see you brought the loon brigade.”

“Well, I figured I should have reinforcements,” Lupo replied in earnest. “Juice box?”

“Yes, please,” Isis said happily, stepping aside for Louisa and Sly to enter behind him. “May I ask why you thought to bring these particular reinforcements?”

“Well, mostly they were there,” Lupo said. “But Sly’s, you know, a fairy. They’re a slippery bunch, and considering you need a bit of slipping—”

“If you need a loophole,” Sly supplied, “I’m your man. I don’t just hack computers,” he added. “I can hack anything—legal contracts included.”

“Ooh,” Louisa exclaimed, stepping inside to catch sight of where Brandt remained on the sofa, hands still cuffed. “Are we taking prisoners, too? Fun!”

“How is this supposed to help, exactly?” Fox demanded, as Lupo removed his hat, stepping forwards.

“You must be Fox D’Mora,” he said, scratching at his beard in awe before offering his hand. “I’m Lupo. Werewolf.”

“I—yes,” Fox agreed faintly. “So it would seem.”

“He won’t bite, you big mortal baby,” Isis sniffed. “And anyway, to continue the introductions: Louisa’s a siren,” she explained, gesturing. “Sly’s a fairy; Fox is a mortal with an abandonment complex; Brandt’s a random thief we don’t really know anything about yet, short of his romantic falling out with Fox; Mayra’s a guardian angel who’s almost certainly hiding something; Cal’s a reaper who’s very clearly obsessed with Mayra; Tom’s a poltergeist who won’t be quiet—”

“Excuse me?” they all protested in unison, and Isis shrugged.

“Just catching everyone up,” she explained, and frowned. “What? You all look upset.”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Vi sighed, shaking her head before turning to Sly. “Do you want to look over the contracts?”

“Sure,” he said. “Though any particular summary would probably do.”

“Good,” Vi said, “because it’s almost dark, and then I’m going to start having very strong urges to chase balls of string.”

“The house has to be lived in,” Tom interjected for him, swooping down from overhead. “My grandmother’s stipulation. It can’t be occupied by a business, or a rehab center,” he sniffed with displeasure, “despite Viola’s insistence on selling it—”

“It’s not my insistence,” Vi reminded him, for what was easily the hundredth time. “I keep telling you, I’m just the realtor. I’m employed by the house, basically, so—”

“So who owns it now?” Sly interrupted.

“The Parker family trust,” Vi replied. “Which is currently being operated by the board of trustees, as there are no direct living heirs to the Parker family.”

“Well, there’s your answer,” Louisa contributed. “That’s not a person, is it?”

“Well, no,” Vi agreed, “but—”

“That’s why Tom’s here,” Lupo agreed. “Is it okay if I call you Tom, by the way?”

“FINALLY,” blasted Tom.

“He says ‘finally,’” Cal informed Fox, who glared at him.

“So what does that mean, then?” Vi asked. “I just have to find a person to buy the house and live in it, and then Tom can go?”

“Sounds that way,” Brandt contributed, leaning forward. “Not that anybody asked the man in handcuffs, but that’s my uninvited thought on the matter.”

“We can buy it,” Lupo offered. “I mean, we can live in it for a bit until you get back. Provided you can make the price reasonable,” he added, glancing back at Sly. “Say, ten dollars?”

“Seven,” Sly said, holding up a Diet Coke. “I bought a pop on the way here.”

“For three dollars?” Louisa asked, gaping. “That’s thievery!”

“Capitalism,” Sly agreed, taking a languid sip. “The worst of all mortal inventions.”

“Not sure Greed would agree,” Brandt chimed in, though again, nobody was listening.

“I can’t just sell the Parker mansion for ten dollars,” Vi protested. “I’d have to get the approval of the board, first of all, and seeing as they aren’t clinically insane—”

“Firstly, as I mentioned, it’s actually seven dollars,” Sly corrected her, “and secondly, you don’t need to amend the mortal contract, considering that the consequences are outside the mortal realm of control. We can make an addendum to the supernatural clause—”

“What supernatural clause?” Vi asked. “I’ve read the deed from cover to cover,” she added, frowning, “and there’s no supernatural clause anywhere in it.”

“You have to read the fine print,” Louisa clarified primly, taking the paperwork from her hand and scanning it quickly before sighing. “Hold on,” she requested, and stepped back, placing the buyer’s agreement on the floor before opening her mouth, humming a quick sailor’s shanty before picking it up again, noting the glazed eyes in the room. “Oi,” she called to them, snapping her fingers. “Focus. We’re here to work.”

“Thanks,” Brandt said, roughly shaking out the frame of his shoulders, and Louisa shrugged, indifferent.

“Right here,” she said, pointing to the clause she’d summoned. “‘The house shall, supernatural events notwithstanding, be occupied by a member of the Parker bloodline without exception, or by someone granted express approval by the last remaining heir.’ Simple enough, I’d say.”

“I’m not giving away my house,” Tom pronounced, horrified. “Certainly not for seven dollars, which is an outright travesty—”

“It’s only temporary,” Ludo assured him kindly. “You can have it back when you come back from—what was it again?”

“Traveling to an immortal realm to rescue Death,” Isis supplied.

“What is that, a day or two, tops?” Sly asked. “There’s only a marginal chance we’ll have ruined it by then.”

Vi turned to Isis, murmuring quietly to her. “But what if Tom doesn’t come back?” she asked, blinking. “If he isn’t bound to the house, then—”

“Hush,” Isis warned, giving her a silencing glance, and stepped forward. “Do we have a deal, then?” she prompted, searching pointedly around the room. “Lupo will buy and live in the house for as long as it takes us to master Death—”

“Master him?” Fox echoed. “Excuse me?”

“What? You misheard,” Isis assured him. “I said rescue him.”

“You most certainly did n-”

“Is this about the immortals’ game?” Louisa asked. “God, I’ve always wanted to play that. Sly,” she exclaimed suddenly, turning to him, “do you remember the mermaid who played it and won? She used to come to the meetings all the time, always going off about how bored she was, blah blah—she played the game and then tried making a deal with that demon king and skipped off somewhere—”

“Demon king?” Vi echoed, noticing Isis’ face going slightly green, but the other two continued their manic chattering.

“Oh, right,” Sly agreed. “Some sort of changeling?”

“Yes, like an adult changeling,” Louisa confirmed. “Is there a word for that?”

“Not an English one,” Sly said.

“Can we stop babbling?” Isis cut in sharply, clearly perturbed by something. “First of all, none of this is relevant, and secondly, if we’re going to torment people, let’s have it not be me—”

“She had one of those nicknames,” Sly went on, ignoring her. “Remember? Hated the full name.”

“Ooh, yes, hated her name, said it was too depressingly mortal,” Louisa agreed. “Ellen? Eleanor?”

“Elbow,” Sly guessed.

“Eldridge—”

“Elphaba!”

“Elaine,” Lupo interrupted, rolling his eyes. “You two can never remember shit.”

“Elaine! Lainey, actually,” Louisa said. “That’s the one—”

“Lainey?” Tom asked, choking. “Lainey Wood?”

“That’s the one,” Sly said. “Why, do you know her?”

Vi and Tom turned slowly, locking eyes in slow, tensed recognition.

“Well,” Brandt pronounced. “I’m going to go ahead and make a judgment on behalf of the group, I’m afraid. You’re going to have to sign these contracts, møy,” he told Vi, “because things are clearly worse than I thought.”

Demons

“You really think this is going to work?” Tom asked, peering over Vi’s shoulder as she looked over the contract Sly had altered. “Paperwork, really?”

“I’m beginning to understand that the supernatural has its own flavor of tedium,” Vi replied. “I’m starting to wonder if there’s anything in this world—or any other, for that matter,” she amended, shrugging, “that isn’t purely minutiae.”

“Can’t be worse than humanity,” Tom remarked. “Certainly not worse than business school.”

“Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t think of this first,” Vi commented slyly, glancing over at him. “Shouldn’t you be an expert in contracts?”

“That’s for the lawyers,” Tom sniffed. “Though, thank you for finally acknowledging my intellect.”

Vi leaned back, watching curiously as he fidgeted beside her.

“You haven’t said anything about Lainey,” she noted, purposely not looking up.

“What about her?” Tom scoffed, a little too quickly for truth. “So she was a—”

“Mermaid,” Vi supplied. “I think. Which, if true, is strangely fairytale-esque.”

“Or would be,” Tom grumbled, “if our relationship were even remotely a fairytale.”

“Well,” Vi said primly, “there was a bit of love in there, don’t you think?”

“Who knows,” Tom said, his expression darkening. “She’s a siren, isn’t she?”

“Louisa’s a siren,” Vi corrected. “From the sound of it, Lainey is some sort of water spirit.”

“Ah, yes,” Tom drawled. “Much better.”

Vi looked down again, pretending to scan the contract.

“So,” she said, not looking up, “are you okay, then?”

“Of course,” Tom said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Vi pointedly flipped a page.

“Oh,” Tom muttered. “Because a couple of angels need me for some sort of tournament ledger and Lainey’s a—oh, I don’t know, a—”

“Creature,” Vi supplied helpfully, and Tom grimaced.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “So I should be what, exactly? Upset?”

“I don’t think it would be unreasonable if you were,” Vi told him. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Says you,” Tom said gruffly. “You are the one living in denial, after all.”

“I’m not living in denial,” Vi retorted. “I’m just—”

“‘Managing your condition,’ I know,” Tom said. “Which is stupid.”

“Well,” Vi said carefully, re-reading the first sentence of the supernatural amendment for the fourth time, “if I’m so stupid, then maybe I should just stay here.” She glanced up then, too curious to miss his reaction. “To be honest, I don’t understand why you want me to come in the first place.”

He shifted, folding his arms grumpily over his chest.

“Well, Viola, whether or not you understand my motives is entirely on you,” Tom sniffed. “In any case, I don’t see what you have going on that’s better.”

“I have a job, Tom,” she reminded him. “I have a life, you know—”

“You quite literally don’t,” Tom countered, transitioning rapidly from moody, tepid avoidance to his usual state of antagonizing her. “At best, you have an ‘un-death,’ Vi, which to my understanding is hardly the same thing.”

“You’re not answering the question,” she pointed out. “I’m simply asking you why you want me to come, Tom. Weren’t you just trying to undermine me?” she added, gesturing to where Fox and Brandt remained in the other room. “He wouldn’t even be here if not for you telling him how to get into the house!”

“Yes, well, that’s about the house, not you,” Tom told her, as if such a thing really made a difference. “As I keep telling you, I don’t want you to sell it.”

“And yet,” Vi pointed out, “selling it is what’s going to get you out of it, isn’t it?”

“Well, that’s a new development,” Tom countered stiffly. “Really, you’re going to need to keep up.”

“You’re still not answering the question,” Vi said, abandoning her pretense and setting the contract on the table. “Why do you want me to come?”

“Well, obviously, you’re my only entertainment,” Tom replied, though it contained the slight twang of a lie. “I can’t move, Viola. I can’t leave. I can’t do anything except push your buttons, and you’re my only—”

“Friend?” Vi asked, watching Tom promptly stumble over hesitation. “Tell me I’m your friend, Tom,” she teased, “and maybe I’ll come.”

“Maybe?” he echoed.

“Maybe,” she confirmed. “Depends what you have to say.”

Tom frowned.

“Why do I have to bend?” he demanded. “You’re the one trying to help me. You,” he emphasized firmly, “should be the one admitting that you like me.”

“I’m not trying to help you. I’m trying to get rid of you—”

“See?” Tom prompted. “You’re being just as difficult, aren’t you?”

“I need to sell this house,” Vi said, but Tom held up a hand.

“Your job is to sell this house,” he corrected, “but you want to help me.” He paused, watching her. “Tell me I’m right,” he added quietly, “and I’ll tell you why I want you to come.”

She hesitated.

“Fine,” she exhaled grumpily. “Fine. So maybe I do want to help you. It’s hard not to,” she added defensively. “You’re always just floating around here moping, you don’t have any memory of how you got here, you have no answers and no hope and no—”

“Friends,” he supplied grimly.

“Yeah,” she confirmed. “No friends.”

He took a deep breath, his eyes closing briefly.

“The truth is that I’m afraid if you’re not there, no one will see me,” he admitted. “You were the only person who could, and I’m afraid that if you don’t come, then—”

“I don’t think there’s any significance to why I can see you,” Vi said slowly. “The others can see you, too. Minus Fox, though he’s apparently nothing out of the ordinary. I mean, that’s what Isis says,” she mumbled, “but that seems sort of, you know. A terribly obvious understatement, so—”

“I would just feel better,” Tom interrupted, “if you were there.”

Vi sighed.

“Is this you asking nicely?” she prompted wearily.

He shrugged.

“Probably,” he said.

“Then I guess I’ll have to go,” she murmured, doing them both the favor of not letting him see her smile.

“So,” Mayra commented, glancing at Isis. “You’ve heard of this demon king, haven’t you?”

“Is it that obvious?” Isis asked, and Mayra shrugged.

“A bit,” she admitted, passing Isis a smirk. “You’re afraid of him, aren’t you?”

Isis hesitated.

“We shouldn’t talk about him,” she said. “Calling him by name is, in essence, to summon him.”

“But he is a demon, then,” Mayra noted. “Like you?”

“Not much like me,” Isis said, shuddering. “More powerful. Less constrained by any sort of code. Older, too—ancient, in fact. But he calls himself the king of vice, and mostly feeds on mortals.”

“Feeds on them?”

“Uses them. Wears them,” Isis grunted. “Then sheds them like a snakeskin and moves on.”

“And this is disturbing even to you?” Mayra asked evenly.

“Almost as disturbing to me as the game is disturbing to you,” Isis replied knowingly.

Mayra fought the impulse to retort, biting her tongue.

“Don’t worry,” Isis assured her. “I won’t tell them you played if you don’t want me to.”

“It was—” Mayra inhaled, holding it in, then exhaled. “It was a long time ago, and—”

“The past is passed,” Isis assured her. “And besides—”

She trailed off, a slight smile twitching at her lips.

“Besides?” Mayra prompted, waiting.

“Well,” Isis said, half-laughing. “Everyone has demons, don’t they?”

“Fox,” Brandt sighed for the dozenth time, “take the handcuffs off.”

“Sorry,” Fox replied, not bothering to conceal the ring of falsehood to his apology. “Can’t. You have a tendency to leave, remember? And clearly, we need you.”

“Fox,” Brandt said again, shaking his head. “A pair of reaper’s handcuffs isn’t exactly binding.”

“It’s more binding than anything else,” Fox replied, irritated. “And you can’t convince me to take them off by saying there’s more danger in doing nothing. I’m not a total fool, Brandt.”

“I know you aren’t—”

“Do you?” Fox cut in, narrowing his eyes. “Do you know that, Brandt? Because a past version of you always thought otherwise, didn’t you? Or is this the benefit of you leaving,” he muttered, bitterness pooling like bile on his tongue. “That now, finally, I have the presumption of adequate intellect?”

“Fox, listen to me—”

“So I’m not a child anymore, Brandt?” he taunted. “Am I not your lillegutt now?”

“Fox,” Brandt warned again, harsher this time, and Fox made the unforgivable mistake of meeting his eye.

He fought a rush of memory, a crash of it, an axe against his heart; the things he’d tried so helplessly to bury rushing out of it in waves, in droves, in swarms. How many times had he heard Brandt Solberg say his name? How many ways? He’d heard it low and reverent, a whisper in his ear. He’d heard it sharp and strident, an assault on all his senses, an admonishment and a strike. He’d heard it mournful and blissful; he’d heard it heated in anger, cool in warning, warm again in the late hours of night. He’d heard the sound of his name from Brandt Solberg’s lips so many times, in so many ways, that it almost seemed cruel to suffer it now.

They both struggled for a moment with familiarity; they’d already lived so much history that witnessing it again was paralyzing.

The grandfather clock in the corner ticked several times, punctuating the sound of their breaths before Brandt spoke again, inhaling wearily and letting the words out in a sigh.

“If you had held me in handcuffs two centuries ago, Fox,” Brandt told him, “you still would not have kept me.”

Fox shut his eyes, taking the weight of the statement like a slap.

“I just meant,” Brandt supplied hurriedly, “that you can’t undo the past—”

“No, I can’t,” Fox confirmed, his voice clipped. “I know that. Don’t you think I know that?” he asked, half-pleading. “Do you know what the past would look like if I did?”

Instead of answering, Brandt let a moment of silence pass, not speaking.

“Did you look for me?” he asked neutrally.

Fox stared at him.

The question—that he would even dare to ask, much less that he could manage it so carelessly—was so abjectly horrifying as to render it abominably callous.

“No,” Fox lied, as nastily as he could manage. “You’d already made it clear how little I meant to you, Brandt. I didn’t look, because I knew I wouldn’t find you if you didn’t want to be found. And if I couldn’t keep you then—” he faltered painfully, though he disguised it, curling his hand around his mouth and imagining he could swipe the bitterness from his tongue. “If I couldn’t keep you then, I certainly can’t keep you now. But it’s different now,” he warned, breaking off. “This is no matter of—” Another break. “This is about my godfather. Not about—” A crisp, unpreventable shattering. “Not about us. That past is passed.”

“Fox—”

“Brandt,” he spat in return, tired of hearing his name spoken so easily, as if it could be said without thought or remorse. “I’m not having Cal remove the handcuffs until I’ve gotten the ledger and freed my godfather. What you do from there is up to you. Whatever damage you cause,” he added brusquely, “you will walk away again, unscathed, as you always do. But while there is something I need from you, I will not be the fool I was once. I will not be the fool who lets you go.”

He heard what he’d said and flinched.

“I meant,” he amended, “I won’t be the fool who lets you escape. Not when there’s this much on the line.”

“I know what you meant,” Brandt replied quietly.

Fox glared at him. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I would never,” Brandt drawled, but Fox was in no mood for his games. He rose to his feet, turning to leave the room.

“Wait,” Brandt called, and though Fox wanted very much not to pause, it seemed his feet were conditioned; muscle memory of sorts, which he assumed was one of the terrible flaws of mortality. “You know about the ledger. How?”

Fox gave into a moment of difficulty, taking whatever retribution he could get. “What ledger?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

He turned to find Brandt giving him a look of unfiltered irritation.

“You knew the game had a ledger even before the archangels got here,” he said. “You recognized it before I even mentioned it. How did you know that? And don’t lie,” he added in warning. “I thought you wanted the moral high ground, Fox, and how do you expect to keep it if you keep leaning into your own juvenile antics?”

“I’m over two centuries old,” Fox snapped. “I’m hardly juvenile.”

“Well,” Brandt muttered, “act like it, then.”

Fox could not suppress a glorious scowl.

“Papa told me,” he said flatly. “I made him tell me everything, after—” Another terrible, crushing falter. “After everything.”

“After me, you mean,” Brandt supplied, with a gentleness that made Fox want to strangle him.

“After you left,” Fox spat, “yes. I made him tell me everything.”

“But he didn’t,” Brandt commented, gesturing to where the handcuffs bound his wrist. “Clearly.”

“No,” Fox muttered, “but I’ll take that up with him later. He told me about the ledger. And he promised me he wouldn’t play again,” he added. “And as far as I know, he hasn’t.”

Brandt leaned forward, contemplating something that seemed to exist in Fox’s eyes.

“As far as you know,” he murmured, “does not take us very far at all, does it, Fox?”

Fox opened his mouth to answer, fully annoyed, but Brandt shook his head.

“As I said, my copy of the ledger is incomplete,” he said. “There is at least one game that was played with Death that I know nothing about. I have some suspicions, though,” he added carefully, “and I have long wondered what information you might possess.”

“Me?” Fox demanded, both surprised and offended. “What would I know? You’re the one stealing things, hiding things—”

“Did you ever lend your ring to anyone?” Brandt cut in seriously, resting his elbows on his knees. “Anyone, Fox. It’s important that you remember.”

“I—are you serious?” Fox demanded, gaping at him. “First of all, how is this possibly the question that you’re asking me? After everything?” At Brandt’s silence, he gave in again to a rush of bitterness. “You see this?” Fox growled, lunging forward with his hand out. “This is the ring you gave me, Brandt. And this?” he prompted, holding up his arm to gesture to the watch. “You again, Brandt. My own name, in fact,” he said painfully. “Fox ‘D’Mora.’ You gave that to me too, didn’t you? I could never sever you from me, Brandt, and you think it’s fair to ask me questions as though that time was nothing?”

He stared, but Brandt said nothing.

“Why did you leave?” Fox finally asked hoarsely. “Why?”

“Fox—”

“Tell me,” Fox demanded. “Tell me why you left, Brandt, it’s hardly too much to ask—”

“I can’t,” Brandt said, flinching. “I can’t tell you, Fox.”

“Why not?”

“Fox—”

“Brandt—”

“As you say, the past is passed,” Brandt said sharply. “And it may seem unfair, Fox, but there could be more at stake here than you realize. More than the wrongs I have done you, as much as I know I have done them. Do you think I can’t see what you’ve been through? How you’ve changed?” he asked, almost roughly. “Don’t you think that if I could answer you, I—”

He broke off, his lips closing around nothing; as though his throat itself had been suspended.

Fox, unable to bear his silence, turned away.

“Fox,” Brandt attempted again, his voice a hollow rasp, but Fox shook his head, thoroughly defeated.

“You’re right,” he said flatly. “The past is passed.”

Interlude V:

Past is Passed, Part I

Brandt Solberg

1833

“There’s your godfather,” Brandt informed the mortal, pointing to the shadowed figure at the head of the center table. “Right where I told you he would be. But again, it’s nearly dawn,” he warned, gesturing to the window that had no end and no beginning, manifesting from nothing and ending in a cloud of refracted dust. “He’s almost finished, and—”

But the young man called Fox wasn’t listening, instead razing a path towards his godfather until the specter at the end of the table flickered with alarm, transitioning from something hazy and insubstantial into solid, admonishable form, the eyes of the man-resembling figure’s head blowing wide at the sight of his young ward.

Brandt paused, amused, and made a mental note to scribble it all down in his book later before following quickly in their wake.

“Papa,” Fox called tartly, folding his arms over his chest. “I see you’ve left something out about where you’ve been, haven’t you?”

Death paused, considering this, and cleared his throat.

“Well,” he began, and then caught sight of Brandt, his ash-blue eyes promptly narrowing. “Well,” he amended, sharpening his voice to sour disapproval. “Of course you’re here, godling. Can’t keep a secret worth a damn, can you?”

“Not worth having one, is it?” Brandt prompted knowingly, shrugging. “And anyway, this is hardly my fault.”

“No more deals,” Death warned, brandishing a finger at him. “Your spot at the table’s been rescinded, and I expect you to hand over that book of yours, too—”

“What book?” Brandt chirped innocently. “Why, Papa, surely I know of no such thing.”

“You have no idea how dangerous that book could be, godling,” Death growled. “I expect you to hand it over immediately. And in the meantime—”

“Can’t the logistics wait?” Fox growled, glaring at him. He was hardly a boy, Brandt thought, but still, his youth shone irredeemably as he scowled. “I didn’t realize you were a gambler, Papa.”

“Stop calling me that,” Death warned, grabbing Fox’s arm and pulling him aside.

Brandt, too curious not to follow, hung in the shadows for only a moment before darting after them.

“Didn’t the godling explain this to you?” Death hissed to his godson, dropping his voice. “I can’t have people knowing about you, Fox. It’s far too dangerous.”

“Oh, so now you’re dangerous?” Fox pressed, jerking his arm free. “Were you ever going to tell me about this?”

“No,” Death said, and rolled his eyes. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a timeless, incorporeal being, Fox, and you are a mortal. You don’t need to know everything.”

Fox paused, his brow furrowing, and opened and closed his mouth.

Brandt, finding himself inexplicably uncomfortable at the sight of the young man’s dismay, stepped forward.

“Perhaps ‘mortal’ is as much an oversimplification as ‘gambler,’ then,” Brandt suggested, careful to keep his voice light and breezy. “Surely you’re aware your own godson’s life could never be that of any normal mortal.”

Death grimaced, sparing him a flash of ire.

“Take Fox home,” he said to Brandt, spinning on his heel, “and be certain that you don’t come back here, godling, or there’s no telling what the others will do.”

Fox blinked, disbelieving. “But Papa—”

“That’s awfully rude,” Brandt retorted, stepping forward. “I hardly think I deserve banishment—and more importantly, why am I relegated to babysitting?”

“He shouldn’t be here,” Death reminded him, his gaze flicking sharply to his godson and then away, as though he could not stand to look. “You should have known better than to bring him here, godling.”

Brandt felt his eyes narrow, irritated.

“Perhaps you should have known better than to keep secrets. He’s a very nosy mortal, you know,” he accused, “and perhaps, all things considered, he has a right to be.”

“Will you stop talking about me like I’m a child?” Fox demanded, hands characteristically on hips. “I’m right here.”

“Yes, you are,” Brandt snapped, “and it’s problematic for both of us, as I’m clearly being blamed for it.” He turned, glaring at Death. “I tried to shake him,” he added, which was true, “but you’ve raised a relentless little boil of a man.”

“I will deal with my godson later,” Death muttered. “Just get him out of the game. You know he doesn’t belong here.”

“And what will be my payment, then?” Brandt prompted.

Death’s eyes narrowed, displeased.

“I’m not letting you play again,” he warned. “Every time you come here, Brandt Solberg, something priceless gets stolen—and don’t think for a moment that I haven’t pieced that together.”

“Oh, don’t be such a stiff,” Brandt sniffed. “What’s the point of an illegal gambling ring if someone doesn’t get robbed?”

Death shook his head.

“Just give Time back his watch,” he growled. “He hasn’t stopped yapping about it.”

Fox turned, eyeing Brandt; it was a careful glance this time, as if he were considering something he hadn’t before, and Brandt found it supremely unnerving.

Distracting, even, and therefore entirely unhelpful.

“I can’t give it back,” Brandt replied neutrally, tearing his gaze from Fox back to Death. “It’s broken.”

Death’s eyes widened. “You broke it?”

“He can make another,” Brandt assured him.

“I know that, but—”

“But this one is definitely broken, yes.”

Death sighed wearily, his mouth twitching at the corners.

(This iteration of him was extremely unsettling, Brandt thought.)

(Far too human.)

“Fine,” Fox said flatly, turning to Brandt. “Take me back, then. I don’t want to be here anyway.”

“You’re a child,” Brandt sighed, shaking his head, “and as for you—”

He paused, looking around for Death, but found him nowhere in sight.

“He’s gone,” Fox cut in bluntly, as Brandt blinked.

The two of them now stood alone.

“Apparently,” Fox muttered, “he has somewhere better to be.”

Brandt watched the young man’s gaze drift to his godfather at the table, something twitchy and bitter and sad forming around the corners of his mouth. Something familiar, and something both troubled and troubling.

And then, with an inward grimace, Brandt sighed.

“Come on, then, lillegutt,” he muttered, taking hold of Fox’s shoulder and drawing him away from the tables. “Before you have a tantrum.”

“Let go of me,” Fox snapped in return, ripping out of Brandt’s hold and storming forward the way they’d come. “I don’t need you to watch over me—”

“Yes, actually, you do,” Brandt sighed lazily, not bothering to chase him. “You can’t find your way out of here alone.”

“Yes I c-”

“No,” Brandt repeated firmly, “you can’t. You’re a mortal, and transportation will not occur to the blood in your veins, Fox—”

The young man spun, glaring at him.

“I know that I’m a mortal,” he snapped. “Do you think my pap-” he paused, swallowing. “Do you think Death ever lets me forget?”

Brandt waited a moment, feeling his shoulders stitch together in the tension of the moment.

“There is no shame in mortality,” he said slowly, and Fox let out a bark of laughter.

“You don’t believe that.”

“I do, actually.”

“Your life says otherwise, godling.”

“Don’t read me by my life,” Brandt warned. “Important to have all the facts.”

“I don’t want them,” Fox muttered.

Brandt, feeling again an itch of irritation that nagged at his intestines, fought a retort.

“Let’s get you home, then,” he pronounced flatly, “and be rid of each other for the entirety of your mortal existence, shall we?”

Fox glared at him.

“Yes,” he said, pawing at the frustration that had creased in his brow. “Let’s.”

“Well,” Brandt offered cheerily. “I see you’ve been keeping out of trouble, then.”

Fox looked up, tearing his face away from the pretty maid’s lips with a loud, suctioning sound of displacement.

He blinked once, registering Brandt’s presence.

“Oh,” said Fox.

“Oh, indeed,” Brandt agreed, glancing down at the girl. “And who is this?”

“Not any of your business, I should think,” Fox told him briskly, tightening his arms around her waist and brandishing her like a shield. “And what do you care?”

“I don’t,” Brandt assured him. “It’s simply rude not to ask.”

“Um,” the girl said, glancing uneasily between them. “Should I go?”

“No,” Fox told her, in the same moment that Brandt said, “Yes, thank you.”

“Excuse you?” Fox demanded, glaring at him with that same youthful scowl. “You don’t get to tell—” he hesitated, pausing as his tongue tripped over the vacancy of her name. “I mean,” he amended, “seeing as this, um—”

“Wonderful,” the girl sighed in displeasure, rising to her feet. “Enjoy your life, Fox D’Mora,” she yelped over her shoulder, stomping out of sight as Brandt turned to him, utterly amused.

“D’Mora?” Brandt prompted knowingly. “I told you it was a good name.”

Fox glared at him.

“What do you want?” he demanded, with characteristic impatience.

“Just visiting,” Brandt supplied, and Fox grimaced.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t visit,” he muttered. “Didn’t you specifically tell me we’d never see each other again?”

“I did,” Brandt permitted, finishing the sentence in his slim leather book before tucking it back into his pocket. “But then I was in town,” he clarified, settling smoothly into the lie, “and there is so little else to do here, so—”

“Is my godfather at the tables again?” Fox asked, his eyes darkening with displeasure. “I’ve suggested otherwise, but he seems unconcerned with my opinion on the matter.”

“A supreme tendency,” Brandt acknowledged. “Being that he will outlast you quite significantly, that is.” He paused, taking a bite of his apple, and then held it out to Fox. “Apple?”

“I hardly possess the same need for immortality that you do,” Fox reminded him, rising to his feet and dusting off his trousers. “Is there something you wanted to do while you were here?”

“Antagonize you,” Brandt said, taking another bite.

Fox rolled his eyes, heading out towards the market.

Obligingly, Brandt followed.

“How do you get those, anyway?” Fox asked, and Brandt paused, considering it.

“You know how there’s a goddess?” he prompted, glancing askance.

Fox nodded. “Yes. You told me.”

“Right, well—” Brandt shrugged. “I have something that she wants.”

“What is it?” Fox asked, and Brandt quirked a brow.

“Can’t tell.”

“Of course you can’t,” Fox muttered.

“Yes. See?” Brandt prompted. “You understand.”

Fox groaned.

“Why are you even here?”

“Why not?”

“You’re exhausting,” Fox informed him.

“Yes, and you and Death are still on the outs, I see,” Brandt returned, disregarding the comment. “You seem angstier than usual, lillegutt.”

“Angstier? What’s angst?”

“Something Kierkegaard made up,” Brandt supplied unhelpfully. “Nice guy,” he added. “Minus all the, you know. Anxiety and dread.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Fox replied stiffly, “but in any case, I’m positive it’s not true. About me, I mean,” he amended. “Papa and I are fine.”

“You aren’t,” Brandt corrected. “You haven’t seen him in some time, have you?”

The motion of Fox’s knuckles whitening confirmed it.

“That’s none of your business,” grumbled Fox.

Brandt smiled.

“Shall I go, then?” he asked. “You seem displeased to see me.”

“I am,” Fox assured him. “Deeply.”

“Very well, then,” Brandt permitted, and paused as they reached a fork in the road. “Same time next month?”

Fox stared at him.

And stared.

And stared.

“Yes,” he said eventually, managing a nod. “Yes, alright. Fine.”

“What do you give the goddess?” Fox asked, skipping a stone across the river.

“You never tire of asking, do you?” Brandt prompted, tucking his book back in his pocket after finishing a quick sketch of the landscape. “And yet, imagine it: I tire of your questioning.”

“It’s a fairly natural curiosity,” Fox said. “Don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” Brandt replied. “Though, considering how often I tell you it’s unwise to ask, I would think you’d come to learn your lesson.”

“Maybe eventually,” Fox permitted. “But hardly right now.”

“What’d you tell that girl?” Brandt asked, changing the subject. “The one you were with this time.”

“Nothing,” Fox supplied bluntly. “What would I tell her? I have no trade, really. Nothing of interest, and she’ll want a husband. I hardly need a reason not to see her again.”

“She seemed keen to see you,” Brandt attempted, aiming for reassurance.

“Yes, well, they all are for a time,” Fox said. “But it’s a constant cycle of impermanence.”

“Ah, yes, my favorite cycle,” Brandt chuckled, and Fox glanced questioningly at him. “Not to worry,” Brandt assured him. “Times change, you know. It hasn’t always been like this, and if anything in the universe is constant, it’s that any given ‘this’ will not remain for long.”

“It will for me,” Fox reminded him. “This is my only ‘this,’ remember?”

“Doesn’t have to be,” Brandt said, offering him an apple. “Bite?”

Fox glanced at it before shaking his head slowly.

“Why do you do that?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“You know.” He waved a hand. “Offer me your immortality like it’s nothing.”

“It is nothing,” Brandt told him. “For one thing, you’d need a lot more than just a bite. And for another thing, eternity itself is nothing,” he said with a shrug. “Meaningless, really, unless you do something with it.”

Fox frowned. “So why cling to a meaningless eternity, then?”

“I’m not clinging,” Brandt told him, “and it’s not meaningless.”

“Seems like it is,” Fox countered. “You never actually do anything, do you?”

“Aimless and meaningless are different things, Fox.”

“Fine. So what’s your meaning, then?”

Brandt shrugged. “Vengeance?” he suggested. “Well, more like—” he paused, frowning. “What’s a word that means ‘stick it to you,’ you know? Something that means existing for someone else’s discomfort, if only to remind them of the injustices they’ve done.”

“Something a bit softer than vengeance,” Fox said thoughtfully. “Reprisal?”

Brandt considered it. “Mm, no. More like—”

“Recompense. Compensation? No,” Fox realized, blinking. “Restitution.”

Brandt tilted his head.

“Paying them back,” Fox clarified, and Brandt nodded slowly.

“Yes,” he permitted. “Quite.”

Then he looked at Fox.

Fox looked at him.

Elsewhere, a twig snapped; a breeze displaced a branch; a bird took flight.

“Well,” Fox exhaled, turning back towards the river. “I suppose I see that. Though it seems rather—”

“Stupid?”

“I was going to say unsatisfying.”

Brandt paused.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I suppose it is, in some miniature way.”

“Miniature?”

“Well—yes, I think. In the grand scheme, I find it largely rewarding. In a very mortal, deeply selfish way, actually.”

“But the small scheme is—”

“Frustrating?”

“I was going to say unfulfilled. Or, malcontented, or perhaps—”

“Lonely,” Brandt murmured, before he could prevent it slipping out.

Fox turned to face him.

“Is this why you come back to visit me?” he asked.

Brandt said nothing.

“I only ask,” Fox offered neutrally, “because you could come back more frequently. If you wanted. I wouldn’t mind.”

“Twice a month?” Brandt suggested.

Fox turned, facing the river and shading his eyes from the sun.

“That could work,” he permitted.

“What do you have for me today, gudssønn?” Iðunn asked, crooning at the sight of him and holding her hand out for the book. “Something good, I hope.”

“Would you like to hear another story about the godson of Death?” Brandt asked, nudging her fingers towards the bookmark, and she brightened as she turned to the page.

“Yes, my favorite,” she agreed, smiling indulgently. “Tell me.”

“He is a little older now,” Brandt said, glancing for his notes on the page, “and certainly old enough to take a wife, have some sons—”

“Oh, but he doesn’t,” Iðunn pouted. “Does he?”

“No, he doesn’t,” Brandt assured her. “Frankly, I doubt he will. I think he finds himself searching for something he can’t quite find.”

“He lives an extraordinary story,” she reminded him, humming with thought as she pored over the pages. “An ordinary woman would only bring him a temporary sort of pleasure, don’t you think?”

“I agree. And I think he knows it himself.”

“Poor thing,” the goddess sighed. “Then where do you suppose he finds joy?”

“Well, joy and pleasure are hardly the same thing,” Brandt reminded her. “One is more lasting than the other, or I would not have to consistently return, would I?”

“Pleasure, then,” she amended, and Brandt laughed.

“He has plenty of that.”

“Companionship?”

“That, too,” Brandt said. “At least I think so.”

“Do you see him twice a month still?” Iðunn asked, and Brandt nodded. “Why?”

“Why? I like him. He amuses me. And anyway, it was you who asked me to go back the first time, wasn’t it?”

“No,” she corrected softly, shaking her head. “I meant—why only twice a month, gudssønn?”

Brandt hesitated, forcing something like a smile.

“Do you remember the last time you left here?” he asked, gesturing to the garden around them, and she wilted slightly, her fingers resting on the apple tree behind her as she let the book drop slowly from her hand.

“Only a little,” she admitted, staring wistfully at the fallen pages. “And it was wonderful, and now it haunts me like a nightmare.”

“That’s how I feel,” he confirmed slowly, nodding once. “Like if I take too much, then the time away will haunt me.”

Helplessly, her nails dug into the bark of the tree.

“Hm,” Iðunn said. “So you are trapped too, then, yes?” Brandt nodded. “But only by fear,” she told him softly, “and not by the gods, so perhaps we are not entirely the same.”

“No, we aren’t,” he agreed, and she leaned back with a sigh.

“Does he know about me?” she asked him. “This godson of Death. Does he know I am your goddess?”

“In a sense. He knows about the apples. He asks about you,” Brandt added. “Often. Quite often. But I can’t tell him, of course.”

“Mm, no,” she agreed, “you can’t. I understand now,” she added. “What you are trapped by, I mean.”

“Do you?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “And it’s worse than the gods, I’m afraid.”

Brandt arched a brow. “Not sure you’re right about that.”

“Well, perhaps not,” she permitted. “I suppose I’ve seen very little outside this garden, haven’t I? I must know very little.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. You are a goddess, after all.”

“A bit of a useless one,” she lamented.

“Useful,” he corrected, “which is the problem. You have so much to give, and nothing you’re permitted to take—”

“Nothing but one,” she cut in, taking his hand, and pulled him towards her. “There is one thing I can take, isn’t there?” she sighed, the feel of her breath curling like a filigree around the length of Brandt’s neck as he leaned against her, resting his hands on her hips. “A pity I must take so shamelessly from the godson of Death.”

Brandt paused, unsteady and uncertain.

“What do you take from him?” he asked slowly, and Iðunn smiled.

“Don’t you see it, gudssønn?” she whispered. “Don’t you see it yet?”

He swallowed, and she laughed.

“Perhaps I am not so useless a goddess, then,” she said, and pulled him to the grassy base of her tree, tugging at his trousers. “One of these days I will let you go,” she told him, “but today is not that day.”

He nodded, lurching upright to brush his lips against her cheek.

“How shall I love you, then, Iðunn?” he asked, curling her hair behind her ear.

“With deceit, and a liar’s finesse,” she said. “Like you always do.”

“With pleasure, then,” he assured her, watching her close her eyes.

“I don’t understand what you’re writing.”

“It’s a book,” Brandt informed him, and then paused. “Well, really more like a journal, I suppose.”

“Do you always keep it with you like that?”

“Not always,” Brandt replied. “This is my current book, but I have others. I hide them, usually,” he clarified, gesturing around. “When they fill up, I put them somewhere for safekeeping.”

“When they fill up?” Fox asked, frowning, and Brandt nodded. “What do you write in them?”

“Nothing,” Brandt said, shutting it, and shrugged. “Or everything, I guess.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“I know,” Brandt agreed, and Fox rolled his eyes. “By the way,” Brandt continued, “I brought you this.” He reached into his pocket and dug out the ring, holding it out for Fox. “It’s been too long.”

“Too long?” Fox asked, reaching tentatively for it and eyeing it in his palm. “You were just here last month.”

“No, I meant—” Brandt growled, frustrated. “I meant it’s been too long since you last spoke to your godfather. Summon him,” he suggested. “That’s what the ring is for.”

Fox glanced down at it, studying it.

“Where did you get it? And by that, I obviously mean—”

“I didn’t steal it. I made it.”

“Liar.”

Brandt swallowed, stung.

“What does it matter?” he forced out, with something like nonchalance. “It works.”

“I don’t enjoy being privy to your crimes, Brandt,” Fox reminded him. “It’s been nearly ten years of this, and you never get any less suspect.”

“Well, I aim for distinction.”

“And you succeed,” Fox murmured, but let out a sigh, still eyeing the ring. “What would I even say to him?”

“Nothing, perhaps. But if there’s something, then—”

Brandt trailed off, shrugging.

Fox, meanwhile, seemed to be contemplating something of his own.

“This is thoughtful,” Fox remarked, glancing up at him. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“What, thought?” Brandt asked drily.

“No. Consideration.”

“I consider everything at length, as you well know.”

“Fine,” Fox rumbled impatiently, giving him another sulky glare. “If you must be difficult—”

“Yes,” Brandt agreed, “I must, but surely you’re used to it by now.”

Fox opened his mouth, paused, and then closed it.

“This makes three times this month,” he commented tangentially.

Brandt shrugged. “I have some free time.”

“Iðunn not keeping you?” Fox teased, and Brandt blinked.

“She doesn’t keep me.”

“Yes, she does,” Fox corrected, without pause for breath. “Do you love her, or are you simply indebted to her?”

Brandt stared at him.

“Is there something you’d like to say, Fox?” he asked.

“Yes. Many things.”

“Like?”

“Answer the question first.”

“I—” Brandt swallowed. “I can’t.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Does it matter?” he asked brusquely, rising to his feet. “I have to go.”

“Well, that’s easy. Don’t.”

“Stop it,” Brandt snapped. “Just—stop.”

“You said once I was dangerous for you,” Fox said, stepping nearer. “Is it because I make it harder to give whatever it is you offer the goddess in exchange for your youth?” He paused, but Brandt didn’t respond. “Is it sex?” Fox guessed, looking thoughtful. “I could forgive sex, I think. A small thing, really. An easy thing, and not to be uncouth, but I would certainly know—”

“I didn’t ask for your forgiveness.”

“No, but I would give it,” Fox told him, standing far too close now. “If you asked.”

Brandt swallowed. “I didn’t ask.”

“So it’s sex, then,” Fox pressed, in his irritatingly juvenile way. “In exchange for immortality—or is it technically youth?” He paused, waiting, but Brandt said nothing. “Funny how you repeatedly insist that times change, but some things are just too classic, aren’t they?”

And then, horribly, Fox laughed, and Brandt felt the sound of it resonating in his lungs, as if he’d cast the breath of it himself.

“As usual, you oversimplify everything,” Brandt muttered in return. “And what does it matter to you how I am kept, or by whom?”

Fox furrowed his brow at that, eyeing him, and took another step.

“If you can’t see by now that you belong to me,” Fox told him quietly, “then you’re a bigger fool than I am, Brandt Solberg.”

Brandt shut his eyes, shuddering.

“Deny if it you like, but you’re mine, godling,” Fox whispered, his fingers hovering over Brandt’s lips and catching the sound of his hesitant breath.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

And by the time he opened his eyes, Fox was gone.

“What does the godson of Death do now, gudssønn?”

“He tells me I belong to him,” Brandt said, shivering beneath the weight of it, and Iðunn sighed, resting her cheek against his chest as she slipped the slim leather-bound volume from his hands.

“This book is almost full,” she noted tangentially, eyeing the spine of it, and Brandt shrugged.

“I suppose I’ve seen a lot of things recently.” He paused. “Had a lot of thoughts.”

The goddess hummed her agreement.

“All about the godson of Death?”

Brandt hesitated.

“Mostly,” he admitted. “I suppose you find that boring,” he added guiltily, “but—”

“But he is your world,” Iðunn commented softly, and Brandt felt a twinge of what he hoped was disagreement, but worried was something more like recognition, or truth.

“No,” he said, and couldn’t say more.

Iðunn’s lips curled up in a smile.

“Would it be so bad, gudssønn,” she murmured to him, “to be free?”

“You know what that would cost me,” he reminded her, and she nodded, her chin digging into his sternum.

“You know my secret,” she replied simply, “and I, in turn, know yours. You shared with me the secrets of your world, and in so doing, you gave a lonely goddess a powerful dominion over your heart. I can feel its allegiances changing. But perhaps we are something like friends, now,” she mused, sitting up to look at him, “and so perhaps I can give you something now, too.”

“You do,” he reminded her, gesturing to the apples overhead. “My youth, remember?”

“Yes, and I do expect something for it. But I would wish you to enrich your life, and your heart,” she beckoned. “It is far more valuable to me that way.”

“How?”

She gave a divine shrug; a little hovering of nonchalance.

“You know as well as I do what has been taken from you,” she reminded him. “Take it from the keeper of a garden—no love can bloom without it. You are not whole, gudssønn,” she told him softly, nurturingly, her fingers sliding along the lines of his chest. “Your time with the godson of Death will be brief, I’m afraid.”

Brandt flinched.

“He told me he would forgive sex,” he said, swallowing, and Iðunn laughed.

“Yes, of course. An easy thing to forgive,” she said, “and likewise, easily done without. I release you from it.”

“But—”

“You will come back,” she predicted firmly, picking the book up again to take his hand, placing it carefully on his palm. “You will return to me in time.”

He sat up.

“Why does that sound more like a curse than a benediction?”

“Gudssønn,” the goddess sighed, cupping her hand around his cheek as she brushed a finger down the book’s spine. “Like all things an immortal bestows, it is a little bit of both.”

Roots

Fox was seeking quiet when he came upon Vi.

He didn’t notice at first, of course, and he jumped when she turned her head.

“Right,” she confirmed, nodding. “Forgot?”

“I,” he began, then abandoned his efforts. “You’re a cat,” he noted instead, catching the sheen from the chandelier as light slid languidly over the ebony pitch of her fur.

“Perceptive,” Vi agreed, idly eyeing her paw. “Sort of happens when the sun goes down.”

“Mind if I sit with you?” Fox asked, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m avoiding the demon.”

“And Brandt too, I imagine,” Vi said.

“That’s the one I meant,” Fox replied, and Vi gave a strange, feline chuckle.

“Right,” she said again, staring back out over the lake.

Fox sighed quietly.

“The ghost isn’t here, is he?” Fox asked, glancing around, and Vi shook her head.

“You’ve never actually talked to a ghost, have you?” she prompted, and he shook his head. “So you’re totally a fraud.”

“Yes,” he said. “Almost entirely, actually.”

“Huh,” Vi said. “I take it I don’t have to pay you, then.”

“Well, who knows?” Fox asked, shrugging. “If I manage to get the job done somehow, it’s still a service worth paying for, isn’t it?”

“You can’t even see the ghost I’m paying you to remove,” Vi reminded him.

“True,” Fox conceded. “I don’t see him or much of anything, and yet I’m apparently responsible for saving mankind anyway, aren’t I?”

It came out a little more bitterly than he intended, and Vi saved him the trauma of a response. Instead she turned her head, her tail flicking slightly as she eyed a piece of lint that fell slowly through the air.

“So,” she said. “You’re a thief, then.”

“No,” Fox corrected, shaking his head. “Brandt’s a thief. It’s in his nature, down to the quick of it, down to his bones—he takes things,” he said bitterly. “He’s clever enough to know how to make use of something that isn’t his, and then he establishes dominion over it.” He swallowed firmly, then cleared the anguish from his throat. “It comes naturally to him, but not to me.”

“So what does that make you?” she prompted.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Just lazy, mostly.”

Her slitted cat-eyes slid to his.

“I don’t believe that,” she said.

Fox sighed.

“I’m not really anything,” he told her.

He planned to stop there, but for whatever reason—perhaps because talking to a cat was its own soothing sort of practice—he kept going.

“I always thought that I would be, you know?” he prompted, falling down awkwardly beside her; facing the lake, as she did, though it was a difficult thing to accomplish, sitting backwards on the stiff Victorian sofa. “Something, I mean. Godson of Death,” he pronounced grandly, spreading his hand wide, as though to envision it on a marquee. “Beloved by a god, once,” he added under his breath, slowly letting his hand fall in defeat.

Vi let a few seconds pass, giving the statement its due melancholia.

“So what happened?” she asked eventually, and Fox opened his mouth.

Then he closed it.

Opened it again.

Sighed.

“The thing is,” he attempted, frowning slightly, “you can see angels, you know. Anyone, I mean, if you look closely enough. Sure, I can’t see the ghost,” he conceded, turning to her, and she nodded, “but I saw my first angel when I was a boy. My godfather pointed her out to me.” He shifted slightly, fidgeting beneath the anecdote. “I remember thinking she was so beautiful, and so bored. And nobody else noticed her. She was just walking around, watching someone and not meeting anyone’s eye, and I thought—maybe,” he determined slowly, “maybe, if I just kept looking that closely, I’d be able to see everything. Maybe if I just kept trying, if I just kept looking—”

He broke off, staring at his empty hands.

“I’m not really anything special,” he finished, shaking his head. “I don’t have any real talents. No real skills. I have this one thing,” he explained, raising his hand for her to see the ring on his smallest finger, “which is that I can speak to Death.”

“That’s not all,” Vi attempted, but Fox shook his head.

“I thought there was more,” he said. “I did, I really did, until I realized that I was just a normal mortal, doomed for an ordinary life. And it’s not like I wanted more, really—not like I wanted immortality or anything—but after a while I just didn’t want to die,” he admitted. “I didn’t really want to age. But I didn’t want to work, either, and I didn’t want to travel, and I didn’t want to change, and I didn’t want to move, really, and I didn’t want to—”

He stopped again.

“I didn’t want to feel,” he said. “But nobody could ever do anything about that. No amount of sex or thrills or number of lifetimes could stop it, any of it, and—”

Another shaky pause.

“I wish I could just stop feeling,” Fox said, watching a pair of joggers run by the basin of the lake shore path like tiny, careless specks of nothing, the waves of the lake swelling beside them. “You know what I mean?”

Vi made a slight retching sound, like a rasping cough.

“Sorry,” she said, and then added, “sort of.”

“Sort of?” he echoed.

She tilted her head.

“Sort of,” she confirmed.

He figured that was the best he was going to get.

“What does it feel like?” Fox asked, watching her resume her vacant staring out towards the lake.

“Being a cat?” she asked. “Or being a creature?”

Fox shrugged.

“Either,” he said. “Both.”

She cocked her head, considering it.

“You know, I feel nothing anymore,” she admitted. “And I swear, I used to feel everything.”

She turned to look at him, her eyes settling unnervingly on his face.

“Pain,” she remarked. “I sort of remember it.”

Fox swallowed.

“It’s not great,” he said. “Neither is anger, or confusion, or betrayal—”

“No,” Vi agreed. “I understand.”

Something about the way she said it, though, made Fox feel the need to apologize.

“Sorry,” he said, giving into his impulses, and she glanced up at him.

“Thanks,” she said, and he nodded, satisfied.

He stood up to leave, but Vi shifted, putting her paw out to stop him.

“You should take the handcuffs off him,” she said. “I don’t think he’s going to run.”

“You don’t know him,” Fox said.

“No,” Vi agreed. “But I know a person who’s running, I think, and it’s not him.”

“Big words,” Fox muttered.

“It seems to bother you,” she pointed out. “Seeing him in chains.”

“You don’t know me,” he reminded her.

“No,” she agreed. “So why’d you tell me everything you just did?”

“Don’t know,” he admitted. “I guess because you’re the most normal person here,” he said to the cat-shaped vampire, who spared him a decidedly human laugh.

“I am pretty normal,” she agreed. “Almost aggressively normal, I’d say.”

“Oi,” Isis interrupted, sticking her head into the sitting room. “The contract worked.”

“The ghost can leave the house?” Fox asked, rising to his feet. “Did you try it?”

“Totally,” Isis confirmed. “We took him to Starbucks,” she added, holding up her cup.

“Do demons drink coffee?” Fox asked.

“We do when it tastes like diabetes,” Isis replied, just as Cal appeared behind her.

“Tom says we should go,” he said, and turned to Vi. “He also says you make a nice cat, and I agree.”

“I can hear him,” Vi sighed, and then softened. “But thank you.”

“Come on,” Isis beckoned, crooking a finger. “Here kitty, kitty—”

“Stop it,” Vi said. “That’s undignified.”

“That’s a good puss-puss,” crooned Isis.

“Tom’s right, you know. You are the worst—”

“Cal,” Fox interrupted, catching his arm and pausing. “Wait,” he said, eyeing the cup in the reaper’s hand. “Does that say caramel macchiato?”

“With extra foam,” Cal confirmed. “I know I don’t need food or beverages,” he added, “but some things are just luxuries, Fox.”

“Fine,” Fox sighed, shaking his head. “Anyway, before you go, take the handcuffs off Brandt, would you, Calix?”

“Why?” Cal asked, taking a dainty sip. “I thought you said—”

“I know what I said,” Fox grumbled. “And if I end up being wrong—”

“I know, I know,” Cal confirmed cheerfully. “Keep my I-told-you-so’s to myself.”

“Don’t destroy the house,” Tom said firmly. “Okay? It’s basically palatial Georgian vomit mixed with aesthetically inconsistent Baroque sneezes, but you’re not allowed to burn it to the ground. Got it?”

“I don’t know why you think that’s our goal,” Louisa replied, propping her feet up on the Italian marble side table.

“That’s—” Tom growled. “Don’t do that—”

“Listen, about the mermaid,” Sly cut in, setting his frappuccino beside Luisa’s feet without a coaster. “She probably didn’t kill you, okay? If that’s what you were thinking.”

“I wasn’t,” Tom barked, “but NOW I AM—”

“Tom,” Vi sighed, leaping up onto the couch beside Louisa. “Would you please not yell? They’re doing us a favor, you know.”

“Time to go,” Fox called into the room, poking his head in. “Ready?”

Tom sighed.

“Don’t break that vase,” he said, swooping over to it and startling Lupo into dropping his croissant. “This one,” he clarified, gesturing to it. “Okay?”

“Why?” Sly asked. “Is it valuable?”

“Extremely,” Tom told him. “But more importantly, I’d like to be the one to break it.”

“Come on, Tom,” Vi groaned, shaking her head. “Let’s go.”

“Yes,” Isis contributed. “I don’t want to miss a moment of Fox reliving two centuries’ worth of trauma. Take care of everything here, will you? And use a coaster,” she added to Sly, smacking his foot. “We’re creatures, not animals.”

“YEAH,” said Tom, before realizing who he was agreeing with. “Oh.”

“There’s a ghoul outside,” said Louisa, gesturing towards the view of the lake path. “Is that normal? It seems new.”

“Super new,” Sly agreed.

“LET’S GO,” Fox shouted from the hall, and Tom sighed, eyeing the house one more time as Vi turned, glancing at him before darting through the doorway.

“Come on, noisy ghost,” she called to him. “I promise to find you somewhere new to haunt.”

“It won’t be any fun unless you’re actively trying to get rid of me,” he grunted back.

She was a cat, so she couldn’t smile, but he could have sworn he’d made her laugh.

“Well,” she said, “then at the very least, you can still haunt me.”

“Thanks,” Tom lamented mournfully. “I suppose I’ll cling to that.”

It wasn’t the first time Fox had passed through one world into the next with Brandt, but it was certainly the strangest.

“Ouch,” Mayra said. “Someone’s stepping on me.”

“Sorry,” Vi offered sheepishly. “I didn’t realize I wouldn’t be a cat once we got here.”

“That,” Brandt explained, holding open the door between worlds, “is because there is no day and night here, nor any particular environmental limitations. You can occupy whichever form you choose. That goes for all of you that possess different forms,” he added, his gaze falling on Isis. “No?” he prompted, and she pursed her lips, disapproving. “Alright then.”

“What about the ghost?” Fox asked, looking around for him. “I don’t see him.”

“He’s right here,” Cal said, gesturing to the vacancy between himself and Vi. “He’s very testy at the moment. I think it’s the caffeine.”

“He didn’t have any caffeine,” Vi said.

“Yes,” Cal agreed, “and I think that’s the problem.”

“Tom’s form is the same,” Brandt informed them. “It’s his material that can’t change. Sorry,” he added to the ghost. “You’re still incorporeal. And it’s fine,” he grunted before Cal could open his mouth, “Fox doesn’t need to know his reply.”

Fox arched a brow, and Brandt shrugged.

“What?” he said. “You don’t.”

“Fine,” Fox permitted, gesturing forward. “What’s this?”

“Death’s abode,” Brandt supplied. “The tree of life,” he clarified, gesturing to it, “with his treehouse up there, and his cavern down here.” He paused, toying with something. “I thought,” he ventured carefully, “you would know where to find the ledger?”

“I don’t,” Fox said. “Not really.”

“Well,” Brandt said, gesturing ahead, “I’d start with the cave.”

“The cavern of mysteries?” Isis trumpeted. “Coincidentally, that’s what I call my—”

“Don’t,” Vi groaned, and Cal chuckled.

“That’s a good one,” Mayra said. “I like that.”

“I’m going in alone,” Fox announced, making a face. “You can all wait out here.”

“Are you sure?” Cal asked, stepping forward and eyeing the mouth of the cave. “Don’t you need help looking? It looks like there’s a lot of stuff in there,” he added, and Fox, who hadn’t wanted to admit it, had to concede that in that specific account, Cal was correct.

Even from the mouth of the cave, it was obvious the innards were lousing with objects.

“I—” Fox began, and stopped, gritting his teeth before turning to Brandt. “You’ve been here before,” he prompted gruffly, “haven’t you?”

Brandt nodded.

“Fine,” Fox said flatly, not bothering to wait for him to follow. “You’re coming too, then.”

For the first few minutes, picking over the countless trinkets and baubles in the near-darkness of the cave, neither of them spoke.

Eventually, though, Brandt wondered if he wouldn’t have preferred silence.

“This is a fiasco,” Fox grumbled, picking through the items and grumbling incoherently into space. “This isn’t locked, anyone can get in here, so where would he keep something that would literally destroy the world—”

Every few minutes, more of the same.

“Ridiculous,” Fox snapped at nothing, the comment directed at no one. “All that time making him watch his mouth when clearly what I needed to do was solve his hoarding compulsion.”

It wasn’t until an uneasy muteness befell the air around them that Brandt paused, turning to Fox. The other man, who’d been stooped and irritable the entire time, was standing with his spine erect, staring vacantly into nothing.

“What is it?” Brandt asked neutrally, wondering if Fox would tell him.

He wasn’t surprised when he did; Fox had never been a very good liar, and he’d been even worse at concealing his feelings.

“He doesn’t have anything of mine,” Fox said.

“Of course he does,” Brandt countered, and Fox turned, frowning at him.

“He doesn’t,” he said again. “No pictures, nothing. All this stuff, it’s just—” he held up a candelabra, giving it a firm shake until it promptly lit itself. “It’s just stuff.”

“Death is a being with a secret, Fox,” Brandt reminded him. “Men with secrets don’t keep things in plain sight. They can’t afford to.” He wandered over to where Fox stood, eyeing the ground first, and then the shapes of the stalagmites that jutted out from it. “What we need to do,” he murmured, stepping on various points of the floor, “is find his treasure.”

“He’s not a pirate,” Fox sighed, exasperated. “And I thought you’d been here before?”

“Once,” Brandt said. “And as you might have guessed, I wasn’t welcome to stay long. He also certainly didn’t show me where he kept things,” he added, knocking lightly on one of the walls, “so it’s not like I have the answers, Fox.”

“Why were you here?” Fox pressed. “When?”

Brandt paused, disguising his hesitation as he listened for echoes.

“There was a time,” he said simply, “when I wanted something very badly from Death, and he refused to see me. I traded something of mine for the location of his abode, and—”

“What was it?” Fox asked. “That you traded.”

“A month,” Brandt said.

“A month? Of time?”

“Of my life,” Brandt corrected, testing the sound of a boulder. “I traded with Persephone. You know,” he mused, “daughter of Demeter, queen of the Underworld?”

“You went to the Underworld for a month?” Fox asked, bemused, and Brandt scoffed.

“What, fuck Hades for a month? No. I stayed with her mother,” he corrected, prowling through one of the aisles of the cave. “I’m not going to lie, it was a uniquely strange experience. Crops that year? Not great, honestly. Probably won’t be making that deal again anytime s-”

He broke off, catching the stillness of Fox’s gaze lingering on something.

“What?” he prompted, shifting over to him, and Fox pointed.

“It’s a box of rubber bands,” Fox said, briefly eyeing the one on his own wrist.

Brandt reached over, picking it up.

“This,” he determined, shaking it slightly, “has something more than rubber bands in it.”

“Open it.”

“You open it.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Don’t be a child.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Don’t be that—”

“Give it to me,” Fox snapped, yanking it from Brandt’s hands and opening it, his hands shaking slightly.

“Well?” Brandt prompted, and Fox paused, blinking.

“Oh,” said Fox, and Brandt shifted over, eyeing the contents of the box.

“Oh,” he agreed, and Fox set the box down, withdrawing the items one by one.

“Baby shoes,” Brandt noted, picking one up. “Very cute. Little foxes on the toes.”

“Stop,” grumbled Fox. “That’s—stop it.”

“Oh, look,” Brandt crowed, picking up a schoolbook. “Is this where you learned to write?”

“Oh for the love of fuck—”

“And you thought he didn’t have anything of yours,” Brandt chided him, picking up a small, shapeless doll. “Look at this, how precious—”

“Give me that—”

Fox reached for it, stumbling over a chest full of Mayan jewelry, and Brandt caught his elbow, steadying him.

“Careful,” he cautioned, and swallowed uneasily as Fox looked up, blinking.

Fox had always had such expressive eyes, and now they expressed something vulnerable and terrible and loudly, violently dismayed, and Brandt could not breathe for having looked at them.

“Careful,” he said again, and Fox drew away, searching through the box again.

“Here,” Fox muttered absently, withdrawing an angel’s scroll from the box. “This has to be it. All the names are here—”

“A scroll,” Brandt lamented, rolling his eyes as he came closer to glance over Fox’s shoulder. “How utterly predictable of them.”

Fox turned slightly, appearing to register the distance between them as Brandt reached around for the ledger, brushing his arm.

Instantly, Brandt froze, the air in his lungs briefly collapsing.

“What did you want from him?” Fox asked without looking up. “From Death. When you came here looking for him.”

Brandt sighed. “I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t?” Fox countered, pivoting to face him. “Or won’t?”

“Do you really want to do this now, Fox?”

“Do what?” Fox demanded. “You haven’t given me an answer, Brandt, and I just want to know what you were—what you—whether this was before,” he stammered miserably, “or if you—if he—”

“You want to know whether you should be angry with me,” Brandt supplied for him, “or angry with your godfather, or both.”

At that, Fox said nothing, visibly deflating.

“The truth is, Fox, that it doesn’t really matter, does it? You can be angry with Death and still want to save him,” Brandt said. “You can acknowledge that he kept things from you, and that he cheated, but that perhaps he still matters.” He paused, and still, Fox said nothing. “You can be angry with me,” he added quietly, “and still be happy to see me. Can’t you?”

Immediately, Brandt could see it had been the wrong thing to say.

“You think I’m happy?” Fox choked out, the word seeming toxic from his throat. “You think that’s what I feel? ‘Happy,’ like nothing happened, like I’ve just been—like I’ve just been waiting—”

“Fox,” Brandt attempted, reaching for him. “Fox, I didn’t mean it like that—”

“No, no, you’re right,” Fox returned bluntly, turning away. “The past is passed, and there’s no reason to discuss it. I knew as much when I said it the first time. Never mind what passed in the meantime; the life I led after you. Why would you care, after all? Where I went, or who I—”

He stopped, freezing in place, and stared down at the ledger in his hand.

“What is it?” Brandt asked, reaching a hand out; he curled his fingers just before reaching Fox’s shoulder, letting the hand fall limply in the space between them. “What do you see?”

It took a moment; clearly, something was churning through Fox’s head.

“After you left, I left Frankfurt,” Fox explained slowly, still looking lost in thought. “Years later, but still—after you were gone, I couldn’t stay. I came here. I came to New York first, but I was restless, I kept moving. I came to Chicago during the Civil War, stayed there, and there was one night. One night when someone—”

He shook himself.

“Who do you think it is,” Fox asked, rotating slowly. “The missing game in the ledger, I mean. Why did you think it had anything to do with me?”

For a moment, Brandt stared at him.

“I think it was a mortal,” he eventually admitted, and Fox’s eyes widened.

Brandt arched a brow.

“Fox?” he prompted expectantly, and Fox shoved the ledger into his hand.

“What exactly does the ghost look like?” he asked, pointing, and Brandt frowned.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Brown hair? Nose, eyes—”

Fox growled in frustration. “Just look,” he said, pointing, and Brandt glanced down at the name beneath his finger.

“Tom Parker,” Brandt read aloud, and looked up, catching Fox’s startled expression.

“This is why they want the ghost,” Fox determined. “And I think,” he added painfully, “that this might all be my fault.”

Interlude VI:

Past is Passed, Part II

Fox D’Mora

1835

“Where do you go?” Fox asked, turning to Brandt. “When you’re not here with me, where are you?”

Brandt gave his usual ambiguous shrug.

“Elsewhere,” he said. “Into an ongoing state of wandering.”

“I meant a place,” Fox said.

“Yes. I know what you meant.”

“Then why don’t you just—”

“Because,” Brandt cut in irritably, “not everything is a place, Fox. Not everything can be identified on a map, or understood by a—”

“Mortal,” Fox supplied gruffly, kicking aimlessly at the dirt.

“Yes,” Brandt said, looking ruffled with discomfort. “Which I realize is a sore subject, lillegutt, but some things are simply facts. Consider them lessons.”

“I could do better than having a teacher like you,” Fox muttered.

“Yes,” Brandt said. “On that we agree.”

Fox paused, glancing sideways at him.

“Let me try again,” he suggested, trying very hard not to be too sulky. “Why do you return? If you’re in a constant state of wandering,” he clarified, knowing as he did that Brandt would take the circular route if he were permitted, “then surely this is the one place you go that has intention. Coming here intentionally would be the antithesis of wandering, and thus—”

“I’m here because you’re here,” Brandt cut in plainly. “After a year, Fox, I should think we could admit some things to ourselves. Because,” he added, “as I’ve said, some things are simply facts.”

“So you admit, then, that you come here to see me,” Fox said slowly.

“Yes,” Brandt replied slowly. “All evidence points to it.”

“Meaning that you come here,” Fox attempted alternatively, “for me.”

“Yes,” Brandt confirmed, with a sense of resignation. “Also a reasonable conclusion.”

“You say that as if you have no choice,” Fox commented.

“And I don’t. Not really.”

“But I’ve never forced you to,” Fox countered.

“No. I was rather under the impression you’d prefer it if I did not, actually.”

“That was true once,” Fox admitted. “But you persisted, and now I think you’ve lured me into some outrageous sense of expectation.”

“Ah, poetic. Persisted like a troubadour, you mean?”

“More like a virus.”

“Fair. I do find I have a feverish effect on others.”

“Don’t lie,” Fox scoffed. “There are no others.”

He’d meant it to be a playful jab, but Brandt’s easy smile wavered.

“No,” Brandt agreed. “There are no others,” he said, in a declarative statement so rare Fox wished he could capture it in his hands; hold a feast in its honor; commit the occasion to stone beneath his feet; “and there never will be.”

Fox paused, surprised.

“Is that true?” he asked.

Brandt sighed.

“Some things are just facts,” he finished morosely, and leaned against their usual tree, closing his eyes.

“Put it on,” Brandt said, holding the watch out. “There’s a reason I broke it, Fox. Though,” he added uneasily, “don’t tell your godfather I said that. Tell him I dropped it. Timepieces are unreasonably fragile.” He paused. “Perhaps you should suggest that it’s time for new industry standards.”

“You use it,” Fox countered, eyeing it warily. “Then you won’t need the apples.”

Brandt shook his head. “There’s a difference between stopping time to preserve my youth and simply taking the immortality that should be mine,” he explained, though Fox hardly felt enlightened. “Besides, it’s too late now. I already have my method of eternality, and now it’s your turn.”

“Why?” Fox asked. “I’ll still only be a mortal. I’ll still belong to this world, so won’t it become, I don’t know—somewhat worrisome to others when I eventually fail to age?”

“Not if you go far enough,” Brandt replied smartly. “Get good enough at disappearing, lillegutt, and it never becomes a problem.”

“You realize,” Fox sighed, “that disappearing means leaving people behind, doesn’t it?”

Brandt shrugged. “You can’t simply look at time as a function of comings and goings,” he replied. “Time is always in motion, even if you personally opt to desist. Whether you come or go or leave or stay, time continues. People are left. People are found. To think that resigning yourself to permanence is permanent is already in error.”

As usual, Brandt’s logic was dizzying, and Fox tried desperately not to stumble.

“You act like because you’re not a mortal, you’re not even human,” Fox said. “Is it really that easy to just … continue?”

“Of course it isn’t easy,” Brandt countered. “What could be easy about outlasting your own existence? Time is a cycle, you know. It’s a function of gains and losses, of ups and downs. A single lifetime contains enough highs and lows to imitate completion, satisfaction. But if you persist, as time does, you will only encounter infinite highs, infinite lows. How can one ever be satisfied? Impossible,” he ruled with finality, taking a bite of his golden apple, and Fox rolled his eyes.

“So why should I wear it then?” he prompted. “Give me one good reason.”

Brandt’s gaze slid carefully to his.

“For me,” he said.

“That’s it?” Fox asked, glancing around expectantly, as if there might be more to it if he only looked closely enough. “You want me to wear a stolen watch and cling to eternal youth so that, what? You won’t have to be alone?”

“Yes,” Brandt said. “Naturally, I don’t relish a perpetual future where you’ve gotten old.”

“You say that like you’ll be around for it,” Fox noted.

Brandt shrugged. “Can’t rule it out,” he said simply.

Brandt gasped, his lip caught between Fox’s teeth.

“Funny,” Fox mused. “Immortality doesn’t rid you of mortal sensations, does it?”

“Not quite,” Brandt permitted gutturally, throwing Fox down on the bed. “Not all sensations, anyway.”

“What else can you still feel?” Fox asked, and Brandt brought his lips to Fox’s neck, tilting his chin up.

“Everything,” he said into Fox’s skin. “I feel it all, but I will never feel anything as you will feel it. Things are so much sweeter when they have an ending; things are so much more painful when they can be ripped away.”

Fox paused, gripping the hair at the back of Brandt’s head and drawing his head up.

“Are you telling me this will end?” he whispered, and Brandt’s eyes widened, something forcibly caught on the tip of his tongue.

“You never listen,” he said gruffly instead, his fingers digging into Fox’s hips. “You only hear what you want to hear, lillegutt, no matter what I say.”

“Don’t call me that,” Fox growled, forcing the other man onto his back. “I’m not a child.”

Brandt glanced up at him, tracing the lines of his face with the path of his gaze.

“No, you aren’t, are you,” he agreed quietly. “But what will I call you, then?”

It took a moment; Fox fought it as resolutely as he could.

“Call me yours,” he begged, burying his forehead in the crook of Brandt’s shoulder so as not to see him refuse.

Around him, Brandt’s arms stiffened for a moment, and then relaxed.

They slid tightly around Fox’s ribs, holding him steady.

“Some things are just facts,” he agreed, and Fox wished desperately to believe him.

“Papa,” Fox croaked, his head bent. “Papa, he’s gone.”

Death hesitated, his mouth curling into a crescent moon of tentative sympathy.

“The godling,” he began uncomfortably, “is not a very good man, Fox.”

The idea that he could say so, Fox thought, and somehow manage not devolve into laughter at the unrepentant intensity of the understatement was putrefyingly sad, grotesquely unfunny, insurmountably crushing, and it sickened him to the basest corners of his stomach.

Brandt Solberg had never been a good man, but what did that matter?

Fox hadn’t fallen in love with his goodness.

(At least—not in any obvious way.)

“I might have told you that sooner,” Death added, “if you had tried to speak to me at any point over the last five years.”

It was so close to the sound of Brandt calling him a fool or a child that Fox wanted to shatter under the weight of it; wanted to seep into the grains of the wooden floor and melt into the ground below.

“You didn’t look for me, either,” Fox pointed out, which at least seemed to reduce them both to noticeable impressions of shame.

“I’m—” Death began, and broke off. “I am simply unaccustomed to the expectations of humanity. Which is not to say I didn’t worry about you,” he added, “but seeing as you were in the throes of rebellion, or something along those lines—”

He trailed off.

“I am relieved, at least,” Death determined quietly, “that you have chosen to come to me in the godling’s absence. You will be better off without him, Fox,” he added. “You may choose a different path without him, and you will be better for it.”

Privately, though, Fox doubted it.

In truth, he’d never before wanted so badly to break things; to shatter them. To place something beneath his heel and deliver it to shards; to send the tiny, indistinguishable grains of his anguish out to sea on a gust of wind. He wished to part with his illusions; to abandon his many qualms. To take the youthful pieces of himself and carry on without them, leaving them—the remnants of a life he’d once shared with Brandt—behind, scattered for someone else to find and choke on.

“Papa,” Fox sighed eventually, confessing at last. “You were right, you know. Brandt is the one who broke Time’s watch.”

“I know,” Death said, as Fox had been certain he already had. “He has a habit of breaking things.”

“Stealing them,” Fox added glumly.

“Gambling them,” Death muttered, and Fox looked up.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Death said firmly. “But it goes without saying that the godling was never particularly admirable, Fox. He was,” he began, and sighed, apparently not having produced any new descriptors, “not a very good man.”

“He wasn’t a man at all,” Fox reminded him. “He was a god.”

“A demigod,” Death corrected.

Fox swallowed.

“Right,” he agreed. “Right.”

“What’s this?” Death asked gruffly.

“Aversion therapy,” Fox replied. “We’re going to cure you of your bad habits.”

“And what about your bad habits?” Death prompted.

“Which ones?”

“The thefts, the shenanigans, the constant sleeping around—”

“Faults of mortality, Papa.”

“You should at least be punished for your expletives, too, Fox.”

“Fine. Then I’ll wear one, too. Does that make you happy, Papa?”

“Fuck no.”

“No, that’s—you see what I mean? Now you have to snap the band.”

“‘Fuck’ is a good word, Fox. I like it. It fits nicely in my mouth. I like the way it feels like a weapon.”

“Yes, Papa, but most people don’t care for it.”

“Who people? What people? Fuck them.”

“Papa. Just snap the band.”

“Why?”

“Look, I’ll do it too, see? I’ll say ‘fuck,’ and—fuck, ouch—”

“Not so easy, is it, Fox?”

“It’s not supposed to be easy.”

“Does this mean you’re feeling better, then?”

Fox swallowed.

“What?” he asked neutrally, and Death sighed.

“It’s been over a year, Fox,” Death said. “Perhaps you should consider moving on. Finding a hobby. Or, I don’t know, a fucking vocation.”

“Band, Papa. And I don’t want a vocation.”

“You’re becoming just like him,” Death warned. “You’re as much a thief as he was.”

“Am I? Doubtful.”

“Fox.”

“Yes, Papa?”

“Fox, listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“Why are you doing this?” Death pressed. “You seem so—”

(Aimless.)

(Broken.)

(Sad.)

“I’m looking for something,” Fox said.

“For what?”

(A book.)

“Nothing,” Fox lied.

“Fox,” Death sighed.

(A warning.)

“I’m fine,” Fox said again.

“Like hell you are,” Death scoffed.

“Band, Papa.”

“Why? It’s a fucking place, Fox—”

“Band, Papa.”

“Fi- OUCH.”

“Thank you.”

(A sigh.)

“Someone should really keep an eye on you,” muttered Death.

“I’m sorry,” Fox said, frowning. “Who are you?”

“Mayra,” the sharp-voiced angel said, adjusting her wings under his highly dubious scrutiny. “Mayra Kaleka. And just for reference, this,” she pointed out, gesturing to where Fox was climbing out the window of the Frankfurt pub, “is really not going to reflect favorably upon you in your ledger.”

“Well, my apologies,” he said, “but considering I won’t be dying anytime soon, I’m not too concerned with my ledger, thanks. I’ve diminished my purpose to restitution.”

“Yes, well, be that as it may,” Mayra sighed, alighting beside him, “I can’t actually stop you, so I suppose in that case, I’m here to help.”

“Help … what?” Fox echoed. “And why, may I ask, is there an angel following me around to begin with?”

“Right, yes, about that. This thing you’ve just stolen,” she informed him, gesturing to the bracelet in his hand. “It’s mine. And now that you possess it, you can call on me whenever you like.”

“Oh, so you’re my babysitter, then?” Fox asked. “In that case, you can most definitely have the bracelet back.”

“Actually, I can’t,” Mayra said. “I used my last miracle for the year making sure you would find it, so.” She shrugged, ignoring his puzzled expression of disbelief. “You’re going to have to hold onto it, I’m afraid.”

“For what possible purpose?” Fox asked, and Mayra shrugged again.

“Well, anything I can provide, I suppose. Advice?” she suggested. “Miracles, when I can spare them. Conversation. Book recommendations. Consultation on your ledger, I imagine, though I should really warn you, Fox D’Mora, that things are decidedly not going well in that department—”

“Wait a minute,” Fox cut in. “Are you saying you’re my guardian angel?”

“Yes, essentially,” Mayra agreed. “Do you need help getting out of here or something?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say no,” Fox agreed, glancing down below. “I believe I angered the owner the last time I was here, so if there’s some way to, you know, magically vanish me elsewhere, that’d be much appreciated.”

“Oh, no, can’t do that,” Mayra told him gravely. “I’m out of miracles, and really, my abilities are quite limited. Bureaucracy, you know. Exceptional amounts of red tape. Vanishing people requires all sorts of mortal permits. It’s a real nightmare.”

“Okay,” Fox permitted uncertainly. “Well, can you warn me if someone’s coming?”

“Morally? No,” she said, shaking her head. “That would be aiding a crime. Which is, coincidentally, against the celestial rules. I am very firmly not allowed to foster instances of crime.”

“Right,” Fox grumbled. “Well, you realize that’s sort of inconvenient.”

“I do,” Mayra agreed. “But still, I want you to know that I’m here for you.”

“Can you tell me where to find the book I’m looking for?” Fox attempted. “Someone I knew made it. It’s a book of the oth-”

“The otherworlds, yes, I know,” Mayra confirmed. “As I said, I’ve been keeping an eye on your activities, but I’m afraid I don’t know where to find the book you’re looking for. Wherever it’s hidden, it’s hidden quite well.”

“So what exactly can you do for me, then?” Fox demanded. “It’s starting to look like nothing.”

“That’s incredibly rude,” she informed him, though it seemed more purely fact than evidence of offense. “I’m mostly here for your mental state,” she added in clarification. “Your psyche.”

“My psyche?” Fox echoed. “I’m mildly in the midst of a one-man heist for a book that seems to not exist. I think, in the scheme of things, my psyche might have to wait.”

“Well, it’s not my fault that this is when you chose to steal my bracelet,” Mayra informed him. “I can easily come back later, you know. This is the whole idea of the relic.”

“Relic?”

“Yes, the relic,” she said, pointing to the bracelet in his pocket. “My relic. All you have to do is call for me while you’re holding it, and I’ll be here.”

“But again,” Fox said, “you can’t actually help me, right?”

“Not if it involves the commission of a crime,” she said, “or if it requires a miracle and I happen to be out of them.”

“So, to be honest, I probably won’t call on you, then,” Fox informed her. “Nothing personal, but it’s not like I really need to chat.”

“Fair enough,” Mayra said. “Nice to have met you, Fox D’Mora, even if it was only briefly.”

He gave her a vacant smile, thoroughly bemused.

“And you, Mayra Kaleka,” he replied, reaching from the pub’s upstairs window to the tree branch outside.

“You know, I know I’m biased, but this Brandt character sounds like a real dick,” Mayra commented. “You sure you can’t find him? I’d like to give him an extremely firm talking to, personally. Or,” she amended, scowling, “perhaps some boils at the edge of his nose. I’m sure I could pass it off as a miracle. Presumably some good would come from it, even if it was simply my satisfaction.”

“Not sure how I’d locate him, even if I tried,” Fox told her, and then grimaced. “Okay, fine, I’ve tried,” he exhaled, “but I don’t think he’s in the mortal world. He rarely was before, so I doubt he’s here now.”

“Hm,” Mayra said. “Well, you know who could help you in the otherworlds, don’t you?”

“Not you, apparently,” Fox commented, and Mayra shrugged.

“Sorry,” she said. “Five miracles go by fast, you know. Candidly, I’m afraid I’m a bit soft,” she lamented. “I’m rather ashamed of it myself. Plus, I regularly underestimate the length of a mortal year.”

“Are immortal years different?” he asked.

“No,” she admitted. “But it still seems worth marking the distinction. In any case,” she went on, directing his attention back to the point, “what you need is a reaper. Death could help you find one, if you wanted. I could ask around, but most angels never encounter a reaper, considering our roles.”

“A reaper? One of the soldiers of Lucifer, you mean?” Fox clarified, and she nodded. “That seems a bit questionable, doesn’t it? Someone who works for the literal devil?”

“Well, they have excellent tracking skills, or so I hear,” Mayra said. “And anyway, they’re hardly demons. They just have a different job from angels. Different employer, too,” she conceded, “but really, we’re like two sides of a coin. Altogether, similar ends.”

“Balance is king?” Fox prompted knowingly, and Mayra smiled her approval.

“Balance is king,” she confirmed.

“So they’ve run you out of Frankfurt, huh?” Cal asked.

“Yeah,” Fox said, shrugging. “I mean, I could just wait until they all die and then carry on as I was, but Mayra thinks I should get out somewhat permanently. You know, for my mental health. Which sounds like something she made up, but you know how she can be.”

“Not a bad idea,” Cal agreed. “And the truth is, Fox—in my professional opinion,” he clarified, tiptoeing delicately into the point, “I don’t think you’ll ever be able to find Brandt, or his book, for that matter. From what you’ve told me about him, I think he’d have to find you, but if he were planning on doing that …”

He trailed off, and Fox sighed. The implication was clear enough, even with Cal’s particularly tenuous delivery.

If he wanted to find you, Cal hadn’t wanted to say, he would have already done it.

Which Fox knew was true. After all, it wasn’t as if he was a toy that had been somehow carelessly misplaced.

(Or was he?)

(He wasn’t.)

(—he hoped.)

“I know,” Fox conceded morosely. “And I think I stayed in Frankfurt as long as I could. If he wants to find me, he will,” he added gruffly. “He always found me before, even when I didn’t want to be found. Especially then, actually.”

Cal took a moment, fighting for autonomy of thought, and then appeared to discard the effort, offering Fox an empty-handed shrug in lieu of sympathy.

“You know, a cliche would be nice here,” Cal commented, and tilted his head. “Maybe we should ask Mayra.”

At that, Fox glanced askance, fighting a smirk.

“Should I summon her?” he asked neutrally.

Cal shrugged. “If you want,” he said, feigning disinterest. “Entirely your decision.”

“Perhaps I will,” Fox said, and paused. “Unrelated,” he ventured, “can an angel and a reaper fall in love, or are there rules against it?”

Cal spared him a wary glance.

“Love is a rather mortal conception,” he said, which both of them were quite aware wasn’t an answer. “Don’t you think? It can be born; it cannot exist alone; it can die. Love itself, then, is mortal, and thus not within our realms.”

“A fancy argument, sure, but do you believe that?” Fox asked. “That love can die?”

“Can’t it?” Cal asked. “I wouldn’t know myself, but it seems to.”

Fox sighed, contemplating what might have been his last look at the town.

“I really thought he would have hidden the book somewhere in Frankfurt,” Fox confessed. “I thought perhaps he would have left it for me to find, or—” He swallowed. “And besides, there are no places that meant anything to him except for here. Unless I never meant anything to him,” he realized, the words turning sour on his tongue. “But that’s—that can’t be—”

Cal settled a hand on his shoulder, sparing him a warning sigh.

“Don’t go down that road, Fox,” he murmured. “There might not be any coming back.”

Fox nodded, collecting himself, and turned his back on the setting sun.

“So,” he said. “Boat to New York?”

“I don’t really like boats,” Cal said.

“You don’t have to come,” Fox reminded him.

“Oh,” Cal said, relieved. “Well. Boat it is, then.”

“Papa,” Fox said with a laugh, his arm slung around the pretty schoolteacher’s shoulders. “Do you mind? Mrs Greenaway here would like to know how her husband is doing, if you could be so kind as to inform us if you’ve seen him.”

“Fox, I’m really quite busy,” Death returned grumpily. “There’s a bit of a fucking civil war on, in case you missed it, and I’m not exactly swimming in free time.”

“Who are you talking to?” the teacher asked with a giggle. “Are you communing with ghosts?”

“Why yes, yes I am,” Fox determined loudly. “So, Papa?” he prompted again, glancing over at him. “What do you think? Is John Greenaway resting well in whichever world he happens to be in?”

“He’s not dead, Fox,” Death informed him, and Fox choked, abruptly sputtering a loud series of coughs.

“What is it?” asked the teacher, whose name he supposed was Mary or Anne or Grace, or something equally not worth remembering. “What does the ghost of my husband say?”

“Uh,” Fox replied.

“Super alive, Fox,” Death sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Very much alive.”

“He—” Fox paused, weighing the value of the woman on his lap and determining an avenue. “He says,” he continued firmly, “that he wishes he could be here to keep the bed warm for you tonight—”

“Don’t do it,” Death warned.

“—but in his tragic absence, he hopes you’ll find a way,” Fox concluded, as Death let out a loud, obtrusive groan.

“Fox,” Death admonished. “Fox, are you listening? Fox—FOX, I’m talking to you, you can’t just—Fox, this is, I can’t, I refuse to stand by and be privy to your—Fox. FOX!”

“That’s an interesting ring,” a man pointed out, taking a seat across from Fox in the old wooden tavern, a staple for those who worked in the shops on Lake Street. “Does it mean something?”

Fox glanced down, eyeing the familiar blank face of it.

“No,” he said, shrugging as he tossed back a gulp of ale. “Nothing at all.”

The man eyed him for a second, gauging the truth of his reaction.

“You know, I’ve seen you here before,” the man commented. “You seem like the sort of man that’s running from something.”

“Do I?” Fox asked, already a little drunk. The barmaid across the room ducked her head, coyly skirting his gaze, and he turned obligingly to the man beside him. “Just came from the East Coast, so I suppose I am. And what about you, then?”

The man offered his hand. “I’m Tom,” he offered. “Tom Parker.”

“You certainly are,” Fox agreed. “Just come back from service, have you?”

“Yes,” Tom said, nodding. “And you?”

“German,” Fox told him, gesturing to himself. “Just happen to be amidst the fray.”

Tom nodded again, raising his tankard to his lips.

“Well,” he said. “How do you find our fair country?”

“I find it not to be Germany,” Fox told him, “which is approximately my intended result. I also find it to be a bit indulgent, I suppose,” he added, glancing up at the barmaid again. “Though, who knows. I’ll leave that to Fortune.”

“May I ask what it is you do now?” Tom ventured genially. “Pardon my familiarity, but you seem to have done well for yourself, and I’m sort of in the business of sorting out the rest of my life,” he clarified carefully. “Bit hard to do, really, considering.”

He paused, then, glancing at Fox’s watch. “Seems like you might need a watchsmith,” he joked, and Fox glanced down, barely managing a grimace.

“Very true,” he agreed dully, raising his glass to his lips. “Unfortunately, it’s something of an heirloom. I’m afraid the sentimental value is considerably higher than its functionality.” He paused, holding his tankard against his mouth. “But then again, I suppose you can’t really put a price on immortality, can you?”

He’d meant it as a joke, but strangely, the other man didn’t laugh.

“What’s your name?” Tom asked. “Sorry, I don’t think I caught it.”

“It’s Fox,” he replied. “Fox D’Mora.”

“Fox,” Tom agreed, his gaze slipping back to Fox’s ring. “You know, I think I’ve heard of you, actually. They say you can speak to the dead, don’t they?” he asked, taking a careful sip of his ale.

“Do they?” Fox asked. “Must be another Fox.”

“Must be,” Tom agreed, and gestured to Fox’s near-empty glass. “Need a refill, Fox?”

Fox considered it, squinting at the suspiciously eager man.

Or was he even suspicious?

Perhaps that was just some glitch from his pre-existing haze.

“Sure,” Fox agreed, draining the glass and setting it down with a shrug. “Why not?”

Immortal Peril

“I’m sorry,” Vi said, frowning. “What?”

“It’s really very simple,” Brandt informed her, sparing Fox a disapproving head shake. “Fox here is very careless with his things, and as a result, a mortal has now put all of us in this extremely inconvenient position of having to travel through the otherworlds to win an unwinnable game.”

“We don’t know for sure that it’s him,” Fox interjected grumpily. “It could very well be some other mortal Tom Parker.”

“Yes, he’s right. It’s a very common name,” Tom contributed, in what everyone in the group seemed to agree was a surprising alliance. “Far too common, I’m beginning to think.”

“Yes, true,” Brandt agreed. “But then how many other Parkers are cursed?”

“I’m not cursed,” Tom insisted.

“Yes, actually,” Isis countered. “Yes, you very much are.”

“Says you!” Tom snapped, and Fox sighed.

“What’s he saying?” he pressed, nudging Cal. “Actually no, nevermind. This is probably a coincidence.”

“Almost certainly not a coincidence, actually,” Brandt countered.

“Really?” Fox scoffed. “Suddenly it’s not a coincidence? What happened to the Brandt Solberg ‘astronomically unending possibilities with infinitesimally small likelihoods of each’ school of nonsensical thought?”

“It’s in perfectly fine working order,” Brandt informed him stiffly, trying not to read into the precise detail of Fox’s recollection. “It simply doesn’t apply when one thing very obviously leads to another.”

“I maintain that this can’t possibly be my great-grandfather,” Tom protested. “For one thing, wouldn’t he be—I don’t know, old?”

“Yes,” said Isis, an ageless being.

“Right,” sighed Tom.

“He called us all old,” Cal supplied to Fox at a murmur, and in response, Fox rolled his eyes.

“Never mind,” he muttered again. “Honestly? Pretend I never asked.”

“He played as a mortal?” Vi asked, frowning. “I thought it was an immortals’ game.”

“It is,” Brandt said. “It’s certainly not designed for a mortal.”

“Not as an exclusionary principle,” Cal began kindly, but Isis shook her head.

“Yes as an exclusionary principle,” she corrected. “Mortals were never supposed to play, and neither were demons.”

“Well, obviously, nobody wants a demon,” Tom muttered. “But what I don’t understand is why there’s any sort of specific mortal distinction.”

At that, Brandt caught the motion of Fox shifting uncomfortably, his fingers tightening around the ledger’s scroll.

“Well, there’s the whole death thing,” Isis supplied. “Sort of the main feature, really.”

“Yes, but Tom’s right,” Vi pressed curiously. “Why wouldn’t a mortal be able to play the game?”

“Well, they could, clearly,” Brandt told her, gesturing to the ledger in Fox’s hands. “It’s not as if they’re physically incapable. But in general, mortals have different rules.”

“Different feelings,” Isis contributed. “Different matter, really.”

“Is it really so different?” Tom asked.

“Sort of. I remember being mortal,” Mayra sighed. “I remember the feel of it; the doubt, the pain—”

“I mostly remember confusion,” said Cal. “I’m much less confused now.”

“Yes, that’s true, but—”

“We need to go,” Fox announced brusquely, apparently no longer willing to carry on the conversation. “We have the ledger, obviously, and we have the now-mobile ghost, so—”

“Yes, that’s true, we should go,” Mayra agreed, fidgeting slightly. “Soon. I don’t have a very good feeling about this.”

“Soon as in now, I presume,” Isis suggested. “Right?”

“Yes, yes, to the tables, then,” Brandt determined absently, digging around in his pocket and frowning. “Ah, rats, where’s that key—”

“Hold on,” Fox cut in loudly, striding furiously towards him.

“Fox, what the—”

Brandt broke off, grimacing, as Fox promptly patted him down, his hands smacking with perfunctory ease against Brandt’s chest, sloping down to the angles of his hips. Fox paused, taking care to check Brandt’s trouser pockets, and then proceeded to groan aloud as he reached under Brandt’s trouser leg, revealing the small bottle that Brandt had tucked into his sock.

“Really?” Fox demanded, rising to his feet with the bottle firmly in hand. “Dessert wine from Bacchus?”

“In my defense,” Brandt replied stiffly, “I’d have taken more if I could have.”

“That’s not a defense!” Fox barked.

“Eh,” Isis said, shrugging. “I don’t know about that. It checks out.”

“How could it possibly—” Fox cut himself off, shaking his head. “No. I just—no. Let’s just go—”

“What did you steal from my house?” Tom demanded.

“Nothing,” Brandt said, the torn pages of his book nestled securely in the side pocket that Fox had never learned to check. “Everything in your house is terrible.”

“That’s true,” sighed Tom.

“Are we clear?” Fox said. “I said we’re leaving!”

“Well, if you said it,” Isis sniffed, “then I suppose it must be true—”

“Come on,” Brandt said, shaking his head and ushering them forward. “Before Fox ruptures his spleen.”

“Fox,” Cal said, nudging him as they walked. “Can I see the ledger?”

“Why?” Mayra asked, abruptly alarmed. “What interest do you have in it?”

Cal frowned. “I’m just curious,” he said. “I’ve never actually seen a ledger, and I just thought—”

“It’s not very interesting,” Fox assured him. “Not like a mortal’s ledger. This is more like a bookie’s.”

“I guess,” Cal said, still looking vaguely disappointed.

“I’ll show you when we get there,” Fox added. “For now you should probably keep the peace.”

Cal sighed. “Isn’t that Mayra’s job?”

“No,” Mayra replied. “I’m more of a morality police than a peacekeeper.”

At that, Cal flashed her his fifth smile; the one Fox knew he reserved for her.

“Fine,” he said in feigned exasperation, hurrying to catch up to where Isis was quite obviously antagonizing Brandt, goading him without restraint until he promptly dropped the key, pausing to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Mayra Kaleka, you troublesome angel,” Fox murmured, turning to face her in Cal’s absence. “You do realize he’s going to know eventually.”

“I take it you already know, then,” she said, chewing her lip, and he nodded.

“It’s not like he won’t forgive you,” Fox assured her. “He’s—” He paused. “You know. Not likely to hold it against you.”

“Still,” she lamented, her jade eyes falling to her clasped hands. “I’m not proud of it.”

“Maybe not. I’m not proud of most things I’ve done.”

“I don’t know about that. You’re pretty boastful of your conquests.”

“Don’t objectify them, Mayra.”

“Hush, Fox.”

“Fox,” Brandt cut in, and he glanced up, eyeing the open door between worlds as Brandt gestured through the entryway.

“Ready?” Mayra asked, resting her hand on his shoulder.

Fox sighed.

“Nope,” he said, and prepared himself to step through the frame, pausing only to turn briefly to Brandt. “Will it be as I remember it?” he asked.

“Depends how you remember it,” Brandt said.

“A dark room. Maybe a dozen tables?” Fox mused. “I remember the smoke more than anything. The general seediness,” he added, making a face, and Brandt shrugged.

“The tables have been closed for years,” Brandt reminded him. “Death hasn’t been compelled to play in over a century, and this is no normal game. This is a tournament,” he clarified. “This will be once in a lifetime, Fox.”

“Once in a mortal lifetime?” Fox echoed drily.

Brandt shrugged again.

“I suppose we’ll see,” he said, gesturing for Fox to enter.

It was not remotely as Fox had remembered.

“Names?” asked the guardian spirit at the door, his (her? its) expression solemn.

“Fox D’Mora,” Fox supplied.

“New player,” the tutelary spirit replied. “Next?”

Cal stepped forward.

“Calix Sanna.”

“Observer?”

“Yes,” replied Cal.

“Fine. Next?”

“Viola Marek,” offered a nervous Vi. “Also an observer.”

“As you wish. Next?”

“Isis Bernat.”

The spirit looked up, alarmed.

“Does he know you’re—”

“Observer,” Isis said sharply.

The spirit blinked.

“Fine,” it said uncomfortably. “Next?”

“Brandt Solberg.”

“Existing player. You are required to sit at the tables?”

“If you say so,” Brandt replied.

“That way,” the spirit instructed, gesturing.

“Hey, Fox,” Cal called to him, frowning. “Come look at this.”

“What is it now, Calix?” Fox sighed, turning away as Tom entered. “More moldings? The light fixtures, perhaps? Or do you—”

He broke off, astounded, as he followed Cal to where he stood, hovering near the room full of tables.

“Fuck,” said Fox.

“Band,” said Cal.

“Fuck,” Fox repeated.

“What are you—oh,” Isis exhaled, staring up beside them.

“‘Oh’ is right,” Cal murmured.

Where there should have been a wall there was instead a structure of cages that climbed the span of floor to ceiling, each one a strangely ornate framework of twisting gold bars. It was as if a series of large, glittering birds had chosen to take up residence against the wall, only instead of feathered occupants, there were a series of figures—some human-looking, some not—that stared down at the perimeter of separate rooms, each one hosting a table within impossibly thin walls of glass (or ice, Fox thought, bemused) that were watched studiously from above.

At a strange, hollowed-out basin below, a lone table sat in the shadows. Inside the stadium-style depression, the hooded form of Death sat perfectly still, his hands bound with glowing ropes to the wood of the table before him.

“Is this what you remembered?” Vi asked, her voice startling Fox to a shudder.

“No,” he confessed, his stomach abruptly manifesting in a terrible storm of knots. “No. This isn’t at all what I remember.”

“Where’ve you been?” Lainey asked irritably, grabbing for his arm once he turned the corner.

Brandt shrugged. “I don’t have to answer that. It’s not part of the deal.”

“Still. You shouldn’t have brought so many of them,” she muttered. “And you shouldn’t have taken so long.”

Again, Brandt barely managed a shrug of disinterest.

“It’s not my fault these were the conditions I had to work with. And anyway, I’m here, aren’t I?” he prompted.

She muttered something like agreement.

“Do they know?” she asked.

“Know what?”

“Anything.”

“No,” Brandt scoffed. “Of course not.”

“Are you—”

“Sure? No. When can one ever really be sure of anything, jenta mi?”

“You are infuriating, godling,” she hissed in return, glaring at him.

“That I am,” he agreed. “But you have to admit,” he determined, glancing over his shoulder at where Fox stood looking out at the final table, “I’m also wildly effective.”

The Tables

When Vi first wandered into one of the empty rooms and saw it, she was fairly convinced it was just a normal table.

It wasn’t especially ornate or kitschy. It wasn’t particularly large, and it had no particular novelties. She’d expected something like a poker table (or—for some reason—a pool table, with that green felt lining along the inside, but that might have simply been because she lacked familiarity with games) but there was nothing much to be said about it when she was actually standing next to it.

It was made of—

She paused, knocking on it.

It was made of wood.

Definitely wood.

Okay. So it was a normal, unremarkable wooden table.

There was no particular wear, she noticed, which was probably not unusual considering it was one of many that were owned and operated by two archangels, but it was the sort of table she might have expected to see in a small dining room; maybe somewhere in a starter apartment, or a loft of some sort. Something owned by two artists in Brooklyn, or possibly Bucktown. Just a regular dining table that the young couple—Roxanne-called-Roxy and Martin-called-Barns, Vi decided, opting to give the figments appropriately artsy names—found at their first ever merchant fair; or maybe just something they found at a rummage sale and Roxy decided she just had to have, even though she knows that within months, the table, just like every other piece of furniture they own, will have several concentric ring-stains on the surface (from ice cold beers on too-hot days without air conditioning, forgotten and left to drip down into the wood while Barns is making love to her on the kitchen floor).

So, yeah. A normal wooden table.

Fancifully, though, Vi tilted her head to check for marks of imaginary condensation, eyeing the surface of the wood and then glancing down the table legs, following the path of the strange, oddly-nostalgic daydream of a life she’d never have.

She lurched forward slightly, losing her balance, and steadied herself against the wood, something searing through her mind; a bright, opalescent sunburst behind her eyes. She faltered, blinking it away, and then straightened, feeling something course through her fingers and buzz through her shoulders, expelling from her system like a shudder as she lay her palms flat on the wood. She gasped, surfacing from it, and blinked.

Okay. So maybe it was slightly more than a normal wooden table.

Vi glanced around a second time before resting both palms on it, closing her eyes. It was smoother this time, less abrupt, and far less like a lurching free-fall—but still, there was a sensation she couldn’t put a finger on. Like being in the eye of a hurricane, she thought, as everything spun around her but she remained rooted in place, her feet kissing the ground impossibly lightly despite a rush, a jagged tear through time and place that seemed to have ripped itself from her bones.

So this is the game, she thought, and though she knew that somewhere her eyes were closed and her hands were resting carefully on a normal-abnormal table, a second set of eyes seemed to open, and a second set of hands felt a current blow beneath her palms. She took a breath, smelled the crispness of it—felt the sun’s rays licking solemnly across her skin as a branch rustled overhead—and felt her lungs come into being, expanding with a force so sharp she felt it like needles in the expanse of her chest.

To her right she saw—no, she recalled, she sensed, somehow, because somewhere in a place more real than this one, her eyes remained closed in an empty room with her hands on a normal-abnormal table—a waterfall; she was somewhere in a forest, surrounded by foliage so lush she could gauge it only by its color, by its richness, by its spectacular flashes of texture and their corresponding assaults on her delicate senses. It had been so long since things had been so thoroughly unspoiled; years, in fact, since she’d last felt anything but an unwelcome chill up her spine.

She’d never been so conscious of being dead, in fact, than she was now; though it seemed that she was as alive as everything around her, and to prove it, she headed for the water, skidding to a halt only when the trees cleared and she would have flown clear over the cliff’s edge, sinking to the depths below. She swung her arms, flailing for balance, and felt her heart—her heart, pounding out the sound of her name as the blood in her veins matched the rush of the current below—stammer in fear, in panic.

In desperation.

She took a breath, tasting salt.

And then she jumped.

It was no different than an ordinary fall; the vertigo, the sensation of her innards rising to wrap thoroughly around her throat was the same as any drop on a roller coaster, the turbulence of an airplane, of things that had once felt so real that now only seemed like memories compared to this, to the gravity of it all. She wondered if she would hit the water, if she would drown, if she would die—and if that had been always the truth about the game. If perhaps there were no cards and there was no luck and in fact there was nothing at all, nothing but this, the feeling of knowing that there was winning and losing and living—and coming to understand only moments before she crashed into the mirrored surface of the tide below that living and being alive were not even remotely the same thing.

She winced, preparing for the impact, and—

“What are you doing?” she heard, and realized she was standing back in the forest where she’d begun. She blinked, startled, and focused on Tom’s voice, quieter and more thoughtful than she’d heard it before.

At the table, Vi opened her eyes.

Tom stood across from her, his palms floating above the table on the other side.

“What are you doing?” he repeated.

She paused, considering it.

“I don’t know,” she confessed.

He nodded.

“Can I come?” he asked, and she tilted her head.

“Can you?” she returned quizzically. “I mean, you’re a ghost.”

“Sure. But it’s a magic table,” he reminded her, and she paused again.

“To be honest, I don’t really understand the rules,” she admitted, and he smirked.

“Haven’t you been listening?” he prompted. “There’s only one rule.”

“Don’t lose?” she recited, and he nodded with a certain juvenile severity, like a child asked to confirm his one truth.

“Don’t lose,” he confirmed, “and I don’t think it counts for a loss if I just come along, does it? Or maybe it does,” he amended, frowning.

She considered it again.

“No, I think it would be okay,” she decided, steadying herself. “Just, um. Close your eyes.”

He nodded.

“Count of three?”

She nodded.

“One. Two. Thr-”

This time there was no forest.

“Well,” Tom muttered, appearing beside her. “This is unpleasant.”

It was so absurd that she almost laughed.

“The Parker House,” she sighed, glancing around the familiar salon. “Of course. Sorry,” she added, lacking any better vocabulary to address his disappointment, but she realized as she turned to face him that perhaps they’d been too hasty to presume that nothing had changed.

“Nice shirt,” she commented, and he glanced down.

“Chambray,” he noted; quite outrageously, in Vi’s opinion, seeing as there were far more pressing observations to be had.

“More relevantly, unbloodied,” she pointed out. “Which is good, because I think I’d be more susceptible to blood here.”

“You think you could taste it?” he asked, grinning at her, and she rolled her eyes.

“You just love the gore of my predicament, don’t you?” she prompted, disapproving, and he shrugged.

“It just makes you so supremely uncomfortable,” he remarked, “and seeing as your discomfort is about the only thing I can control, I guess I just—”

He trailed off, staring absently into the corner, and Vi frowned.

“You just what?” she prompted, but he didn’t answer.

Instead, he shot a hand out without warning, knocking the crystal vase to the ground.

Vi leapt back as it shattered, alarmed, but Tom only laughed; a full belly laugh with his head thrown back, and as he did it, she noticed for the first time how much she had missed about him from never knowing him as he had lived. He’d been like a painting before, present and enchanted but stilted, unmoving; and now he had come vibrantly to life. His hair had been swept back from his eyes, the corners of them crinkled with humor, and there was something else, too—a brightness to him, somehow, that hadn’t existed before. He didn’t float back to her, either; he ran, tearing through the room to collide with her before throwing his arms around her waist, tossing her exuberantly into the air.

“VI-O-LAAAA,” he sang, letting her down so unsteadily she grabbed behind her for the arm of a hideously upholstered velvet chair. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to break that stupid vase, and—”

He broke off, grinning at her, and held a hand out.

“Want to dance?” he asked, with a strange, alluring recklessness, and she felt her brow furrow; her pulse stutter.

“I don’t really d-”

But he wasn’t listening, pulling her into his arms and breaking into some sort of spirited, unrefined process of twirling that tore her breath from her chest, leaving her panting as he dropped her back into a supremely unsteady dip and rose her up again, triumphant.

“Let’s go outside,” he announced, pulling her hand, and the space around them—the very air itself—shifted to bring them to the water’s edge, their toes hovering dangerously above Lake Michigan’s troubled, murky surface.

He turned to face her, the Chicago wind whipping color into his cheeks, and smiled.

“Think we can do it?” he asked her, and she held her breath.

He’d never been this close to her.

Not really.

Not like this.

“Do what?” she rasped, and he leaned in; as if he might confess a secret, or take the certainty from her lungs, or touch his lips to hers.

“Jump,” he whispered, the tips of his hair falling into his eyes.

Her stomach convulsed in fear.

“What?”

But he had already grabbed her hand, pulling her into the lake and dragging her under the current.

She wanted to gasp, floundering as the water swept up her nostrils and filled her lungs, leaving her choking; it felt real, more real than anything she’d experienced since she’d truly been alive, and she wondered at the irony. Because surely she was dying, wasn’t she? Surely only death could feel like this, like pain and panic and desperation alike, and surely only her death would give her this sense of anticipation, that righteous sense of now—surely only death would feel as purely life-resembling as this—

But then Tom caught her fingers, dragging her up to the surface.

“Tom,” she sputtered, coughing up lake water as her fingers shook with cold, and he turned to her, swiping his hair from his eyes.

“Vi,” he said, and she shivered.

“Could have given me a little more warning,” she grumbled, treading water beside him, and he laughed.

“And ruin the fun? You look like a drowned rat,” he said.

“Lovely.”

“It is,” he promised, smoothing her hair back from her face. “Rats have a certain appeal. Naturally, so do you.”

“My goodness,” Vi drawled, shaking her head. “Win me over, why don’t you.”

“I’m trying,” he said, and she glanced up.

He was staring at her.

“I’m trying,” he said again, and she swallowed.

“Is this the game?” she asked.

“Is what the game?”

“This,” she said. “How do I know you’re even really here?”

“How rude, Vi. How dare you, in fact—”

“Well,” she pronounced, sighing, “that helps.”

“You believed in me when I was a ghost,” he reminded her, his fingers still woven loosely with hers, “so I don’t see why your faith in me should somehow lessen when you have me in your hands.”

“Do I?” she asked. “Have you?”

“In the palm of your hand,” he said, and it sounded suspiciously like a promise, but she shook her head, pulling away.

“This is the game,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

“Do you feel something?” he asked. “It doesn’t feel like a game to me.”

“But it is,” she persisted. “And I think I understand it now.”

And she did.

Don’t lose.

Gamble everything, but don’t lose.

“Careful,” Mayra warned, and Vi shuddered with a gasp, opening her eyes to find herself face to face with the angel, who leaned casually against the table’s edge.

“Be careful,” Mayra said again, her dark brow arched. “I wanted you to have a turn at one of the tables, but still—be careful that you do not misplace yourself inside it.”

Vi looked around for Tom; he had disappeared.

If, that is, he’d ever been there to begin with.

“Was it real?” Vi asked quietly, and Mayra shrugged.

“Isn’t it all real?” she asked.

But Vi, who felt unable to place a finger on the fabric of reality, couldn’t manage an answer.

“Don’t forget,” Mayra offered reassuringly, “I heard your wish, Viola Marek. I heard the secrets of your heart, and I can tell you that you are not meant to play this immortal game.”

“I,” Vi began, and swallowed. “I wasn’t, but—”

“You may be managing things on the outside, Viola, but on the inside, you still cling to your mortal losses,” Mayra said. “This game will ruin you, Viola Marek, because you still want much more than any game can ever win you. But some things,” she lamented quietly, “are not meant to be gambled or won except through chance, or perhaps by fate.”

“Is this you granting my wish, then?” Vi asked, and Mayra nodded.

“Not everything is a miracle,” she said.

Vi’s attention strayed across the table again to where Tom had stood, imagining his eyes on hers.

“But then again,” Mayra said blithely, “perhaps some things are.”

Vi swallowed hard, and then nodded.

“Have you seen Isis?” she asked. “She disappeared the moment we got here.”

“I wouldn’t look for her just now,” Mayra said, with the air of knowing a touch-too-much. “I believe she has her own—” she trailed off, half-smiling. “Demons.”

“And you?” Vi asked. “Why exactly did you come along?”

“Well, two reasons. One, that I worry relentlessly about Fox,” Mayra said. “He is quite easily frustrated, and this game will not be easy for him. You can only hope that you raise them right,” she sighed dramatically, flashing Vi a small smile.

“And the other reason?”

At that, Mayra hesitated.

“The truth is, Viola,” Mayra said carefully, “that I know the game quite well.”

“Ah,” Vi said. “You’re in the ledger, aren’t you?”

Mayra nodded.

“I suspect I will be summoned any moment,” she clarified. “I was one of the last to play before Death refused to come to the tables. I’m quite certain I will be required to play again.”

“How do you know that?” Vi asked. “That you were last, I mean.”

Mayra shrugged.

“Some things a person just knows,” she replied simply. “And when I faced Death, I could see his time at the tables was coming to a close.”

Vi nodded slowly, watching Mayra’s gaze drift along with her thoughts.

She wanted to ask why, but could see the question would be met without an answer.

“I don’t know when I will be summoned to play again,” Mayra continued, turning her attention back to Vi. “But Fox often has need of guidance, even if he will never ask. May I rely on you, in my absence?” she prompted, and Vi blinked, startled. “You’re sensible, Viola. He will need to be clear-eyed in order to win, and much as I adore Cal, he can be easily persuaded by his affection for Fox.” She paused, looking saddened. “And he does not always see pain coming.”

“But you see it coming?” Vi asked, frowning. “Why? What is it that you know?”

Mayra spared her a wary glance.

“I see nothing,” she offered, shrugging. “What could I possibly be? I may be celestial now, but once I was only a woman, and a hard one at that. I did not know love during my lifetime. The only thing I ever truly knew was how to sense a storm, and perhaps how to protect others from it, but never how not to be destroyed by it.” She glanced away. “Perhaps you and I might agree to try out blind faith, though, and see how that serves us.”

“Not well, in my experience,” Vi grumbled.

“Really?” Mayra asked, looking surprised. “He should be dead, you know,” she mused, gesturing to where Tom had been, “as should you. You might have never crossed paths during your lifetimes, and it all might have simply ended there.”

“Or we might have met in service to a couple of bored archangels,” Vi pointed out, and Mayra chuckled.

“I don’t serve them,” she said. “I serve a world that may collapse in on itself at any moment without something to hold it. To steady it.”

At that, Vi let Mayra drift into silence, comforted by her thoughts.

“Should I wish you luck?” Vi asked, after a moment. “For victory against a demon king?”

Mayra closed her eyes, half-smiling.

“Now that,” Mayra said, “would be a miracle, indeed.”

“Well,” Volos said. “This is a surprise.”

Isis grimaced.

“Hello, husband,” she said glumly.

“I take it there is something you need?” he prompted.

She nodded. “I wondered if I still held any significance for you.”

He didn’t look surprised.

Granted, he didn’t look pleased, either, but he certainly didn’t look surprised.

“Bargaining for your friends, are you, then?” Volos prompted, his expression landing somewhere between skeptical and amused. “Admirable, Isis, but surely not recommended. You know better than anyone what a deal with me means.”

“Yes,” Isis said. “And much as I’d rather not revisit the consequences, unfortunately I think I should probably try to spare them the worst of it.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Volos said with a laugh. “You poor thing.”

She folded her arms over her chest, irritated.

“You look like him, you know,” she remarked. “The ghost.”

“Funny how that works out,” Volos agreed.

“I can’t imagine the mortal is very comfortable in there. If he’s even still in there,” she amended.

“You know,” Volos postured optimistically, “after sacrificing his entire family line, there’s not much left of his will to contend with. He’s really rather quiet.”

“Still,” Isis said. “That’s a lot of mortal guilt.”

“I do sometimes experience a headache sensation,” Volos agreed. “Do you suppose that’s the guilt?”

“No,” Isis said, shaking her head. “Probably dehydration. Guilt is more intestinal, or so I’m led to believe.”

“Ah, well, my digestion is perfectly fine,” Volos assured her. “But thank you for asking, wife.”

“I didn’t ask in order to help you,” Isis said.

“Yes, I’m aware,” Volos agreed, and briefly snapped his fingers, abruptly trapping her within her own ornate birdcage of twisted gold bars. “There,” he determined, nodding firmly. “Shouldn’t take long, love, and then I suppose you can come back to me, if you wish.”

“The deal was that you wouldn’t control me any longer,” Isis said through gritted teeth. “Are you really going to defy your own queen, Volos?”

“That was the deal, but you broke it,” Volos reminded her. “You came to find me, didn’t you? So consider it null and void,” he declared, snapping his fingers again for the thin parchment of the contract and tearing it neatly in two. “To tell you the truth, I suspect I will be wanting companionship once Death’s sovereignty is at an end. I anticipate having many pressing demands on my time.”

He turned to leave then, vanishing the remains of their deal into the span of the air between them, but Isis called out for him.

“Volos!” she shouted, with the force of all the rage inside her, burning like embers on her tongue.

He turned slowly.

“Yes, wife?”

She glared at him.

Then she let the glare melt.

“Did you miss me?” she asked with all her softness, the words falling like petals from her lips.

The mortal’s mouth quirked.

“Only a little,” the demon king replied, pivoting back and striding away.

Arrival

“Well,” Raphael exhaled at the sight of him, “I see you’re finally here.”

“Yes, finally,” Gabriel agreed, bristling. “Never mind that we’ve been circling chaos for nearly four rounds already. By all means, take your time.”

“I brought what you asked,” Fox said, holding up Death’s ledger. “And I brought the ghost as well, though I have no idea why he’s necessary, and frankly, I’d like some answers of my own—”

“He says he also has questions,” Cal supplied unnecessarily, and Gabriel flashed them both an impatient glare.

“Hush, hush, yes,” Raphael said, snatching the scroll from his hands and holding it up for Gabriel to peer over his shoulder. “Yes, it looks as though there is an opportunity to do as we discussed—”

“As we discussed?” Fox echoed.

“He and I we,” Gabriel clarified. “Not you and he we.”

“Which is?” Fox prompted. “I certainly hope you’ve thought of something by now to get me out of this.”

“Out of it? Of course not,” Raphael scoffed. “You must play, Fox D’Mora, but seeing as you’ve taken so long, we need to advance you in the tournament—”

“—which we will do,” Gabriel added, “by entering the ghost in the tournament in Volos’ stead.”

Fox glanced at Cal, who promptly ducked.

“Sorry,” Cal said, dodging something they couldn’t see. “He flails a bit when he’s upset.”

“How is entering the ghost in the tournament going to fix anything?” Fox demanded, shoving Cal away before he collided defensively with his chest. “What, so you get to have two players in the game?”

“No, no, of course not,” Raphael corrected impatiently. “There are rules, after all. But his name is Thomas Edward Parker, yes?”

“Yes,” Fox said, frowning. “But—”

“And he’s called Tom, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but—”

Gabriel pointedly held up the ledger, gesturing to the scripted Thomas Edward Parker that was scribbled into one of the lines, signifying the original Tom Parker’s entrance to the game.

“Damn,” Fox muttered, kicking himself.

It was becoming increasingly clear that, somehow, this might have been his fault after all.

“Call it a loophole,” Gabriel informed him, “but a contract is a contract. Tom Parker may play for Tom Parker, which will at least manage to slow Volos down for a bit. It means he will miss at least one round, which is helpful, seeing as he’s seemed relatively unstoppable so far.”

“Isn’t that cheating?” Cal asked tentatively. “I think that Mayra would say that it is.”

“Oh, really? Is it?” Raphael cut in sarcastically. “Thank goodness you’re here to speak for her, then, as we, her supervisors, had absolutely no idea—”

“It was only that it seemed like the stability of the universe was ever so slightly on the line,” Gabriel added gruffly. “But forgive us our oversight, you’re so right, we shouldn’t cheat,” he proclaimed with ruthless sarcasm, “not now, with so very little at stake—”

“Just go with them,” Fox said, aiming at where Cal had ducked a second time. “The faster we get this over with, the faster we get to my godfather and get out of here.”

“He says—” Cal broke off, staring. “Sorry, he’s just, there’s a lot of shouting—ah, okay, he says he doesn’t understand why he’s being held responsible when he couldn’t manage to summon two f- ah, sorry, language—essentially,” Cal exhaled with a frown, “I think he’s trying to say that he opposes the idea, saying he doesn’t have a personal stake in the matter—”

“Well,” Raphael informed the ghost briskly, “as a former mortal, you really should.”

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed. “To play for mastery of Death is to play for mastery of mortality, in case it escaped your attention—”

“What’s going on?” Vi interrupted, jogging up to them. “I was just with Mayra, but she just disappeared, and I thought she might have been summoned again—”

“Well, yes and no,” Raphael supplied. “She’ll have been extracted for her part in the game, I assume.”

“Which is not a summons,” Gabriel said, “but sure, close enough.”

“The game?” Cal asked, looking slightly stunned. “Why would Mayra play this game?”

“That,” Gabriel snapped sternly, “is none of your concern. As it is, we’ll have to hurry. Volos is distracted at the moment, so we can take advantage of putting the ghost in for one of his spots. He can play—” He glanced down, humming to himself as he searched the ledger. “Elaine. She’s the only other immortal who’s won any of the games so far, aside from Volos.”

“What?” Vi asked, startled. “Tom can’t play Lainey, he’ll—” She glanced over, looking a bit mournful. “I know you don’t, Tom, but still, I don’t think you should—”

“He doesn’t have to win,” Raphael supplied quickly. “Actually, it’s better if he doesn’t. Either way, though, it buys Fox some time to win a few games first.”

“If he can,” Gabriel challenged roughly, his gaze cutting sideways to Fox. “Which I suppose we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”

“For a couple of people who started this game, you sure have no faith in your ability not to lose it,” Fox commented to the archangels, watching Vi and Cal both suffer the knowledge of Mayra and Tom’s requisite involvement.

“Well, we wouldn’t lose,” Raphael said. “First of all, we’re not people.”

“At best, we’re entities,” Gabriel added, “but we can’t play. We’re not in the ledger.”

“Rightfully,” Raphael contributed. “As this entire game is stupid and reckless.”

“Yes,” Gabriel confirmed. “Thus its undeniable appeal, unfortunately. It’s a cycle of misfortune that begins with boredom and ends with suffering.” He paused. “And then boredom again.”

“Which is, again, partly your godfather’s doing,” Raphael reminded Fox. “The suffering part, that is. There’s a reason he’s the end of the game’s ledger. He was the first to play, and thus he’ll be the last to win or lose.”

“Why not simply trust him?” Fox asked, glancing between them. “He’s never lost before. Why would he lose now?”

The two archangels exchanged an uneasy glance.

“It’s just best not to underestimate Volos,” Raphael said, fidgeting.

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed. “Better to stop him before he has a chance.”

“Well,” Fox sighed, striding ahead. “I suppose there’s nothing left to do but try to get to my godfather, then.”

“Are you sure?” Vi whispered to Tom, wishing she could take his hand as she had earlier and immediately registering what Mayra had said; that this—to feel as she did—naturally rendered her unhelpful.

“Whether I’m sure or not, I doubt it matters,” Tom muttered back. “And anyway, I think I’m actually quite relieved it’s Lainey. I have some questions I would like answered. Namely,” he exhaled, “precisely how responsible she is for my death, because I no longer have any doubt that she is.”

It was a fair point, though not much of a helpful one.

“Be careful in there,” Vi said, and swallowed. “In the game, I mean. It feels—like nothing else, really. I only mean,” she exhaled hastily, “that it’s—it’s very, um—”

“I was there, Vi,” Tom said, his gaze sliding to hers. “That was really me.”

She held her breath; let it out.

“Oh,” she managed.

His face warmed with a crescent moon of something that might have been a smirk, though she guessed it to be a smile.

“Worried about me, Viola?” Tom asked.

She laced her fingers together, trapping her apprehension within her limbs.

“Well,” she replied steadily, “I do still have a house to sell, you know. I’d rather not expend my energy for nothing.”

Tom kindly pretended not to hear the underlying waver of her intent.

“You never fail to disappoint me,” he murmured fondly, shaking his head.

“Hello, Tom,” Lainey said quietly.

“Hello, Elaine,” he replied. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, actually,” she said, and if he had been hoping for a bit more reluctance—or further, any semblance of shame—he didn’t receive it. “Do be careful, will you?”

“With what?” he scoffed. “You?”

“He’ll be very angry,” she said simply. “When he discovers what you’ve done, he won’t like it, and he’ll take it out on you and Fox. Not the archangels. And I,” she added with a sigh, “cannot allow you to lose, Tom.”

“I don’t need you to soften the blow,” Tom retorted. “I can handle you just fine on my own, Lainey.”

“I always liked when you called me that,” she said. “Elaine is my real name. Did you know that? My true name. You always made me feel so normal when you called me Lainey, but it unnerved me when you called me by my name.” She paused, her gaze drifting. “It was almost like you knew, all along, what I really was.”

“Did I?” Tom asked, as she tilted her head, exposing the familiar line of her slender neck.

She didn’t answer.

“Come on, Tom,” she beckoned with a sigh, letting her palms rest against the table just before she closed her eyes. “Let’s play.”

The Immortals’ Game

“Tom, you remember Lainey, don’t you?” Mrs Wood asked, setting down a plate of cookies on that sticky-hot day in August. “She’s been away at St. Cecilia’s in Boston, but she’ll be starting at University of Chicago this fall.”

The girl across the table looked up, meeting his eye.

“Lainey,” Tom repeated, testing the renewed use of her name in his mouth.

The Lainey Wood he remembered had been a stiff, colorless girl with almost no interesting features. They’d spent every summer forced together at the Woods’ VIP Box in Wrigley Field listening to their parents discussing business—or else the so-called ‘Curse of the Billy Goat,’ as if a goat were conceivably the reason for the Cubs’ resounding performance flaws and not simply a lack of talent.

The Lainey Wood that Tom Parker had once been forced to accompany in her virgin-white ball gown and equally colorless expression had been a sour, unpleasant girl with no particular thoughts, other than perhaps her hair and fulfilling her parents’ wishes. She’d been sullen, uninterested—and uninteresting, more importantly—and even Tom, who’d been in the midst of discovering the full scope of what, precisely, his dick was capable of doing, could not have managed an iota of interest, making a point to take her home immediately after her debutante ball ended and resolutely refusing her friend requests on Facebook from there.

The Lainey Wood he remembered had watery blue eyes, mossy blonde-brown hair, and clear but notably un-radiant skin. She had the posture of a girl who had been too tall for her age too early, always slumped. She had not been poised, hadn’t been beautiful, and she certainly hadn’t been breathtaking.

And yet here he was now, holding his breath.

This girl, whoever she was, held up a slender finger to her full, berry-tinted lips, locking her grey gaze on his.

“Hello, Tom,” she said, as if she knew why he was staring, and as if she dared him to look away.

“Hello, Elaine,” he choked out, wondering why he’d never really looked at her before.

“I don’t understand,” Vi said nervously, watching Tom’s fingers grip the edge of the table more tightly. “What’s happening?”

“Ah,” Raphael said, waving a hand. “Sorry. Forgot you can’t see everything.”

The projection of a young Tom and what appeared to be his introduction to a young Lainey flung itself onto the walls around them, and Vi took a step forward, watching a foreign look of wonder fill Tom’s eyes.

“How is this a game?” she asked, frowning. “It looks like a memory.”

“Well, it is and it isn’t,” Gabriel replied. “Lainey won the toss, and she started the game with a memory.”

“Hers, or his?” Cal asked.

“His, by the look of it,” Raphael supplied, displeased. “Which already puts him at a disadvantage.”

“Disadvantage?” Vi asked. “How?”

“Well, you tell us,” Gabriel postured with a scoff. “How hard is it for you to relive your past?”

Fair point, she thought. “But how was he supposed to—”

“What, prevent it?” Raphael guessed accurately, and shrugged. “It’s certainly possible, but there’s a reason some are better than others at this game.”

“You mean it’s a game for cheaters and liars,” Cal noted.

“It’s a game for immortals,” Gabriel amended for him, shrugging.

“Yes,” Raphael agreed, “and I said what I said.”

Lainey pulled Tom into her dorm room, signaling for him to be quiet.

“My roommate’s asleep,” she whispered.

“Could go to my house,” he suggested, his fingers wrapped around the sharp angle of her hips. “Or yours.”

She made a face.

“I don’t like it there,” she said.

“Where?”

“Either,” she replied, shuddering. “Your house is creepy. Mine is …” she trailed off. “It’s just not home. I prefer it when we can be alone.”

She gave his arm a tug, leading him inside, and he felt something; a nameless sensation of what came next, like for a quick hitch of time he could see well into the future. Like he was standing in the frame with handfuls of futures and pasts, all of it gripped in white-knuckled fists, and it occurred to him that he no longer felt part of the landscape.

He felt, too, a stab of something that he was certain hadn’t been there before.

“Lainey, I—”

He paused, freezing in the doorframe.

“Tom?” she prompted.

He took a step back, testing. Another step. He turned, as though he would leave, and suddenly the vision shifted.

“You’re learning,” Lainey remarked, materializing in front of him in the corridor that at once became a room with gleaming white walls, both lit by nothing and glowing with light.

“Is this the game?” Tom asked, glancing around with a frown. “Is it simply that I can control things now, or—”

“You could always control things,” Lainey pointed out. “You could have left back then, too, but you didn’t.”

“So say I do it over,” Tom suggested. “Say I don’t follow you inside. Say I never sleep with you for the first time, say you never have any power over me.”

“You can’t actually do it over,” Lainey told him. “The game doesn’t transcend—”

“Reality?” he guessed.

She shook her head. “The past,” she corrected. “What’s past is passed, and cannot be altered. Reality is, of course, subject to your choice.”

He considered this, frowning.

“What were you going to do from here?” he asked. “If I hadn’t turned away, I mean.”

“Remind you,” Lainey said simply. “I would have reminded you of what we had, what we were.”

“You were bored,” Tom said, and then paused, swallowing. “You were always bored, always rebelling for no reason. There were no consequences for you.” He paused, blinking. “You used me, actually. Many times, now that I think about it.”

“And yet you thought you were in control,” Lainey countered, “didn’t you?”

Around him, the scene shifted.

The walls were white, the sheets were white, the sun bore down white-hot onto the pillow beside him, and Lainey’s pale blonde hair was draped across his chest, strewn out from where she leaned against him. All of it was gleaming, all of it was fragile; all of it was at once steadying to his constitution, and yet in perilous danger of collapse.

“This never happened,” he whispered to her, and she shook her head.

“No,” she agreed. “This is the game.”

He drew a finger up the side of her arm, watching her shiver.

“Funny how real this is,” he said, “and still, how real it isn’t.”

She twisted around to look at him.

“You think we weren’t real?” she asked, her fingers splayed across his chest.

“You did contribute to my murder,” he reminded her. “A bit difficult to romanticize that, don’t you think?”

“That,” she said, chewing her lip, “was a precondition of knowing you.”

“What, killing me?”

She shrugged. “I had a debt to pay long before we met. It doesn’t mean that you meant nothing. It doesn’t mean we weren’t real.”

He wasn’t sure he believed her.

He certainly wasn’t sure he agreed.

“That seems quite a price,” he said slowly. “Aren’t some costs too high?”

“Careful,” she warned. “That’s the sort of attitude that will cost you the game, and Volos will never forgive me if I let you lose.”

“How can you possibly force me to win?” Tom demanded.

Lainey looked away, sighing, and glanced back.

“Close your eyes,” she said.

“No.”

“Tom, don’t be stubborn.”

“It’s called self-preservation, actually, El-”

He broke off. She shook her head.

“Close your eyes,” she said, “and I’ll show you how you died.”

He paused, his mouth opening, and then he snapped his jaw shut.

“You can do that?”

She nodded. “The tables can do that.”

He withered.

“Fine,” he said, and closed his eyes.

“Now open them,” she said.

“This is a stupid game.”

“Just do as you’re told, Tom.”

“I don’t see why I have to—”

He broke off, registering the woman in his arms as his eyes snapped open.

“What does reality feel like now?” Lainey asked, wearing Vi’s features as her own.

“Stop,” Tom said instantly, scrambling away from her in the bed. “Leave Vi out of it, she doesn’t—she isn’t—”

He stopped, staring at her.

“You want me to win this game?” he asked, suddenly registering what she’d said.

Vi-Lainey nodded. “You have to,” she said. “You do not want to be a loser in this game, Tom. You can never understand the pain of your losses until you have lost this game.”

Tom hesitated.

“You cannot use her against me,” he said quietly. “If I let you, then—”

“I win,” she agreed. “And you lose.”

“But don’t you lose by default,” he said slowly, “because I no longer love you?”

“Ah, but the tricky thing about love,” Vi-Lainey said, inching towards him, “is that when employed in sacrifice, it can save you just as much as it can damage you. Don’t you see?” she asked, Vi’s brown eyes lit with pain as she drew her fingertips over his cheek. “Don’t you see that this is how I’ll win? Because I love you enough to disparage the depths of myself?”

She leaned closer, her lips near his ear.

“If you lose, he will take her,” she whispered. “He is accustomed to taking, and he does it easily, and you cannot fight. Because I love you, Tom, I will not allow you to lose. But I cannot allow myself to lose either, and because you loved me once,” she finished in his ear, “I know better than you what you can and cannot stand to lose.”

The implications were clear: she had moved her piece on the board.

“Elaine,” Tom sighed. “You’re always trapping me, aren’t you?”

She leaned away.

“Do you love me?” she asked, in Vi’s voice.

Don’t you see I love you enough to disparage the depths of myself?

“No,” he forced out, wrenching the pain of it from his chest.

At once Vi sparkled back into Lainey, her features glowing and golden.

“Very good, Tom,” she said softly, drawing his lips back to hers.

“It’s only a game, Vi,” Cal said, his hand closing around her shoulder.

She couldn’t bring herself to shake his touch.

I know, she tried to say, but couldn’t quite manage it.

Fox climbed down the stadium steps to find Death with his wrists bound to the table, his human mask worn and ragged as he bent his head over the wood, contemplating himself in the grain.

“Papa,” Fox opened, tutting with disapproval. “This,” he said, gesturing around the gilded coliseum, “isn’t by chance the thing you wanted to tell me about earlier, is it?”

Death glanced up slowly, shaking his head.

“You shouldn’t fucking be here,” he replied.

“Band,” Fox suggested.

“Don’t have it,” Death grumbled, gesturing to the shackles around his wrists.

Fair enough, Fox thought.

“Want to tell me what this is about?” he asked instead, forcing an airy neutrality. “You appear to be in some sort of trouble.”

“It shouldn’t concern you, Fox.”

“It shouldn’t,” Fox agreed, “and yet it does.”

Death said nothing.

“It seems,” Fox sighed, “that for some, the past is never really passed for us, is it?”

“I always wondered whether I would have to pay,” Death conceded neutrally. “This is the cost of my arrogance, it seems.”

“You know, what I don’t understand,” Fox ventured, “is why everyone’s so worried. You’ve never lost before, have you?” he prompted, and Death shook his head. “Then why would you lose now?”

“I will lose,” Death said simply.

“You say that, but—”

“I will lose,” Death repeated. “You do not understand the game, Fox.”

“You’re right about that,” Fox agreed. “I have no concept of what this is, or why people are so desperate to play it. The archangels say they’re losing on purpose,” he added. “The other immortals and creatures. They’re letting Volos win.”

“I expect they will,” Death said. “Many of them have reasons to oppose me, and the loss of me makes very little difference to them.”

“Why?” Fox asked. “Because you’re such a tyrant, Papa?”

“Because I cheat,” Death said flatly, and Fox was glad Brandt was not there to hear it. “Or so they call it, anyway, when I attach my conditions to their prizes.”

“So then simply cheat again,” Fox urged. “Do whatever you have to, Papa, but I don’t think you can rely on me to win. I don’t see why I would be any better at this than you are.”

“Well, of course you don’t see it,” Death told him. “You’re a mortal.”

Fox groaned. “Not this again—”

“Yes, this again,” Death said firmly. “You’re not one of us, Fox, and for once that gives you an advantage. Because for you, there are things worth winning for. It is why a mortal has managed to win this game before, and why you must win now—because for you, the reward is always greater. It will always be more than anything you could make for yourself, and so your costs will always be less.”

“Not for Tom Parker,” Fox noted, referencing the man at Volos’ command, and Death blanched.

“Well, I underestimated him,” he said. “I have a long history of doing so.”

“Of underestimating Tom?”

“Of discounting mortality,” Death corrected, looking saddened as his gaze met Fox’s. “I might have sorted that out long ago and been better for it.”

Fox politely side-stepped the comment about himself.

“How did Tom Parker die?” he asked instead.

“He didn’t,” Death said. “He’s there still, somewhere inside the host he’s serving for Volos. He bargained with the king of vice, it seems, after the curse I levied on him. The curse of insatiability,” he clarified, “which is hardly my doing so much as humanity’s. I thought he would succumb to me eventually, like any normal mortal, but I suppose no one is ever the same after playing this game.”

“Not him,” Fox corrected. “I meant Tom Parker IV. The ghost.”

“Ah,” Death said. “Volos killed him.”

Fox frowned.

“Not the siren?”

“Water deity,” Death corrected. “More mermaid than siren, really, though that’s mostly semantics.”

“Fine. Not her?”

“She certainly contributed,” Death permitted. “But it was Volos who killed him, in the end.”

He paused; Fox, meanwhile, wondered if that were really the entire truth.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Fox asked, chewing his thoughts. “That all of this would converge so neatly.”

“Oh, Fox.” Death reached up wearily, pausing only as the chains drew his hand back to the table. “You misunderstand. This is no coincidental convergence; this is a series of events that is my responsibility. My doing. You,” he exhaled bitterly, “should not be held accountable.”

Fox watched his shoulders stoop, bowing beneath something weighty and unfulfilled, and suffered a surprising breath of opposition.

“But I’m your son,” Fox protested, and at the words, Death looked up, startled.

“Papa,” Fox said again, stepping towards him this time. “I am Fox D’Mora, aren’t I? I am of Death, Papa, and I have known no other father. Why should I not be the one to absolve you of your wrongs?”

Death winced.

“Because I will lose,” he said softly. “I will lose because I have a regret, a terrible one, and such things are more powerful than you imagine, Fox. They outlast even me, and the regret I have is no small thing.” He looked up, pained. “You will not like what you see, Fox, when you see what I have done,” he added ominously, and Fox forced the warning voice in his ear aside, shaking it from his bones.

“I won’t let you lose,” Fox said. “Tell me how to win, Papa,” he exhaled just shy of pleading, “and I promise you, I’ll make certain you don’t lose.”

Death paused for a moment, glancing again at the grains of the table.

“Listen very carefully, then,” he opened.

Fox leaned forward in communion, as he had done so many times before.

“This,” said Death, “is how you win the game.”

“Hello, Mayra Kaleka,” said the king of vice.

She lifted her chin.

“You will not own me,” she said. “No man has.”

“Yes,” Volos agreed. “But I am not a man, am I? Your body does not interest me, and I will not try to take your pride. I know that I cannot,” he added spiritedly, “because I am not vain enough to believe it possible, nor even much worth the trouble.” He winked at her, folding his arms over his chest. “A mortal’s pride is of little value to me, Mayra Kaleka, unless it earns me what I want.”

“Then what will you have from me, Volos?” she demanded, summoning strength to the gaps in her constitution, filling up the holes of doubt. “There is nothing you can take that wasn’t once stripped from me while I lived.”

“Oh, on the contrary,” he murmured, chuckling, and cleverly changed his mask.

“I will take your heart,” he said, wearing the face of Calix Sanna.

“People have secrets, Fox,” said Death. “It’s easy enough to tap into them, because few people can truly conceal them. Understand a person’s heart, what makes them soft and what makes them hard, and find the source of their materials.”

“And then?” Fox asked.

Death shrugged. “Then drive it in them like a knife.”

“I need a reaper,” Fox was saying to Cal, a perilously familiar replaying of the moment Mayra had first seen him; the day she had first seen the curls he wore like a crown, and the smile he bore only for her. “Can we rely on you?”

“Who is we?” Cal had asked, his eyes traveling to where Mayra stood. “Are you part of this too, angel?”

The curve of his mouth had always been like a caress, always like an embrace, and she had felt it down to her soul, down to the crevices of her heart, buried in the places that only she could touch—

“Get out,” Mayra said stiffly, forcing the memory away. “This isn’t for you, Volos.”

The scene shifted.

“How long can you hold me off, angel?” Volos asked, materializing at her side to lean with his arms folded, propped against a gleaming white wall. “You can’t keep me out forever, you know, and you certainly can’t win.”

“I can win,” Mayra countered, teeth gritted. “I’m far stronger than you think.”

“Strength doesn’t win,” Volos replied, conjuring a white-frothed beverage from nothing and taking a sip, deeming it satisfactory before continuing. “I merely have to outlast your own demons,” he clarified, “and being one myself, I should think it well within my pool of talents.”

“I have no demons,” Mayra lied.

Volos chuckled.

“Sure you don’t.”

“You must hold your own, Fox. Deception will help, if you can manage it. It will be harder or easier depending on the natural talents of your opponent, but it will be a gamble either way.

“You must know yourself, without reservation, in order to properly defend your weaknesses. More importantly, though, you must know your opponent. You must know that they will strike if you give them ammunition, or reach where they are not invited in; so then give them something that’s easy to see, and let them believe it to be more than it is.”

“So this is it, then,” Tom said, circling Lainey where she knelt with her head bent against his chest, her tears slipping into his blood as he lay on the floor of the Parker Mansion. “This is how I died? You killed me?”

“Yes,” she replied, not looking at him. “And you see how much it pained me.”

Tom looked around the room, placing himself in his memories. He recalled the sensations he had already relived; the blood splatter on the floor, the emptiness of the room when he awoke.

Tom paused his circling, glancing back down at where her fingers wrapped around the bloodied knife.

“This isn’t how it happened,” he noted, and watched her stiffen.

“Yes, it is.”

“No, actually, it isn’t,” he informed her. “You want me to win the game, don’t you?”

She hesitated.

“That doesn’t mean—”

“You want me to win the game,” Tom continued, “but you also have to win, so you want me to feel as if I’ve beaten you, somehow, but it must be a lie. You want me to feel as if I’ve come out of this with the knowledge that I’ve caused you pain. But—”

He reached out, and the scene shifted.

“You didn’t cry,” he said, glancing down at where she sat frozen beside him. “You never cry. I used to think you couldn’t do it.”

She didn’t turn.

“I’m a water deity,” she said dully, and he watched her posture; watched it curve under the pressure of her lies.

“You didn’t cry,” he determined, “and you didn’t kill me, either.”

At once, the knife that had been in her hand reburied itself in his chest.

“Someone else was here, weren’t they?” he asked. “You didn’t do this alone.”

She didn’t move.

She didn’t breathe.

“Tell me the truth, Elaine,” Tom said quietly.

“You can toy with time, with physicality, with memory. The only thing you cannot touch is your opponent; the one thing you cannot alter is what exists for them, what’s real. Like a book, you can read the page they show you, and if you’re good enough you can skip ahead, or backwards, but you cannot change the content of the story. You can only change the way the story is read.”

“Maybe this will refresh your memory, Mayra Kaleka,” Volos said, and snapped his fingers.

Abruptly, the scene shifted.

“You were with the reaper again,” Raphael noted.

“I was with Fox,” Mayra felt herself say. “I have been assigned to him.”

“Mayra,” Gabriel sighed, “do you believe us to be idiots?”

“I do,” she replied. “Is that relevant?”

“Fraternization is frowned upon,” Raphael reminded her. “And this, whatever it is, is impermissible. Your ledger is at stake.”

“It’s nothing,” she said.

“Really,” Cal asked in her ear. “Nothing?”

She balked, startled.

“You’re not really here,” she told him. “I know you’re not.”

“So I’m not,” he said, shrugging. “What if I were? What difference does it make?”

She blinked. “Stop.”

“Why?” he asked. “Because Cal would stop?”

“He would.”

“Fine. I’ll stop.”

“You’re not him.”

“You want real?” he asked, and her vision spun.

“We shouldn’t see each other,” she said. “Don’t have Fox summon me anymore.”

“You don’t mean that,” Cal begged, and where he’d always worn a smile just for her, the look of pain on his face was just for her, too. “Mayra, you don’t mean that—”

“I’m costing you more time,” she said. “I’m costing both of us more time—”

“Stop it,” she said.

“Stop what?” Cal murmured in her ear.

“Mayra, it’s worth it,” he begged. “A moment with you is far more worthwhile than an eternity of paradise!”

“Don’t say things like that,” she said, vigorously shaking her head. “Don’t.”

“Why, because you can’t stand to hear them?”

“Because—” she began, and broke off, the weight of her fears settling into the holes of her, the depths of her, dragging her to the floors of her anguish. “Because, Calix Sanna, I am not worth the costs!”

All at once the scene evaporated, misting itself to nothing and Cal’s face dissolving with it, his hands still outstretched for hers.

“And there it is,” Volos said in her ear, laughing with utter delight. “There’s the truth, Mayra Kaleka. That you do not believe yourself worthy of much at all, do you?”

“Get out,” she snarled at him, pivoting to face him.

He smiled, curling the backs of his fingers against her cheek.

“With pleasure,” he crooned, laughing as he disappeared.

“Remember, Fox, you are not playing your opponent. You are playing the game. You must be the victor against the game itself.”

“And the game is what, exactly?” Fox asked. “Is it simply to win against myself?”

Death gave a reticent smile.

“It is to win against your demons,” he said, “and therefore gain mastery of yourself.”

“How did it really happen?” Tom asked, but Lainey no longer seemed willing to entertain him.

“It’s over,” she said, her voice unfaceted and cold. “We’ve reached a stalemate, Tom, and there’s no point continuing. You no longer love me, and I’ve lost my card to play.”

“I still want an answer,” Tom demanded gruffly. “Was it the demon king?”

The demon wearing his ancestor’s skin rippled into being.

“Yes,” Lainey said.

“You’re lying,” Tom snapped. “Who was it? Who held the knife?”

She didn’t answer.

He began to vigorously pace the floor.

“It was somebody’s birthday,” he said, and Lainey shook her head.

“It wasn’t.”

“An anniversary, then,” Tom said. “Something.”

“Stop torturing yourself, Tom. I told you, I can’t let you lose.”

“What was it ever about?” Tom demanded. “Was it really always about this game?”

“The mortal had a price,” Lainey said simply. “He paid in blood, as Volos requested.”

“Volos requested,” Tom echoed. “But if Volos could have taken me himself, he would have. Clearly he would have, so—”

“Stop it, Tom—”

“Elaine,” he said, reaching for her, and she stiffened at his touch.

“Put me back,” she said.

“No.”

“Tom—”

“You believe I don’t love you because I have come to know your secrets,” he murmured, pulling her towards him, “but that’s not true, Lainey. Elaine.” He sighed. “I knew you were a goddess, and I loved you. I worshipped you. I knew what you were, and I loved you for it.”

She flinched.

“If I no longer love you, it’s not for knowing what you are,” he promised her. “It’s for knowing what you’ve done.”

“I wanted to be human,” she said dully.

“You were never human,” he replied. “You were only ever a deity for me.”

“I—” Her eyes fluttered shut. “Tom, please—”

“Show me, Lainey,” he begged. “Show me how it happened.”

There was a pause, at that; a tick of withheld breath.

A breeze, like the rush of the sea.

And then a flickering, and a return to the scene of the crime.

“You had better heed our agreement, Volos,” said a familiar voice, and the back of a familiar head. “I don’t appreciate having to take care of this for you.”

“Blood debt,” Volos replied, shrugging. “The mortal owes me.”

“And yet I’m the one paying,” the man grumbled.

“Your fault,” Volos said. “Perhaps you should have thought about it before you tied the Parker bloodline to your ledger.”

“It’s not a ledger, it’s a book,” the man said, “and it isn’t meant for you, so you had better follow through with our deal.”

“I always do,” Volos said, holding a hand out expectantly.

The man turned his head, his golden hair catching in the light as the scar on his mouth stretched to a thin, grim line.

“Take it, then,” said Brandt Solberg, placing the thin leather volume in Volos’ hand and cleverly concealing a handful of torn pages behind his back. “I have my own score to settle.”

Vi gasped.

“What?” Cal asked, glancing worriedly at her. “What is it?”

“Fox,” she said, turning to the archangels. “Who does he play?”

Gabriel looked down, eyeing the book.

“The result of this game will be two wins,” he said. “Fox will play the water deity. Volos, I’m sure, will take the ghost’s place once the game is through. He’s already beaten the angel.”

“And then?” Vi pressed. “After Lainey. If Fox wins?”

Gabriel’s mouth tightened, his finger resting on the scripted name.

“The godling,” he said, glancing up at Raphael.

“Well, that’s a turn,” Raphael replied with a grimace.

Vi, however, didn’t wait for them to see what she had already seen.

“It’s a trap,” Vi said hoarsely, taking off at a run and yanking Cal along behind her.

“Hello, godling,” Persephone sighed, and Brandt dipped playfully into a bow.

“Mrs Lord of the Dead,” he offered grandly. “A pleasure, as ever.”

“Shall we just get this over with?” she asked, sniffing as she gestured to the table. “I’m told I have no choice but to lose this round, so we might as well try to make it relatively painless.”

“Not that you wouldn’t lose either way,” Brandt reminded her. “After all, it wouldn’t be your first time losing to me, would it?”

She spared him half a look of disdain, shifting away.

“Do you really want so badly to destroy Death?” she prompted asked bluntly. “Are you truly so set on vengeance that you would subject us all to Volos’ reign instead?”

“Ah, but vengeance is so terribly the wrong word,” Brandt countered, tutting quietly. “And here I thought you of all people would understand, jenta mi.”

Her expression, which had already been filled with displeasure to begin with, promptly became a scowl.

“You and I are not the same, godling,” she accused him. “You serve no purpose. You are aimless.”

“Whereas you,” Brandt pointed out, “simply fell in love with darkness, didn’t you?”

She whipped around, glaring at him.

“Do you really mean for me to believe that this is an act of love?” Persephone prompted, scoffing. “No, godling, I would not believe you capable. You are a thief as surely as I am a queen.”

“More so, even,” he said, “as I at least manage a full calendar year in my profession.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“So if the word isn’t vengeance,” she said, “then what is it?”

Brandt shrugged.

“Perhaps it is restitution,” he suggested. “A reparation for an injury caused, one might say.”

Persephone blinked.

“And how would Death pay?”

Brandt met her gaze head on, unbending.

“Leave that to me,” he beckoned, resting his palms against the table.

“Wait,” Cal said, and faltered, something suctioning him frustratingly in place as Vi took off, darting in the direction Fox had last gone. “Vi, wait a minute, I can’t—”

“Hold, please,” a voice said, a hand closing around his shoulder. “Calix Sanna, is it? A reaper, beloved of an angel,” the king of vice murmured in his ear, the threat of it manifesting with a shuddering wave. “Tell me, what do you know of Fox D’Mora? His weaknesses,” he suggested. “His secrets, et cetera, et cetera. I find I could do with knowing what a mere mortal might have done to prompt two archangels to draw him as a weapon, and a trip into Mayra Kaleka’s conscience has proven that you might be just the person to tell me.”

“You’re wrong about that,” Cal retorted, spinning to face the man who looked so like their friend Tom Parker. “You won’t get a word out of me, Volos.”

“Not even to save yourself? Or better still, to have Mayra?” Volos asked, batting his lashes. “I could arrange it for you, you know. I find I’m rather inclined to weigh your value favorably, and her loss in the game need not be a loss to the entire cosmos, as far as I’m concerned.”

“She’d never accept that,” Cal snapped. “Not if it meant turning on Fox.”

To his displeasure, Volos smiled.

“What?” Cal forced out.

“That’s not a no,” Volos informed him.

He blinked. “Yes it is,” he countered stubbornly, and Volos rolled his eyes.

“Listen,” Volos said impatiently, “when trafficking in these sorts of things, you learn to understand the difference between a ‘no’ and a ‘push me, Volos, until I break,’ and for the record, I’ve done enough breaking to see it coming.”

Cal stiffened, saying nothing.

Volos waited expectantly, and then he sighed.

“So be it, then,” he said, and snapped his fingers, delivering Cal to darkness.

The Thief, the Fool, and the Gamble

“This isn’t the coincidence it appears to be,” Vi said nervously, wringing her hands as she accosted Fox at the top of the coliseum stairs. “Fox, I just—I think you should know—”

“Actually, it turns out that this isn’t coincidence at all,” he supplied with a sigh. “I’ve just spoken to my godfather. Evidently,” he grumbled under his breath, “this is all merely an inevitable unraveling.”

“It’s worse than that,” Vi urged him. “Fox, I really think you need to know who you can trust, and I’m afraid that—”

“I doubt trust has any place in this game, Vi,” he told her, placing his hands on her shoulders and gently nudging her aside. “In any case, my opponent is waiting. I’ve stalled long enough, which I’m sure the two archangels will have something to say about. Where’s Cal?”

Vi turned, glancing over her shoulder. “He was right here,” she said, aghast. “He was right here, I swear—”

“Well, I’ll find him later, then. In any case—” Fox shrugged. “It’s only a game, isn’t it?”

He strode forward, heading for the tables, when Vi’s hand shot out, her icy-chilled fingers closing around his wrist.

“Fox,” she said desperately. “Fox, it was Brandt who gave Volos the ledger. He’s the one who killed Tom, and they have some sort of deal—I don’t know what it is. I don’t know. All I know is—” She exhaled. “All I know is that he isn’t what you think he is, Fox.”

Fox paused, letting her intent settle in across his shoulders, as one of the many ghosts of Brandt Solberg slipped out to whisper in his ears.

Lucky you hate me, Brandt had said.

Fox closed his eyes. Did I say I hated you?

Well. That same airy chuckle which, like everything else in all of the worlds, never seemed to change. If you don’t hate me by now, Fox, then you’re simply not paying attention—

The godling, Death rumbled, is not a good man.

Fox eyes floated open, registering the wrench in circumstance with a sigh.

It was always so disappointing how little he could manage to be surprised.

“No, Viola,” he assured her, gently disentangling himself from her grip. “Unfortunately, he’s exactly who I think he is.”

“You are a fool,” Lainey ranted. “A fool for coming here, and for trying to trick Volos by using Tom. He will be angry when you face him. If,” she added, her grey gaze sliding carefully to his, “you even make it that far, that is.”

“Let me worry about that,” Fox assured her smoothly. “You nearly lost your round to the ghost, you know. I wouldn’t be so confident about your win.”

“I have no choice,” Lainey replied stiffly. “Volos will kill me if I lose. He’ll rescind our deal. I’ll lose everything, including what Death has granted me. I will lose everything and be delivered back to the sea, as if none of this ever happened.”

At that, Fox opened his mouth to speak; then he blinked, registering it.

Blinked again.

And a third time.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he realized, and Lainey held a steady finger to her lips.

“Let’s just play, godling,” she suggested, taking her place at the table.

Five minutes earlier

“A draw,” Gabriel said, pursing his lips. “So both players win—”

“—despite our very clear instructions not to,” Raphael contributed with displeasure, scowling fiercely at Tom.

“What does that mean?” Tom demanded. “How can we both win?”

“It means our wins are conditional,” Lainey said to him, and turned, funneling a breath into a conical twist of mist and sending it towards him, offering it to his ear. “Be very careful,” her voice whispered in warning, the foam of it kissing the span of his cheek. “This is truly the importance of the game: that the reward must be worth its requisite costs.”

Tom frowned. “I don’t underst-”

“Demand your own safety,” her voice persisted, hushed and frantic. “Make the condition of your win that Volos will not take you as punishment, nor Viola. Demand it of me,” she said again. “Trust me, Tom. Just do it.”

“And then what will you ask of me?” he pressed.

She touched her palm to his cheek then, more girl than ghost this time.

“Curse me with memory,” she murmured. “Give me clarity for all that I’ve done.”

Tom frowned.

“But wouldn’t that only cause you to—”

“Just do it, Tom,” she pressed, taking a final step in retreat.

“You’re under Volos’ control,” Fox noted, circling Lainey in the midst of nothing. “You clearly made a deal with him.”

“Make a move, mortal,” she suggested, not looking up. “The longer you take to play, the further along Volos gets, you know.”

“Oh, but I am playing,” Fox informed her. “Only someone desperate would make a deal with a demon king, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps I’m more capable than you think,” she said warily.

“I’m quite certain you are,” Fox agreed, and nodded to himself. “But fine. You want to play?” he asked, not waiting for her gaze to slowly rise to meet his. “Show me a memory, then.”

She blinked.

“Tom,” she whispered, tangled in bed with him, the air sticky-hot and breezeless, the room stagnant with discarded clothes and tempered whispers. She touched her hand to Tom’s face, and Fox, seeing the ghost for the first time, was startled to see how much he looked like his ancestor.

Meanwhile, Thomas Edward Parker IV slid his hand down Lainey’s stomach, and Fox frowned, wondering why she’d chosen this memory in particular.

Perhaps seeing was not the issue.

“Show me the truth,” he said, and something crackled into being.

A voice, playing overhead like a stereo.

“Do it, Elaine,” said the king of vice, the sound of it amplified in Fox’s ears. “I don’t have much time. Get it over with.”

Fox watched Lainey flinch.

“What’s wrong?” Tom murmured, his hand pausing on her skin.

“Nothing,” she told him.

Volos chuckled.

“Go on,” the demon king urged. “I’m not leaving until you do.”

“Lainey?” Tom asked.

Fox saw her swallow; watched her suffer in a way that Tom could not possibly have known how to read.

“I just need something from you,” Lainey said, wrapping her fingers slowly around her lover’s wrist. “There’s something I need you to do for me—”

“Stop,” Fox said, and the scene flickered out, Lainey appearing before him.

He glanced up, eyeing her.

“It was always like that, wasn’t it?” he prompted.

“Yes,” she replied.

“You found Tom Parker’s descendant on Volos’ orders?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“This isn’t the game,” she warned him. “I can’t tell you.”

He grimaced.

“Then show me,” he invited.

Obligingly, the scene shifted backwards, fighting the current of time.

“Well, well, well,” Volos said, only his crown visible in the cavern’s dim light. “So this is what a creature does when granted humanity, then.”

Lainey swam up from the darkened pool.

“It isn’t like I thought it would be,” she admitted.

“What isn’t?”

“Mortality,” she said. “Or I suppose humanity, as you call it.”

“You’re not human,” he reminded her. “Just because your pieces have been made to fit doesn’t mean you contain the same materials. Death knew this,” he added. “He knew it, and laid it upon you without care consciously, so that your prize from him would never truly be a prize.”

Fox watched, frowning, as Lainey hesitated, biting her tongue. Clearly she was torn; she’d already known as much, and possibly more.

“I know who you are,” she said to Volos. “I know better than to make a deal with you.”

He nodded, unsurprised. “You require something else, you know,” he said. “What human is truly human without love?”

“Love?” she echoed. “I don’t need your help for that.”

“Don’t you?” Volos countered. “It’s been decades since you played and won against Death. What have you gained for it?”

She hesitated.

“What exactly do you offer me?”

“I can’t manufacture love,” Volos said. “But I can mimic it with surprising skill.”

“Lust, then?”

“A bit more,” Volos said. “It will be love, certainly. But it will not be a sweet love, nor a tender one,” he informed her. “But seeing as you are not capable of it on your own, I don’t see why the complexities of its fruition should matter.”

“What will you take, then?” she asked. “In return, what will you have?”

“Your secrets,” Volos said. “The eternality you knew in the waves.”

“Why? You are already immortal.”

“Yes,” Volos agreed slyly, “but I know when a thing has value, whether I need it or not.”

“Change it,” Fox said, sensing the deal and shaking his head. “Move forward.”

Lainey obliged.

“This is your family now,” Volos said, showing her their faces, their postures, their fears. “You will take the daughter’s place.”

“Why this family?” Lainey asked.

“They have all that any mortal would desire. Wealth, status, connections,” Volos said. “You will have what every human wants.”

“But you promised me love,” she said warily.

“Yes,” Volos said, “and you’ll have it. You can have the mortal’s heart.”

“Which mortal?”

This, too, Fox didn’t need to see to know the answer.

“Forward,” he said gruffly.

A leap, an instant blur of hysteria.

“You killed his father! And his uncle!”

“I didn’t. It was technically part of a deal.”

“Keep him alive. You must! Please, I’ll do anything, just don’t take him—”

“Will you? Do anything, I mean. Because I find I’m rather in need of a partner. Someone,” he mused, “with excellent gamesmanship, in fact.”

Lainey’s eyes widened. “Anything!”

It was desperation, Fox thought, and sighed, recognizing the evidence of her weakness just as it glinted in Volos’ eyes.

“Forward.”

“Why did you give him to me only to take him away?”

Volos shrugged. “I knew I would have need of him, and furthermore, I never promised you forever. No mortal gets to possess forever, and neither do you. Do you know how long love lasts, on average?” he asked, half-laughing. “Very rarely does it stay. Love is frequent, and often fleeting. But you wouldn’t have known that, would you?” he prompted knowingly. “All you understand of love is what I have given you, and for that, you owe me.”

“I won’t help you,” Lainey protested. “I won’t!”

“You’re already bored,” Volos reminded her. “This love isn’t enough for you.”

“Give me my secrets back, then,” she begged. “He should be the one to have them. I feel restless without them, I cannot be still—”

“One look at them and you would lose him,” he informed her. “Were he to see you for what you are? No man would ever understand. He already pulls away from you.”

“Only because I can’t explain it,” Lainey insisted. “He thinks I’m—he thinks I’m restless, that I’m careless, that I’m incapable of feeling as he feels—”

“And you are,” Volos reminded her. “And if you wish this to be over, then you will play your part in ending it, or I will only make it worse until our deal is at an end.”

She swallowed then, blankly; saddened beyond a blink.

“I want it to be over,” she said hoarsely. “I want everything to be done.”

Another shift.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Fox called out, watching the scene change and pivoting with irritation. “I wasn’t done—”

“It’s a game, Fox D’Mora,” Lainey replied irritably. “You play, just as I play.”

“You will lose to Fox D’Mora,” Brandt said, sending a ripple of dismay through Fox’s bones. “Whatever Volos says, whatever demands he makes of you, you will lose. Do you understand?”

“Why him?” Lainey pressed.

“There is a man,” Brandt said simply. “A man who is the godson of Death. He must be compelled play the game.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Brandt replied, listless and blank. “Not to you. Your job is to procure the ledger for Volos. My job is to kill the mortal, to hand it over. After that, it will be over.”

“I will be the one killing him, then!” she protested.

“Only if you believe in technicalities,” Brandt countered.

“I do!”

“Well, more’s the pity for it,” he said. “Lucky your conscience will not last you long enough for it to matter.”

“Does it not burden you?” she pressed. “This man you seek to find, this godson of Death. Does it not pain you, that you will be the one to pain him? Does it not destroy you to destroy him?”

The question, Fox knew, was not particularly about Brandt, and Brandt seemed to know as much, too.

“I have already,” Brandt replied. “As have you.”

Lainey deflated.

“As have I,” she agreed.

The two of them nodded in concert; commiserators, conspirators, comrades in betrayal.

“I wanted mortality,” Lainey whispered, “only to find that I couldn’t bear it. There is such vacancy, such longing, such loss.”

“Yes,” Brandt permitted simply.

“How do you bear it?” she asked him, looking pained.

Brandt shrugged. “I don’t,” he said, and before she could argue, he reached into his jacket, digging something out of a pocket Fox had never thought to check before. “Here are your secrets back,” Brandt said, slipping what Fox could see was a small silver necklace into her palm. “Be sure Volos doesn’t know you have them, or neither of us will get what we want.”

She looked down at the pendant, curling her fingers gratefully around the tiny shell.

“How did you get them?” she asked.

To Fox’s surprise, Brandt looked up, finding his gaze in the corner.

Impossible, Fox thought with a start. Impossible he could know I would be standing here, and yet—

“Stole ‘em,” Brandt replied, and the scar on his lip stretched up as he smiled brilliantly, turning away.

Vi found Isis sitting with her back to one of the golden arches of her cage, staring aimlessly into space.

“What,” Vi began with confusion, but the look on Isis’ face as her gaze slid to hers stopped her, the rest of the sentence delivering itself to dust on her tongue and embarking instead as a cough.

“I suppose I shouldn’t ask,” she concluded instead, and at that, Isis gave a low, gravelly chuckle.

“Whereas I suppose,” Isis countered neutrally, “that I should probably tell you that I sort of know Volos.”

Vi stepped closer, opting to lean against one of the bars of Isis’ cage.

“Only a little?” she prompted drily.

“Well, I suppose a bit more than a little,” Isis permitted.

And then, with a sigh, she added, “I’m his wife.”

Vi blinked. “You’re—what?”

Whatever she had been expecting, that decidedly wasn’t it.

“Well, I’m sort of … made from him,” Isis explained, though Vi did not feel at all informed by the clarification. “All demons are made from him, actually, hence him being the king. They made me when they felt he needed a counterpart. A, um, companion, I suppose.”

“They?” Vi echoed.

Isis gestured around, flapping her hand inelegantly towards the floors and ceilings.

“They,” she confirmed, and Vi nodded; balance is king, she heard Mayra say in her mind.

“But if he’s the king of vice,” Vi pressed slowly, “then that would make you—”

“The queen of virtue,” Isis agreed, making a face. “Which was not a position I particularly cared for. I made a deal with Volos,” she added. “As it turned out, the more powerful he got, the more he drained me. The more everyone drained me, in fact. He has it right, you know.” She glanced up at that, giving a small shake of her head. “Using mortals is always preferable to letting them use you.”

The statement hung heavily in the air between them and Vi fidgeted beneath it, giving a vacant nod.

“So what was the deal you made?” she attempted.

“That he would let me go,” Isis exhaled. “That he would find me a body”—she paused, gesturing pointedly to herself—“and I would go, but I wouldn’t interfere with his business.”

“Oh,” Vi said quietly, recognizing now the purpose of the cage and shuddering slightly, sensing the cost. “And I take it you abandoned your end of the deal, then?”

Isis grimaced. “Just a little,” she confirmed.

Vi waited, biting her lip.

“Seems odd,” Vi commented. “You all have so much magic, and yet you use it to trap and trick each other.”

“Well, immortality is naturally flawed,” Isis told her. “Mortals understand this, you know, in some primitive way. That things that last forever are inherently less interesting. Marriage,” she said dully. “Monogamy. Lifelong careers. There’s a sense of dull repetition for a mortal, so why wouldn’t there be one for an immortal?”

“Well,” Vi said uneasily. “I’m not sure that’s quite true. Many people mock those things until they find them. The issue is that we only get so much time, you know? All the monotony of being mortal is in the trying-to-live bits.”

Isis shrugged. “Funny, then,” she sighed. “Is there no good way to exist?”

Vi hesitated.

“There’s pizza,” she attempted.

Isis brightened. “That’s true.”

“And, you know, friendship and stuff.” It felt silly, so Vi paused after she said it, glancing down at the ground. “And anyway,” she added, clearing her throat. “It still seems like we shouldn’t let a demon king win, you know?”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Isis permitted. “Though I’m not really sure if I’d be any help at this point, anyway. I’d have to watch the games,” she explained. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen Volos, and I have no idea what he’s capable of anymore. Not to mention that his abilities are either enhanced or hindered by the mortal he’s being housed in,” she added, and Vi frowned.

“So is it possibly a good thing that in this case, the mortal is a two hundred year old man who’s beaten Death once before?”

“Tied,” Isis corrected. “Tied with Death once before.”

“Right, but—”

“And no,” Isis said flatly. “It’s a rather unfortunate thing.”

“Plus, that’s assuming Fox even makes it past Brandt,” Vi said. “Who, by the way, doesn’t appear to have the purest of motives. It turns out he’s sort of in league with your husband,” she added, and Isis balked.

“Impossible,” she said, and paused. “Or is it?”

“Recent revelations suggest not,” Vi said. “He’s the one who killed Tom. He gave Volos the ledger from his book.”

“Did he give Volos the entire book?” Isis asked.

Vi shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“No way to tell,” Isis replied. “It certainly could. But,” she murmured thoughtfully, “there’s no way of knowing without watching.”

Vi stepped back, eyeing the cage.

“I assume there’s no way out?” Vi asked.

“Well, you know what they say about assumptions,” Isis replied. “But in this case, you’re correct.”

Vi tapped her mouth, thinking.

“Well, in physics, for every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction. Newton’s third law; sort of like a mortal version of ‘balance is king,’” she clarified unnecessarily, as Isis frowned, not yet deriving her conclusion. “What I mean is: if you’re made from Volos’ magic, then this is made from your magic, so can’t you simply destroy it the same way he made it?”

Isis blinked.

“Seems like,” Vi continued, postulating slowly, “on some philosophical level, maybe you put yourself in a cage. Right? So maybe you can just as easily, I don’t know—” she shrugged. “Make them disappear.”

“Do you really need me, though?” Isis asked, frowning. “You have an angel, you know. And a not-too-stupid reaper.”

“Gone,” Vi said, shaking her head. “And even if they weren’t, and even if there’s nothing you can do, you’re my friend, Isis. I’d rather have you with me than leave you here.”

At that, Isis stared at her for a moment, considering her; and then she rose to her feet, stepping closer to where Vi stood on the other side of the bars.

“I’m sorry,” Isis said, giving Vi an unnerving, unreadable look. “About Tom. I know you like him.”

Vi swallowed a lump of pain, forcing it out of her mind.

“You said you leave creatures alone,” she said gruffly.

“I do,” Isis said. “But you’re my friend.”

Vi sighed.

In a blink, the golden cage was gone, and Isis glanced down at her hands.

“Huh,” she said.

“Huh,” Vi agreed.

“Well, then,” Isis sighed contentedly. “Let’s go try to stop my husband, shall we?”

“What will you take from me if I lose, Fox D’Mora?”

“Information,” Fox replied grimly. “I have no need for anything else from you.”

Lainey stepped forward, looking up at him.

“You are kinder than the man who raised you,” she told him, studying the angles of his face as if she could see the facets of him underneath; sorting him out, deconstructing him. In return Fox shook his head, considering that perhaps her standards were not particularly advanced; that perhaps she’d pieced him back together somewhat poorly.

“Death is not a man,” he reminded her. “And as I’ve heard it told, kindness is a rather mortal invention.”

Lainey considered him, her grey eyes softening slightly.

“I can’t help you beat him,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Volos, you mean?” Fox asked.

She nodded. “I don’t know how to beat him, or I would have by now.”

“Ah,” Fox said, shrugging. “Well. That’s fine.”

“But,” Lainey continued, “I can help you beat the godling, if you need it.”

Fox blinked, considering it.

“No, thank you,” he replied. “I think I need to beat him on my own.”

Lainey nodded.

“Well, if it helps,” she exhaled, “I think that’s a good first step.”

She turned to leave; elsewhere, he knew, she would simply take her hands off the table and try to wash them clean, wandering away to await her inevitable punishment.

“One thing,” he called, hesitating. “Did he—”

“Did he betray you?” she asked, and Fox nodded. “I think it’s better if you don’t know,” she said slowly. “Better, actually, if you know nothing.”

“Ah,” Fox said again. “Okay.”

Lainey nodded, turning over her shoulder.

“Fox D’Mora wins,” he heard Raphael say.

He opened his eyes.

“What happens next?” he exhaled, running the tips of his fingers over the crescent moons his nails had bitten into his palms.

“Come on,” Vi whispered, tugging Isis after her. “It’s starting.”

“He must be tired,” Isis remarked, frowning. “Or hungry. Mortals have a rather sad tendency towards hunger and exhaustion.”

“Probably both,” Vi said, wishing she would hurry. “But still, these games don’t last long.”

“Presumably Volos has a time-sensitive agenda,” Isis replied. “He generally functions within the realm of immediacy, so I suppose that’s about as sensitive as time-related agendas can get, don’t you th-”

“There you are,” Tom cut in loudly, swooping down next to Vi. “Listen, Vi, I need to talk to you about what happened back there—”

“Not now,” Vi said, her stomach turning slightly. Isis cut her a sidelong glance, but luckily there were plenty of other things to worry about.

“Like what?” Isis prompted, and Vi didn’t even bother to oppose the additional unwelcome invasion of her thoughts.

“It’s starting,” Vi said again, and watched Fox step up to the table, resting his hands against the wood.

Deconstruction

Fox eyed Brandt across the table, watching him coolly take his place. Brandt eyed the table like an old friend, his fingers hovering longingly just above the wood, and Fox couldn’t help but stare; couldn’t help but wonder, as he always had, what could possibly be going through the other man’s mind.

Fox opened his mouth, ready to speak, but Brandt replied without looking up.

“Save it,” he said. “For the game, I mean.”

Fox’s mouth tightened. “Does this game really mean everything to you?”

Brandt’s gaze traveled miles of furtive thoughts to find a place to land, settling weightily on Fox’s face.

“Save it,” he repeated.

Fox grimaced.

“Then let’s play,” he said, gripping the edge of the table and drawing his eyelids shut.

The only difference between the world and the game is how quiet it got, Fox thought. There were no whispering immortals, no sets of eyes following every motion; every twitch of insecurity; every breath of falsehood.

“I take it you start,” Fox opened gruffly.

Brandt blinked, and with a shift, the blinding white room became the old tavern they frequented in Frankfurt. He gestured to a table, waving a hand, and offered Fox a tankard of ale, sliding it towards him. Then he sat down, adjusted his posture, and took a sip, as unperturbed as if nothing insane had happened; as if they were not currently playing for the fate of mankind, or at the very least for the ashes of what they’d been.

“I don’t want a drink,” Fox told him warily.

“Have one.”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t be a child, Fox,” Brandt interrupted, and Fox nearly countered with fury, only he remembered this was a game.

This was a game, and he would have to play it well.

“I assume you think this will be easy,” Fox commented, grudgingly taking a seat across from Brandt and turning the handle of the tankard towards him. “But you forget, Brandt Solberg, that I am the only soul in any of these worlds who knows what you really are. Whatever world you occupy,” he said firmly, “I will always be the one to find in you what nobody else can see.”

He waited for Brandt to flinch, but he didn’t.

Brandt merely took another sip of his ale, carefully toying with his response.

“You know what they say about assumptions,” Brandt replied, and Fox wondered if strangling him would serve him any points within the game.

“Are you really so angry with Death?” Fox asked. “I knew you were given to vengeance, Brandt, but—”

“Not vengeance,” Brandt corrected him. “Restitution.”

“Fine. Restitution, then.” Fox paused, tightening his hand on the handle. “Did you plan this before you met me?”

“No,” Brandt said. “In fact, I didn’t think it would ever be a necessity until I met you.”

“What is it you want?” Fox pressed. “His power? You never wanted that.”

“What, power?” Brandt asked. “Nobody doesn’t want power, Fox.”

“Not true,” Fox countered. “You never did. You never have.” He paused again. “You have to be doing this for another reason.”

Brandt lowered his tankard slowly. It left no circle of condensation on the table.

“Do you really believe you still know me so well?” Brandt asked carefully.

Fox considered whether it might have been a trick.

Decided, ultimately, that it didn’t matter.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. I have always known you.”

A brief pulse of time passed between them, and then Brandt took a breath, looking up.

“This has nothing to do with Death,” he said finally. “Only incidentally,” he amended, “because I need his help and he, quite rudely, steadfastly refuses to give it. But this has never been about him, nor about his power.” Another beat of silence. “This is about you.”

Fox blinked.

“There is only one way to show you the truth,” Brandt continued, “and it is to make you see it for yourself. Because of the mistakes I’ve made, there is only one place where I can show you what I’ve done, and it is here.”

Fox blinked again.

“What?” he asked, not altogether wittily.

“Take a drink, Fox,” Brandt advised, gesturing to his tankard.

Fox looked down.

He sighed.

And then he raised the tankard to his lips.

“Where are we?” Fox asked, glancing around a room identical to the one he’d just been in. Unlike then, though, the tables were occupied in full, and he and Brandt were leaned against the far wall, eyeing the table that stood in the center in the room.

“When are we is, I think, the question you mean to ask,” Brandt said, and gestured towards the entry, where a much younger, slightly rumpled version of Brandt strode through the doors. The immortals in the room shifted around, eyeing him; some seemed to recognize him, but most did not. He strutted (truly, there was no other word for it) to the table at the center of the room, kicking aside a chair and standing opposite what Fox realized with a jolt was his godfather; a spectral, incorporeal version of Death that he’d only seen once before, and then only briefly.

“Fine,” Fox grumbled. “When are we, then?”

The Brandt beside him shrugged.

“The beginning,” he said, just as the younger version of him opened his mouth.

“I want a turn,” young Brandt announced. He wasn’t speaking English, Fox noted, but it was comprehensible enough.

Magic rooms, he supposed.

“Fuck off,” replied Death.

“My father is Odin,” young Brandt insisted. “I demand a turn at the table.”

“Perhaps I was unclear,” Death informed him. “By ‘fuck off,’ I meant no.”

“Well, clarity is king,” Brandt replied irreverently, and Death wavered in sight for a moment.

“I know who you are, godling,” Death said, sounding displeased. “You’re a thief. A cheat.”

“Yes, and a swindler,” Brandt said. “A veritable rook, if it pleases you.”

“I’d sooner have you gone from this table,” Death informed him gruffly.

“Easy enough,” Brandt agreed. “One game is all I’m asking.”

Death flickered slightly, the equivalent of arching a brow.

“One game?” he asked. “Not many win, you know.”

“I will,” Brandt boasted. “And if I don’t, then so be it. I have more to gain than to lose.”

“Ah, yes,” Death murmured. “Cursed with a mortal’s lifetime, aren’t you?”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” Brandt agreed.

Fox warily glanced askance; at the Brandt who stood at his side, eyeing his feet. Fox considered that perhaps Brandt had replayed the scene often enough to have known it by now, and returned his attention to the young man with the scarred mouth; to the boy at the table who would one day change his life.

“I already know you play the game,” Fox murmured quietly, and Brandt looked up, nodding.

“Move forward?” he asked neutrally, and Fox nodded.

The room shifted, the game evidently over.

“I won,” young Brandt pronounced firmly, sparing a cleverly handsome smirk at Death. “I’ll have my reward.”

“Which is?” Death prompted.

“I want what my father’s other children are entitled to,” Brandt said. “I want to know the secret to Iðunn’s loyalty, that I may possess the apples she supplies to the other gods.”

“Why not simply wish to live forever?” Death asked drily, as if he were unimpressed.

“It’s not about living forever,” Brandt replied.

“What’s it about, then?”

Brandt shrugged. “Something of a soft vengeance?”

Death rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” he said. “Iðunn’s secret is not much of a secret.”

“Tell me anyway,” beckoned Brandt, and Death considered him a moment before answering.

“She longs for the world,” he said eventually. “Bring her the world and she will return the favor. She will give you the youth you feel you deserve.”

“How am I supposed to bring her the world?” Brandt protested, looking irritated by the task.

Death shrugged.

“If it were so easily accomplished,” he said, “then perhaps others might have attempted it.”

“Fine,” Brandt said again. “Perhaps I can give her my world.”

“That is no easy task,” Death warned.

“As you said,” Brandt agreed, “if it were so easy, then anyone would have done it.”

Death eyed him suspiciously, looking as though something inside him had been struck with recognition; as if a chord of comprehension had suddenly echoed within him.

“You are not without some virtues, are you?” Death asked.

“Well, don’t tell anyone,” Brandt replied, and Death frowned, considering him.

“You’d be better off living a mortal’s birthright than your own,” Death noted. “Perhaps you would be wiser to live a single lifetime. To fill it with mundanities. You know; companionship and such.”

“Sounds stupid,” Brandt said.

“You’re not very wise, are you?” Death asked.

“Not even remotely,” Brandt replied. “But I’m many other things. Resourceful, mostly.”

“Yes,” Death said. “I can see as much.”

“Funny,” Brandt said. “You don’t look impressed.”

Death sighed.

“You don’t often traffic in honesty, do you?” he prompted. “You are fractured, godling. I can see the cracks in your foundation. You would not be here if you were entirely without suffering.”

“I find the truth overrated,” Brandt said. “Few people really want it. Even fewer assign it any value.”

“Interesting,” Death said, touching his chin. “Could you do without it, then?”

“What, truth?” Brandt asked, looking caught off guard.

“Your truths,” Death corrected.

“I have no truths,” Brandt said stubbornly, and only then did Fox’s heart begin to ache.

“Then that’s what I’ll take,” Death determined. “For my reward, I want your truths.”

“Stop,” Fox said, and the scene froze as he turned to Brandt.

For a moment he stared. He stared, and stared, and stared, and when he had taken in every line of weariness and reticence—when he had touched Brandt’s cheek with the weight of his tentative sympathy—he swallowed hard.

“Show me,” he said.

“What would you like to see?” Brandt asked.

Fox exhaled.

“Everything,” he beckoned.

“What do you give the goddess?” a younger version of Fox asked, and Brandt stepped forward, his lips near the real Fox’s ear as a past version of himself deflected the question, glancing away.

“I write the books for her,” Brandt confessed now, feeling the sour taste of confession on his tongue. “I gave her my innermost thoughts, my feelings, my wants. She asked for my world and at first she was happy with trivial stories. But eventually, she could not be satisfied with merely my description of the sky at dusk, or of the way the earth smells when it rains. She asked for my world,” he exhaled, “and barring the ability to give it to her, I gave her myself.”

“And then?” Fox asked, and Brandt took a breath.

He nudged the scene forward.

“Is it sex?” Fox asked childishly.

“For a time, yes,” Brandt said.

Fox blinked.

“Forward,” he said.

“Why do you offer me the apples?”

“Seems rude not to,” Brandt said.

Fox scoffed.

“Also,” Brandt permitted, “I’m afraid I have always felt the inclination to share my possessions with you.”

“Is that why you stole my ring?” Fox asked bluntly, gesturing to it.

Brandt shook his head.

“I have more talents than theft,” he said. “I told you. I made it.”

Fox frowned. “Is that true?”

Brandt shut his eyes.

“I didn’t bring you here to lie,” he said simply, and Fox blinked; tilted his head as though he might answer; then evidently decided better of it.

“Forward,” he eventually said.

“Where do you go when you’re not here?”

“To Iðunn,” Brandt supplied, and Fox nodded.

“What did you always come back for?” he asked. “Just … boredom?”

Brandt felt a shudder of disappointment, a stiffness in his spine.

“For you,” he said.

Fox seemed to suffer it as fully as he did.

“Forward,” he mumbled.

Brandt nodded.

“Are you telling me this will end?”

“I never wanted it to,” Brandt said.

Fox flinched.

“Forward.”

“Call me yours—”

“I was,” Brandt said. “I am.”

A beat of silence.

A rasp this time. “Forward.”

“Will you still love me, do you think? If we were ever to be old and grey.”

Brandt felt Fox’s breath hitch and leaned forward.

“Yes,” he said, and Fox’s eyes closed.

“Forward,” he choked out.

“So it’s a no, then. You won’t love me. Do you love me now?”

“Yes,” Brandt said to Fox again, and the other man’s mouth tightened.

“How can you possibly put me through this,” Fox began tightly, “and not want me to lose?”

Brandt stepped forward, pausing the montage of their lives.

“I didn’t do this because I wanted you to lose,” he said. “I did this because I believe you are the only one who can save us both.”

Fox scoffed. “We only need to be saved because you did this to us.”

“There was no other way to reach you,” Brandt insisted. “Death banned me from the tables. I couldn’t have found you, even if I tried. And I did,” he added miserably. “Believe me, Fox, I tried—you cannot know how hard I tried—”

“But why did you come back to play in the first place?” Fox demanded. “Wasn’t the life we had good enough for you?”

He turned, putting distance between them to leave room for his anger, but Brandt’s hand shot out, closing around Fox’s arm.

“What life could we have had where I never told you I loved you?” Brandt begged painfully. “What kind of life could have ever been enough if I had never confessed that I would love you, Fox, for every day that I walked this earth?”

Fox took it like a slap, reverberating from the impact.

“Immortality is empty without you,” Brandt told him, hoping for once in his stubborn, impossible life that Fox D’Mora would listen to him. “Eternal youth is nothing, Fox, without you—”

“Don’t,” Fox spat, tearing his arm from Brandt’s grip. “Don’t. I can’t lose this game, Brandt, you know I can’t. Thanks to you,” he added harshly, “I have a responsibility to my godfather to win this, and to win the game after it, too. I have to beat a fucking demon king, Brandt, and I—” He broke off, flinching. “I have always been weak for you, and how, how can you say this now?” he demanded, transitioning so effortlessly to anger, to indignation, to a bruised, creased vision of hurt. “If you’ve given away your truths, then how can I believe you now?”

“There are no rules in the game,” Brandt reminded him. “I told you. This was the only way I could say what I needed to say, because the game has no rules.”

“It has one rule,” Fox corrected him bluntly, looking ruffled.

“Yes,” Brandt agreed. “But for you, I will gladly break it.”

Fox stared at him.

“Listen to me,” Brandt insisted, cutting him off before he could speak. “You can hate me if you want to, Fox, and you can be angry if you want, but listen to me: there’s a mortal in there.” He paused, making certain Fox was listening, and then continued briskly. “There’s a conscience in his host, and only one being can play. Right now, Volos is the player,” he pressed hastily, “and the mortal is only the host. But Volos is playing two opponents at once, and the only way to win in this one is to force him to lose the battle to his own host.”

“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” Fox demanded, but Brandt shook his head.

“I can’t answer that for you,” Brandt said.

“Helpful,” Fox muttered.

“Fox,” Brandt attempted, pained. “Listen to me—I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t believe you could end it!”

“Why not? I’ve only ever been just a mortal to you,” Fox spat back. “To you and my godfather both.”

“You’ve always been more than that,” Brandt pleaded. “Fox, please, you have always been more—”

He lunged forward, curling his fingers in Fox’s collar, and pulled Fox into his arms.

“Please,” he whispered, and once the word had melted, syrupy, into the spare bit of distance between them, Brandt closed his eyes, pulling Fox’s lips to his.

Fox didn’t move.

He didn’t breathe.

Brandt still remembered what it had once been to kiss Fox. He had lived, haunted, with the memory of it for centuries, knowing the way Fox leaned towards him; knowing the precise degree of closeness Fox D’Mora preferred. Brandt had traveled all of the worlds carrying nothing but a book and the knowledge of the places Fox liked to touch, and where he liked to be touched; of where he’d sought to conquer, and where he’d laid himself adrift in Brandt’s so-often shaking hands.

Brandt had told Fox once he would destroy him; he had been overburdened with ego then, but two centuries of searching does something to a person. It bends a person to the purposes of sorrow, to the whims of memory, to the fears of solitude. Brandt Solberg had spent so long searching each corner of the universe to taste Fox D’Mora on his lips one more time, and now that he had it, he was emptied of everything.

Consummately emptied; painfully so, as Fox didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Don’t go, Brandt thought, but even before it happened, he knew that for the first time, Fox D’Mora was going to be the one to take the steps away from him.

He waited, feeling the pieces of himself prepare to shatter, and Fox did not let him down.

“I would not have gambled you,” Fox said hoarsely, letting the words turn toxic on Brandt’s lips.

Slowly, Brandt sank to his knees.

And then, over the sound of his pounding heart—just beneath the dull roar, the current of his blood rushing through his veins—Brandt Solberg heard the archangel Raphael’s voice.

“Fox D’Mora wins—”

“Fox,” Brandt mumbled, his voice breaking. “Fox, wait, please—”

He stumbled back from the table, wrenching his hands free.

“Fox, WAIT—”

“Well, you certainly betrayed me with gusto, godling,” Brandt heard Volos say in his ear. “Luckily I’m accustomed to such things; vice is, as you must know, highly unreliable.” Volos hummed something like amusement to himself, convulsing in a chuckle. “Though, you are aware the cost of such a stupid, stupid decision, aren’t you?”

Brandt withered, registering the absence of Fox at the other end of the table and knowing that this was the end.

“Yes,” he said.

He felt Volos smile against his cheek, the sensation of it chilling the surface of his skin.

“Good,” Volos chirped, disappearing behind a series of twisting gold bars that grew up around Brandt from the floor. “But the rest of your payment will have to wait, godling. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he pronounced giddily, “I have a mortal to finish off.”

“Are you okay?” Vi asked nervously, reaching out for Fox. “Fox, are you—”

“Where’s Cal?” Fox demanded, looking around. He couldn’t think about what had just happened; couldn’t let it weaken him, not with so many games still to be played. “Where’d he go?”

Vi hesitated.

“What?” Fox barked. “What is it?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Vi said tentatively, glancing at Isis. “But since Mayra lost her game—”

“Volos took him,” Isis confirmed darkly. “As punishment for losing, Volos took what mattered most. He has a habit of it,” she added. “The thing about vice is that love can certainly be a virtue, but the lines of separation so often blur.”

“Can’t you do anything, then?” Vi asked, and Isis shook her head.

“Even if I could, your best option is still Fox defeating Volos before he can get to Death,” she said, glancing pointedly at Fox. “You have to win this game. For Mayra, for Cal, for Death, for Br-”

“Leave him out of it,” Fox said stiffly, glancing over his shoulder. “He’s done enough.”

Vi blinked in surprise, reaching for him. “Fox, are you—”

He pulled away without looking.

“I have a game to end,” Fox muttered, tearing a path towards Volos.

The Demon King

Volos was staring hungrily at Fox the moment he entered the game.

“Hello, mortal,” he said, and Fox bristled.

“If you think I’m going to call you ‘your majesty,’ you’re wrong,” Fox returned bluntly, and Volos shrugged, shifting to circle Fox where he stood.

“So,” Volos said. “The archangels lied to me. You’re no normal mortal, are you?”

“I’m a mortal,” Fox replied. “I don’t see why the conditions of my mortality would concern you.”

“No, certainly not,” chuckled Volos, leaning in briefly and taking a strange, disconcerting sniff near Fox’s cheek. “Mortals,” he sighed. “Such a peculiar flavor. Nevertheless, I think the godling did me a favor,” he mused, watching Fox as he tried not to react, curling his fingers carefully to a fist. “Knowing that you have any relation to Death is hardly much use to me now - and it certainly does you no favors; but knowing Death has a weakness, on the other hand …” he purred, trailing off pointedly. “It’s rather rewarding information for one such as myself, don’t you think?”

Fox shifted his head, leveling his gaze at the demon.

“Is this really just a game for you?” he prompted.

Again, Volos laughed.

“Anything is a game if you play it right,” he noted, shrugging again. “But your instincts are correct: this is a war,” Volos murmured. “And I’m afraid you’re merely one of the pawns, mortal.”

Fox said nothing.

“You know something?” Volos mused, tapping blithely at his mouth. “This whole thing has been lacking a certain element of frivolity. A sad dearth of whimsy, if you will,” Volos noted with disapproval. “Perhaps we should play a game now, to remind us of the fun we’re going to have? Or, at least, the fun I’m going to have,” he amended, looking giddily pleased.

Again, Fox said nothing, and Volos continued on in conversation with himself, unfussed.

“The others you have played in the tournament have clearly let you win,” Volos noted, his expression darkening slightly, “but as you might guess, I will not. How about this,” he murmured, and extended a hand, clapping it firmly around the back of Fox’s neck. “Let’s play ‘two truths and a lie,’ shall we?”

Fox blinked, pain searing from where Volos’ nails dug into his neck, and struggled not to speak, biting down hard on the inside of his mouth until it was flooded with a coppery taste; a mix of blood and loathing, a salty brine of desperation.

“Scene one,” Volos announced.

The image seared at the front of Fox’s brain, glazing over his eyelids; he could tell - might have guessed without looking - that it was a moment with Brandt. An early one, at that, sitting by the circle of trees in his old village, and he saw the look on Brandt’s face; the familiar trace of his gaze. Brandt always had a way of looking, of quietly searching him with a glance, and no one had ever matched it. No one had ever looked at Fox the way that Brandt had, and now the sensation of it seared against his retinas, temporarily blinding him until he convulsed with an unwilling yelp.

“People have secrets, Fox,” Volos said in his ear, in a perfect imitation of his godfather’s voice. “Understand a person’s heart, what makes them soft and what makes them hard, and find the source. Then—” The demon king gave a delicate laugh. “What was it? Ah, yes.” His fingers tightened again. “Drive it in them like a knife.”

The image changed again. This time, Fox saw nothing but darkness. Instead, he heard Brandt’s voice; felt it, like a painful scrape of noise against his ears. He felt Brandt’s lips, too, and tasted them, and smelled the tart sweetness on his breath; the inescapable, persistent astringency of apple that was so inseparable from having loved the man; the immortal; the godling.

Fox struggled to force it out—the memories were his, after all, and he tried desperately to shield them—but there was no skirting the inevitability of the truth. Isis had been proof enough of it; that there was no hiding from a demon.

“Let’s see,” Volos murmured. “And for the last scene?”

Fox opened his eyes to an ornate mirror, brushed and gilded and gold, as he stared down a hardened version of his own reflection.

“I would not have gambled you,” mirror-Fox said stonily, and Fox shuddered, realizing this must have been what Brandt had seen.

“Now, tell me,” Volos asked sing-songily, chuckling in Fox’s ear. “Where is the lie?”

Why would anyone agree to this? Fox heard in his mind, an echo of Brandt’s voice.

Because you wanted something else more, of course.

“No guesses?” Volos prompted, sighing in feigned lamentation. “There are no wrong answers,” he urged genially, pairing it with another malicious laugh. “Well, there are wrong answers, actually, but let’s burn that bridge when we get to it. Sorry,” he added, frowning, “is that the correct mortal aphorism?”

Why would anyone agree to this?

Because you wanted something else more, of course.

“Mm, not up for guessing games, I see. A pity, as I’d so hoped you’d be more fun; nonetheless, I suppose I’ll have to just spoil it. I’m afraid you’re the liar this time,” he pronounced, looking immensely pleased and not at all apologetic. “Aren’t you? You pushed the godling away to win a game, so in the end, you’re no different than he is—which is, of course,” he mused, moistening his lips, “a delicious turn of events.”

You have to be willing to sacrifice everything, a whisper of Brandt said again, to gain one thing that matters more than everything else.

“Should we play some more?” Volos prompted. “Just think of the things we can see—the pain we can inflict—”

You’re not one of us, Fox, Death contributed, and for once that gives you an advantage. Because for you, there are things worth winning for.

I remember being mortal, he heard Mayra sigh. I remember the feel of it; the doubt, the pain—

I wanted mortality, Lainey whispered, only to find that I couldn’t bear it. There is such vacancy, such longing, such loss—

I feel nothing anymore, Vi lamented. And I swear, I used to feel everything.

“Come along, mortal,” Volos called, venturing gaily through the space and painting the scenes of Fox’s memory, filling the room with images from within his own destructive head. “As you can see, we have quite a lot to be done, and certainly I’m pressed for time but a little reconnaissance is never an irresponsible choice—”

In general, a past version of Brandt murmured, mortals have different rules—

Different feelings, a past Isis contributed, different matter, really—

Volos is playing two games at once, Brandt’s voice reminded him, and the only way to win this one is to force him to lose the battle to his own host.

“What do you feel?” Fox mused quietly, half to himself, and at that, Volos pivoted away from his memories, frowning.

“What?” he prompted impatiently.

“Sorry. Not you,” Fox assured him, shaking his head. “You’re a creature. A demon. So obviously you feel nothing.”

“I’m an immortal,” Volos corrected. “But yes, obviously.”

Fox shrugged. “Like I said, I wasn’t asking you. There’s one thing you don’t understand, Volos, and it is what it is to feel. To feel loss, specifically.” he amended, and took a few steps closer, bringing himself eye to eye with Volos. “But I suspect the person whose form you currently occupy has known what I have known.”

Volos shifted away, his eyes narrowing.

“You play a dangerous game, mortal,” he warned, and Fox shook his head.

“Maybe,” he conceded, “but then again, you fail to give me my due.”

“And what is that?” Volos prompted irritably. “Who do you think you are, mortal?”

“I,” Fox replied, “am Fox D’Mora, and I am a mortal who was raised by Death. I’m a man who has loved, and been loved, by a god. I have been guided by an angel and protected by a reaper; I have befriended a vampire and a ghost and a demon, too. I have known creatures and mortals and immortals alike. I have no powers, but I have known bliss and loss and suffering, and for two hundred mortal years, I have felt every facet of it all. I may not be the king of anything,” he informed the Demon King, “but who I am is the one thing that matters more than everything else.”

“So?” Volos scoffed, clearly unimpressed

“So,” Fox began quietly, and gave a slow, petulant smile, carefully meeting the eyes of Volos’ mortal host. “Now, the only question left remaining is this: who are you, Tom Parker?”

Interlude VII:

Past is Passed, Part III

Thomas Edward Parker I

1865

“Amazing, isn’t it?” one of the soldiers said, turning to Tom. “War’s over and we’re just expected to go back and start again.” He shook his head, letting out a weary sigh, and turned back to Tom. “You said your name’s Palmer, right? Any relation to the Prairie Avenue Palmers?”

“No, it’s Parker,” Tom corrected. “We’ve got a little livestock and corn out near DeKalb.”

“Ah,” the man acknowledged gruffly. “Well, I suppose life’s easy enough out there. Got a girl waitin’ for you?”

“Yeah,” Tom replied. “Grew up the next house over.”

The man arched a brow. “You don’t sound too thrilled,” he noted, and Tom shrugged.

“Yeah, well, it’s all pretty formulaic, isn’t it?” Tom prompted.

“For-myoo-lae-ick,” the man repeated, chewing the word up and spitting it out. “Son, you’ll have to speak English—”

“I just mean it seems pretty planned out,” Tom clarified. “I’m supposed to go home, marry Betsy, have some kids and just … struggle, like my dad did.” He kicked at a spare pebble on the ground, tilting his head. “Dunno. Maybe I should go out west.”

“Maybe,” the man said, shrugging. “I hear they’ve got plenty of gold out there.”

“Ha,” Tom coughed up. “Sure. And I’ve got magic beans.” He grimaced. “Betsy would never go for it.”

“Hey, there ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little life after something like this,” the man said. “It’s a lucky thing to die in your own bed, boy. Lord knows we came close to doin’ it on the battlefield more’n enough times.”

“Never felt bigger than when I was close to death, though,” Tom commented, and paused. “Swore I saw him a couple times,” he murmured, giving into a moment of whimsical certainty.

“Who, Death?” the man laughed. “A very hospitable gentleman he is. Took plenty of us in out there, didn’t he?”

Tom grimaced. “True.”

“Well, you’re young still,” the man assured him. “You’ve got a long life ahead of you. No need to speak to Death again anytime soon.”

“Wish I could,” Tom grumbled. “I’d like to ask him what any of this is for.”

“What, poor men dyin’ for rich ones? That’s just the world,” the man told him. “Doubt even Death himself knows any better.”

“Still,” Tom said. “I’d like to think there’s more.”

“More what?”

“I don’t know.” Tom shrugged. “More life, I guess.”

“Well, they’re sayin’ there’s some German out in Chicago who can talk to the dead,” the man chuckled. “Look him up, maybe. Trade your magic beans for his ghosts, as he seems to be doin’ pretty well. Might need a pretty skirt to get him to talk to ya,” he added meaningfully, “but hey. Maybe he’s got answers.”

“Huh,” Tom said, curling his tongue around the idea. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“He’s got a ring,” the girls informed him. “Touches it, and that’s how he talks to the dead.”

“Interesting,” Tom mused, glancing over at the man who was clearly well into his second or third round of drinks.

From there, it wasn’t particularly difficult to get Fox D’Mora drunk. He’d had a singular moroseness to him—a dreariness, and a sense of unresolved loss—and, as Tom had gambled, he wasn’t above a few drinks with a stranger so long as Tom kept them coming without pause. He seemed a normal enough man, too, or would have seemed that way, if not for the strangeness of his artefacts: the broken watch, the faceless signet ring. The ring, Tom was sure, was the key to it. The girls seemed certain of it, and enough of them had told the same story that Tom figured it had to be part of it, somehow.

“So,” Tom said, once Fox attempted to stumble to his feet and failed, falling back to the bench. “Long night, don’t you think?”

“Mphmhph,” Fox returned incoherently.

“Come on,” Tom said, “let’s get you out of here.” He threw one of Fox’s arms over his shoulders, nodding to the other patrons. “Had a bit too much,” he explained.

“Don’t fuckin’ care,” said the bartender.

Tom shifted Fox under his arm. “I’ll get him home,” he said, though the bartender seemed unsympathetic, and Tom was forced to support the entirety of Fox’s weight as they swayed unsteadily towards the door.

“Where do you live?” Tom asked with difficulty, panting already.

“Mphmm,” Fox replied, pointing.

The walk wasn’t far, thankfully, and anticipation spread through Tom’s veins as they struggled to Fox’s front door. Tom needed to be getting home to his wife, he knew, but he wasn’t in Chicago every day, was he? He’d have to take advantage of his time away from the struggling farm. He was sick to death of corn.

Sick enough to summon Death, in fact.

By the time they got to Fox’s room—rented from an innkeeper who didn’t seem much surprised by their stumbled procession—Tom helped Fox down to his uneven bed with a lurch, falling abruptly beside him and pausing to catch his breath. Fox, meanwhile, threw his arm out and gave a loud, incomprehensible grunt, his right hand falling on Tom’s chest and leaving his ring to glimmer in the light of the small gas-lit lamp.

“Hey,” Tom said, pointing to the ring. “Can I see this?”

He reached for it slowly, carefully; the other man groaned something like a no, about to resist, but it seemed that the moment his head hit the bed, a series of snorts that might have been snoring escaped into the pillow.

Tom waited.

“Hello?” he asked, waiting to see if Fox was asleep; he was.

“I’ll just borrow it,” Tom promised (probably a lie, though no guarantees) before slipping the ring from Fox’s finger and eyeing it in his palm, frowning around the room momentarily and then slipping into the corridor.

“Hey,” he heard, and turned sharply, finding himself face to face with a tall, heavily cloaked man. “Give that ring back.”

“It’s mine,” Tom said quickly, hiding it behind his back.

“No it fucking isn’t,” the man replied. “It belongs to the mortal inside that room, and he may be an immense little shit, but you still have no claim to his things.”

Tom blinked.

“Death?” he asked uncertainly.

The man shrugged. “Among other monikers.”

Tom swallowed hard.

“I had some questions for you,” he began.

“Well, fuck off,” Death replied, and then he sighed, snapping a small band around his wrist. “Sorry. I meant no.”

“But—wait,” Tom protested. “I was just wondering if there was a way to, you know—”

“There isn’t,” Death said, and looked up. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, and Tom turned with a jolt, realizing that a man with sleek blond hair and a scar across his upper lip had leant against the wall, biting casually into an apple.

“Oh, you know. The usual,” the blond man replied, and Death’s eyes narrowed.

“I told you to stay away from him, godling,” Death pronounced flatly.

“Um,” Tom ventured. “Sorry, but—”

“Yes,” the godling agreed with a drawl, “and I, rather true to form, haven’t remotely listened. Of course, if you’d just let me see him—”

“No,” Death said sharply. “He’s better off without you.”

“Oh, is he?” the godling mused. “Funny, and I thought he’d just had the ring I made him stolen off his finger by some sort of nosy mortal—”

“Sorry,” Tom attempted again. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Death and the godling snapped.

“And give the ring back,” the godling added, turning to glare at Tom. “I don’t appreciate the theft.”

“Ironically,” Death muttered.

“Oh, you old bore,” the godling retorted. “Your opposition is tired.”

“Whereas your presence is tiring,” Death shot back. “You lost, godling. The game is over.”

“Game?” Tom echoed. “What game?”

“There is a game the immortals play,” the godling drawled, “and it has no rules—”

“Save one,” Death snapped. “Don’t lose, and you lost, Brandt Solberg. You shouldn’t have gambled something you didn’t wish to lose.”

“You shouldn’t have cheated,” the godling called Brandt countered. “You took something from me knowing perfectly well that the day would come that I would need it.”

“Yes,” Death confirmed, “because you annoy me, godling. You plague me.”

“No,” Brandt countered. “You liked me then, I’m sure of it. You only hate me now because you believe I’ll hurt your—”

“Don’t,” Death warned sharply, glancing pointedly at Tom; Brandt, too, seemed to acknowledge a misstep, closing his mouth firmly on whatever he’d been about to say. “And you already did, didn’t you?”

“Again, that was entirely your fault,” Brandt said impatiently. “And if you would let me see him—”

“No,” Death said. “And stop looking for him.”

“Never,” Brandt said. “And if you don’t think I could find traces of him through every time and world, you’re wrong.”

“Do you really think I plan to let you pursue another one of your immortal vendettas?” Death prompted. “You collect them, godling, like the thief you are, but Fox won’t be one of them. And as for you,” he continued, turning sharply to Tom, “give the fucking ring back.”

“Band,” Brandt called lazily.

Death glared at him, snapping it once.

And then, before Tom could ask him to stay, Death disappeared, leaving Tom alone with Brandt in the hallway.

Tom found he was disappointed.

He found, too, that he was helplessly confused.

“What’s the immortal game?” he asked.

Brandt’s mouth tightened, the scar across it more stark than ever.

“The immortals,” Brandt said. “They get bored. They gamble. The only way to win is to have nothing to lose,” he added, turning his dull gaze on Tom. “Do you have nothing to lose, mortal?”

Tom paused, considering it.

“I have nothing to lose,” he confirmed, “and everything to gain.”

“Ha,” Brandt scoffed. “Well. I know a thing or two about being desperate myself.”

“Well, hold on. What if I played it?” Tom asked, stepping towards him. “If I give Fox the ring back,” he added, revealing it from behind his back. “Then will you take me to play the game?”

“I’m not allowed at the tables,” Brandt told him.

Tom deflated slightly. “Oh.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,” Brandt told him. “I can take you there, certainly, but Death will be furious.”

“Oh,” Tom said again, frowning.

“Doesn’t matter,” Brandt muttered, making a face. “He’s always angry, Death. Consequence of, I don’t know. Morbidness. Moon cycles. The perpetuality of his existence. In any case,” he sighed, “if I’m going to help you do this, you’ll have to be certain you can win.”

“I can win,” Tom said firmly. “I’m sure of it.”

Brandt considered him for a moment.

“Then give the ring back,” he said, “and let’s go.”

Tom nodded, turning to Fox’s door, and paused.

“Do you want to see him?” he asked, and Brandt’s eyes floated shut for a moment before he took a breath, shaking his head.

“I can’t,” he said. “Rules.”

“But—”

“I can’t,” Brandt said again, harshly this time.

Tom nodded.

“Okay,” he said, slipping back into the room.

Tom won the game handily. He had no connection to his life, after all; Death tried, Tom could tell, the break into his secrets, to draw out something he could use, but there was nothing there—and anyway, Tom got the feeling that Death didn’t really care to play it anymore.

“It’s an addiction,” Brandt had told Tom. “He’s promised more than once that he won’t play it again, but Death is not without certain limitations.”

“What will he take from me?” Tom asked Brandt, and the godling shrugged.

“Hard to say,” he replied. “You’re the only mortal who’s ever been allowed to play.”

“What about Fox?” Tom asked, frowning.

“Fox has never played,” Brandt said, “nor would he. It isn’t a game for mortals.”

A point which Death, too, had been quick to point out.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Death had said, but Tom had been prepared for that.

“Neither should you,” he challenged, and Death grimaced.

“Fine,” he permitted, and gestured to the table.

In the end, the game concluded with a tie. Death never lost, Brandt had said, and he didn’t that time either, but more importantly, neither did Tom.

“I want success,” Tom said, claiming his reward. “I want to have more.”

“More what?” Death prompted irritably. “Money? Fame? Prestige?”

Tom thought about it.

“Yes,” he replied.

Death sighed.

“Fine,” he permitted, and turned to leave, but Tom called out to stop him.

“Wait,” he said. “Don’t you take something from me?”

Death sighed again, adding in a grimace this time.

“Spend less time with the godling,” Death advised. “He’s selfish, you know.”

“Fine,” Tom said. “What’s your cost, then?”

Death considered it for a moment.

“If you want such a mortal reward,” he postured eventually, “then you’ll have a mortal punishment, too. Let the costs of your success be the same as any mortal would face.”

“That’s—” Tom blinked. “That’s it?”

“Yes,” Death said, turning away. “That’s it.”

For a while, Tom didn’t know what, if anything, had actually come to pass; he even began to wonder after some months if he’d merely dreamt the whole thing.

But then, that winter, all of the crops failed except for Tom’s.

He took his surplus and began selling it in Chicago, renting a bit of space on State Street and operating from there. He rented a room in Chicago, too, spending most of his time in the city, and communed regularly with other burgeoning businessmen, reminiscing with them about the war and sharing his wealth wherever he could gain a foothold of fraternity. Eventually, he convinced other men to join his endeavors, turning the street (with the help of the friends he’d made over time) into something of a retail success.

Your son was born last week, his wife Betsy wrote him. A healthy baby boy with eyes just like yours, so I’ve named him Thomas Edward, after his father. Will you come home soon? she wrote hopefully, but Tom could not stomach the thought of it; of returning to his little life. He watched the street’s retail flourish and tossed the letter aside.

Meanwhile, Fox D’Mora located himself on the north side of the city, or so he heard. Tom, however, didn’t seek him out again. He had other things to worry about by then, and he very much doubted that Fox had any idea what he’d done.

“Are you happy now?” Brandt asked him. “You have everything you wanted.”

Tom frowned at him.

He had everything he’d ever wanted, yes, but it was still work, wasn’t it? It didn’t feel quite like the gift he had hoped it would be. It was starting to take its toll on him, too; his hair had sprouted a sprinkle of white, which he wasn’t particularly proud of.

“How is it that you never age?” Tom asked Brandt suspiciously, glancing at the apple in his hand. “Is it because you’re a god?”

“A demigod,” Brandt corrected him. “And no. It’s because I won my youth in a game.”

“Do you think Death would let me play again?” Tom asked hopefully. “For youth this time.”

“Ha,” Brandt said. “No. You don’t want to play again.”

“Seems a waste to have all this wealth and only a small lifetime to fill it,” Tom mused.

At that, Brandt paused.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Brandt warned, and then he turned to leave, vanishing out the door without warning.

A few days later, Tom began hearing voices.

At first he thought they were simply his thoughts. More, it seemed to beat percussively, hammering into his head; more, more, more, until eventually it became a question.

Do you want more? a voice asked in his ear.

“Yes,” Tom mumbled deliriously to nothing.

Well, the voice said in his ear. Then suppose we make a deal.

Tom didn’t quite understand what had happened until his eyes snapped open to find his hands bloodied, his wife’s body strewn at his feet. He thought, for a moment, to let out a scream, but stopped the moment he registered something cold and slick in his hands: a knife. A bloody knife.

The bloody knife, he realized, that had been buried in his wife’s chest.

He leaned closer, holding his ear to her chest.

No pulse.

Definitely dead.

“No,” Tom whispered.

All at once, her chest expanded, and Tom fell backwards, tumbling onto his rear as his dead wife’s eyes snapped open, her head turning sharply to face him.

“Well,” Betsy said, “I have to say, this is a nice little mask. Your wife certainly has lovely features.”

Tom inched forward. “Bets?” he asked cautiously.

Betsy, who was almost certainly not Betsy, laughed.

“Not quite,” she said. “Do you really not recognize me?”

Tom shuddered.

“Are you a demon?” he half-whispered.

“Not just any demon,” not-Betsy told him. “The king of demons, actually. Though I can see why you might not be able to process that in full, being a mortal and all that.”

Tom stared at her, his heart pounding.

“Is she … dead?” Tom asked, swallowing hard.

“Oh yes, quite,” the demon replied, with a laugh that was firmly too harsh to be Betsy’s. “That was the deal, you know. You gave me a mortal, and in exchange I’ve given you youth. Ta-dah!” his dead wife added, for what seemed to be effect.

“I didn’t realize it would be my wife you would take,” Tom said slowly. He hadn’t been particularly in love with Betsy, true, but still; she wasn’t nothing. He’d known her all his life, after all. She was the mother of his son. He hadn’t known she would be the cost.

“Oh, my apologies, I thought that would be obvious,” the demon said, batting Betsy’s lashes at him. “Well, not to worry. Now you get to be young for the next, oh, forty-odd years. Isn’t that a fun trade?”

“What?” Tom said, frowning. “But—but that’s—”

“A mortal’s lifetime,” the demon reminded him firmly, sitting upright and dusting off Betsy’s bloodied skirt. “If you want more than that, it’ll cost you.”

“Cost me what?” Tom asked, but he should have known the answer.

“Oh, you know,” the demon said, dabbing on some of Betsy’s blood for lipstick and giving him a chilling smile. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“His name is Volos,” Brandt said, looking repulsed. “Did you make a deal with him?”

“No,” Tom lied.

“Good,” Brandt exhaled, shaking his head. “You don’t want to. He’s worse than Death, you know.”

“I didn’t realize you thought anyone was worse than Death,” Tom commented, and Brandt shrugged.

“Death isn’t particularly faultless,” he said, “but he’s certainly no Volos.”

Tom forced an indifferent shrug. “What’s that?” he asked, gesturing to the book in Brandt’s hand.

“Ah, a secret, mostly,” Brandt said. “But also, it contains everything I’ve ever seen or heard.”

“Oh,” Tom said. “Is Fox in there?”

Brandt flinched. “Yes.”

“Sorry,” Tom offered.

“It’s fine,” Brandt muttered, not looking at him. “You just lost your wife.”

“I did,” Tom agreed.

“How’s your son doing?” Brandt asked. “Is he adjusting?”

Tom glanced over at where his son stood behind the register, speaking politely to the customers. As the customers drifted away, Ned’s gaze slid to his, landing coldly before he turned away, heading into the stock room.

“He thinks I killed his mother,” Tom said, swallowing.

Brandt’s brow arched. “Did you?”

“Of course not,” Tom lied again, though this time, Brandt seemed less willing to believe him. “Anyway,” Tom continued. “Tell me more about the book.”

Brandt slid it away from him, tucking it into his pocket.

“I rather think I shouldn’t, actually,” he said, giving Tom a strangely disconcerting look.

Ned was nearly sixteen when Tom realized he was dying.

Well, you have the organs of a much older man, Volos’ voice in his ear reminded him. You weren’t very specific, you know, and the devil is in the details.

“The devil is in my head,” Tom grumbled.

Actually, the devil is rather lovely company. I think you misjudge him.

“I thought you were gone,” Tom sighed.

I was for a bit. You were boring. But I have a few things I need, so I think there’s some use you can be yet, if you’d like to make another deal.

Tom paused, considering it.

“You can’t have my son,” he said gruffly. “He has a bright future. I’m proud of him.”

Oh, he certainly does, Volos agreed. It would be a very great pity to take him, but still, I need something.

“What?”

A seat at the immortal’s game, Volos said. Death won’t allow me to play, and the two stupid archangels can’t be bullied into it for some reason. I need you to do it.

“Why?”

You’re already in the ledger. You’ve played once before. And also, no other being would be stupid enough to let me in their head.

Tom grunted his agreement.

“So all you want to do is play?” he asked. “That’s it? You play, and I get—what?”

Another lifetime, Volos said. I wouldn’t grant you immortality for this. But sure, a lifetime seems sufficient.

“I need to be able to travel between worlds,” Tom said. “You have to give me that too, plus another lifetime.”

Fine, Volos said. But know that you’ll be taking on a hefty debt.

Tom shoved his doubts aside. “Just give me what I want,” he said, “and I swear, I will get you a seat at the tables.”

“No,” Death said flatly. “Volos will never have a seat at the tables.”

He can’t keep me from them forever!

“You can’t keep him from them forever,” Tom echoed dutifully.

“Well, then consider the tables permanently closed,” Death snapped. “I grow weary of this game anyway. I don’t wish to play any longer.”

“Let me play, then,” Tom suggested wildly, and felt a stab of pain in his mind; as though a nail had been dug into it and curled around, hooked inside it. “Just—ouch—”

You think you can go back on our deal by challenging Death? Oh, mortal. You complete fucking fool. It’s too late for you.

He stifled a cry of pain and Death frowned, his eyes narrowing.

“You should not have played this game,” Death noted, as if he could see behind Tom’s eyes.

Past is passed, Volos said with a scoff, and Tom swallowed.

“Past is passed,” he echoed.

Time is running out, mortal. I graciously gave you another lifetime, didn’t I? But a mortal’s existence is like a blink; like an itch, and then it’s gone. You’ve only indebted yourself to me, Tom Parker, and you’ll have to pay the cost eventually. Tell me, what do you think will happen to you when you die? How will you be received when Death knows the deals you’ve made, hmm? Not everyone is as accepting as I am of vice, you know, and you have some of the worst of them. Pride. Greed. A terrible inclination for deception. You can flee this realm, but you cannot flee your debt to me, nor your fate. You will not be well received, I assure you. I require a seat at the tables, mortal, and I will not wait patiently to collect.

“He told me that you would come for me,” Ned said.

By then, Tom had searched every world for a solution, to no avail.

Time’s up, Volos had said. More payment is due, mortal, unless you’re finally ready to face your debt.

He wasn’t.

The souls of Tom Parker and his only son belonged to old men by then; his son, of course, looked much older than he did for lack of any immortal pastimes, but still—they were both already so tired, consummately wrung out by their respective lives.

“Who told you that?” Tom asked. “That I would come.”

“The blond man,” Ned said. “The one who used to be your friend.”

Ah, Volos said. The godling.

“Ah,” Tom agreed. “And what did he say?”

“That I needed to keep myself and my family safe,” Ned said, frowning. “That’s why I didn’t get married for so long. Why I didn’t have children. To protect them, protect everyone, from you—”

“You have sons,” Tom reminded him. “One that you named after me, in fact.”

Ned swallowed hard.

“Because I made a mistake,” he admitted quietly. “I thought you were gone. I thought I was—”

“Safe?” Tom asked.

Ned gave a devastated nod.

“The blond man gave me something,” Ned added. “A book. He said to keep it from you.”

“A book?” Tom echoed, surprised.

“He said you would come someday,” Ned said, swallowing. “Either for me or for it. So which is it, Father?” he asked neutrally. “What have you come for?”

Tom flinched. “I—”

Do it, Volos said firmly. Do it now.

“I’m so sorry, my son,” Tom said, closing his fingers around the knife’s handle.

The life of Tom Parker’s only son bought him another lifetime of youth.

“Why did Ned think I wanted Brandt’s book?” Tom mused aloud, staring into nothing.

The godling did say it contained everything he’d ever seen, Volos hummed thoughtfully. Perhaps it contains portions of the game’s ledger.

“What does that matter?” Tom asked.

Well, it would mean that Death can be made to play the game once more. Whoever possesses the ledger can compel him to the tables.

“And I suppose I have to get it for you,” Tom sighed.

Well, you do owe me quite a debt.

“I killed my son for you.”

No. You killed your son for you. I only set the price; I don’t wield the knife.

Tom shuddered.

“Can’t you torture someone else?” he asked unhappily, and in his head, Volos chuckled.

Call me sentimental, mortal, but by now I really prefer to torture you.

“I see you’re back,” Brandt commented without looking up. “How were your travels?”

“I need the ledger,” Tom said, not bothering to answer the question. “You have to give it to me.”

At that, Brandt’s gaze slid silently to Tom’s.

“I can’t simply give it to you,” Brandt returned, looking both smug and cold. “Even if I wanted to—which I don’t,” he clarified irritably, “I left that book with Ned for safekeeping. It no longer belongs to me.”

Tom frowned. “Why Ned?”

“I like the boy,” Brandt said, shrugging. “He means well, he works hard; he’s the opposite of a thief, and I find it endearing. And besides, I knew he’d never give it to you, which is what I really wanted.” He tipped his glass back, setting it heavily on the table. “The goal, Tom Parker, was for you to never have access to it again, and Ned will be the one to make sure that you never will.”

Tom felt his very soul flinch at that.

“He—” Tom attempted, and faltered. “He’s dead, Brandt.”

Brandt blinked.

“I didn’t want to,” Tom added slowly, “but—”

“Then the ledger belongs to your bloodline,” Brandt interrupted, bending his head with a shudder. “Not to me. If you wish to see your own blood spilt over it, then so be it. Let that be on your head.”

He turned away, but Tom reached out for him, grasping for his arm.

“Please, Brandt—”

“How often is he there, Tom?” Brandt asked, not turning around to face him. “Volos. Is it all the time yet?”

Tom wanted to argue, to persist in the lie that he had never allowed a demon in his head, but there was no point denying it.

“No,” he admitted. “No, sometimes he’s gone, but—”

“Good,” Brandt said, his voice clipped. “Then you’re not totally gone. Cling to that before it’s too late.”

“Brandt, please, wait—”

The godling walked away.

“I HAVE A DEBT,” Tom shouted after him, stumbling forward, and only then did Brandt pause. “Please, you have to help me—he’s expecting another payment and I, I can’t—I can’t do this again, I have to—” He bent down, his neck weary. “I have to live with the costs, Brandt, please—”

“We all do,” Brandt cut in coldly. “We all have costs, Tom, and we live with them.”

He turned to leave again and Tom let out a loud cry of anguish and frustration, half-choking on it.

“You destroy every mortal life you touch!” Tom shouted after him. “If not for you—if not for that game,” he spat, “my son would still be alive—”

“Don’t you put that on me,” Brandt snapped without turning around. “I am not responsible for your choices.”

“What about Fox D’Mora, then?” Tom threw out wildly. “How did you destroy him?”

For a moment, Brandt glanced over his shoulder, and in one brief moment he looked equally like he might choke out a sob, throw a punch, or draw a weapon; he looked, devastatingly, as if he would have preferred to crush Tom underfoot, even as Tom sank slowly to his knees.

But then—

“Like this,” Brandt said firmly, just before he walked away.

“I want more this time,” Tom said. “I can’t kill my grandson the same way I killed my son and his mother. People already believe there’s a curse,” he said.

And I don’t believe I can do it this way anymore, he didn’t say.

What do you want, then? Magic?

“Yes,” Tom said. “I want power.”

You do realize your debt will increase.

“Fine,” Tom said dully.

What was two debts to him now?

Granted, then.

“I told you, I don’t want anything to do with this,” Brandt snapped. “Stop seeking me out, stop following me. You’ve already paid with both your grandsons’ lives. All you have left is one descendant! How much more can you stand to lose?”

“All I have left is one chance,” Tom said mechanically. “One chance, Brandt, and I need the ledger.”

“No. The cost is too high, Tom, much too high—”

“But what if there were a prize worth winning?” Tom asked.

Brandt scoffed. “There isn’t,” he said.

Tom shook his head. “Isn’t there?” he prompted.

Brandt’s eyes narrowed. “If this is a threat—”

“Not a threat. An offer,” Tom cut in. “If you’ll hear it.”

“I told you, there’s nothing th-”

“Fox,” Tom cut in again. “If Volos challenges Death and wins, he will give you Fox.”

He watched Brandt’s mouth freeze in place, snagging around the sound of Fox’s name.

He just needs a compelling reason, Volos had commented, and Tom had known just the one.

“He’ll reverse everything Death has done,” Tom assured him. “If you give him the ledger, you can see Fox again.”

Brandt frowned, suspicious.

“I know better than to make a deal with the demon king,” he said.

“Do you?” Tom asked dubiously. “Because the tables are closed, Brandt. You cannot earn him back through Death. You cannot play again. Your only choice is to make a deal with Volos if you ever want to see Fox again.”

Brandt chewed the thought carefully.

“Does Volos know who Fox is?”

“No,” Tom said, shaking his head. “He has no interest in me or you. He only wants Death.”

Brandt’s mouth tightened, his gaze narrowing with concentration.

“I’d be a fool to trust Volos,” he said again.

“A desperate fool,” Tom agreed. “As am I.”

Brandt paused again.

“I would have to be the one to kill your descendant,” he said eventually. “The deal is the ledger only, and the only way I can be certain of that is if I’m the one who ends the bloodline. I have to gain access to the book myself.” He paused, swallowing. “Volos cannot be permitted to see what else exists in it,” he murmured, “until the time is right.”

“And when will the time be right?” Tom asked, but he was struggling already.

By then, so few of his thoughts remained his own. Autonomy of his own mind was fleeting and painful, and there was no knowing when Volos would return.

“When it’s too late to turn back,” Brandt said.

“Do you really feel nothing?” the water spirit named Elaine asked, her voice hushed. “No remorse whatsoever?”

“Me? Of course not,” Volos replied from Tom’s mouth, chuckling. “My host, on the other hand—”

Tom, by then only a blip in his own consciousness, imagined a world where he could shudder.

“It must be killing him,” Lainey murmured, and Tom considered that it was.

“His debt to me is what’s killing him, as well you know,” Volos replied. “If he had ever truly wanted to gain a life worth living, he might have been less short-sighted.”

“And you blame the mortal for that? You do realize this is Death’s fault, don’t you?”

“Ironic, isn’t it? Or it would be, but maybe it’s not precisely Death’s fault. Not that it isn’t Death’s doing, but to some regard, it’s actually life’s fault—though that leaves us with so little to blame. In any case, he’s withering, and I’ll need more.”

“And what exactly is ‘more’?”

“What I am owed. No more, no less. I’m not unreasonable.”

“What has he promised you?”

“The mortal? Never mind what he’s promised me. Your debt is unrelated to his.”

“Is it, though?”

“Well, I suppose not in the grand scheme of things. But I’d hardly think it worth your time to worry prematurely.”

Help, Tom thought.

Nobody heard him.

“Fox D’Mora?” Volos mused, circling the tied up set of archangels. “Now where have I heard that name before?”

Tom, by then long trapped in a corner of his own mind, couldn’t manage an answer.

“Ah, well,” Volos sighed contentedly, shaking Tom’s head. “What does it matter now, I suppose?”

Mortal Combat

Volos let out a terrible yell, the sound of it vibrating around them both; ricocheting, violently, against the blinding white walls.

“What is this?” the demon king seethed, teeth clenched, and Fox shrugged.

“Guilt, most likely,” Fox supplied, grabbing the back of Tom Parker’s head and looking firmly into the other man’s eyes. “Mortals have nothing on the gods or creatures, Volos, but we know a thing or two about self-destruction. Pain,” he noted, letting a portrait of young Ned Parker flash around the room. “Loss,” he added, wallpapering it with Betsy Parker’s bloodied smile. “Regret,” he finished, watching consciousness flit in and out of Tom Parker’s eyes, the strange, inhuman quality of them flickering more violently the more Fox spoke. “What do you regret, Tom Parker?” he asked, and the man dropped to his knees, falling forward to his forearms.

For a moment, he rocked back and forth; crying out in anguish, battling his demons.

His demon, which must have raged within his bones.

Then, slowly, he quieted, becoming little more than a tremor of a man at Fox’s feet.

“What do you regret?” Fox asked him again, and the man at his feet looked up.

“Everything,” Tom Parker rasped hoarsely.

Fox bent down, leveling Tom’s gaze with his own.

“Isn’t it painful?” he asked quietly. “Persistence. Isn’t forever a terrible blessing, and a terribly blissful curse?”

Tom’s eyes, red-rimmed, dragged to something above Fox’s head.

“I’m afraid,” he whispered. “I’m afraid. I’m afraid. I’m afraid—”

Fox sighed, rising to his feet.

“A very mortal impulse, fear,” Fox told him, taking two steps away.

Beyond the table, there was a stunned silence.

And then;

“Fox D’Mora wins.”

Interlude VIII:

Incorporeal

The king of vice was without a body.

It wasn’t strictly necessary to have a corporeal form (he’d certainly done well enough without one) but it was rather unkingly to fail to possess something when one was in want of it. Volos, having finally been expelled from the mortal Tom Parker by virtue of the game (and, he supposed, the mortal’s own damaged state of being) suffered a moment of abject frustration, propelled as he was out of the game’s realm and back into the Otherworld, hovering above the table.

Already the immortals he’d rounded up were beginning to discover themselves released from their cages; elsewhere, an angel was turning wide-eyed to a reaper and professing her apologies to him, falling at his feet. The reaper, in turn, was lowering himself to his knees beside her, placing his hand so carefully, so delicately, so reverently atop the bend of her spine she would not know immediately whether in fact they were actually touching.

There was no place for the king of vice there.

A water spirit marked for destruction counted her secrets like cards, spreading them out in front of her, reading between them like lines of text. Slowly, she began to transform, back to what she had once been; her legs sprouted fins, her lips sealed themselves into waves, and her eyes returned to the hollows of the sea. Slowly, slowly, she became again what she had been; not a being but a current, a force, a spirit. She dissolved back into foam, heaving a sigh that salted the earth’s shore, driving gracelessly against bigger things; stronger things. With her secrets restored, she became again nothing; became, again, everything, and the king of vice could not touch her there.

A godling looked up slowly, his gaze falling on the man he had fought so long and so hard to uncover, always returning to him with the force and inevitability of the water spirit’s tide. There had been lies there, and deceit, but he was still the son of a god; he possessed a god’s divine armor, even while his mortal ribs wrapped around a mortal heart.

And then Volos had an idea.

Fox D’Mora stood with his hands on the table, still at war with Tom Parker’s fractured soul, and for a moment, Volos licked anticipation from his spectral lips. Imagine, he thought, the possession of the godson of Death; what power, what prospects. He could yet win against Death, and even just a small piece of Volos—even just a breath of him, who had seen the mortal’s heart and knew the wanting in it, the yearning, the longing—

“Nope,” said the queen of virtue, snapping her fingers, and Volos felt something snatch him up with a whoosh, falling to the center of the table like an anchor. “You’re done now, husband. I think you’ve done enough damage for one mortal’s lifetime, don’t you?”

She’d trapped him in gold. Volos thrashed against the metal.

“Will that hold him?” a vampire asked tentatively, and the queen of virtue shrugged.

“Not forever,” she said. “He’ll find a way out eventually.”

“What then?” asked the vampire.

“Well,” the queen of virtue said sweetly, “then he’ll have me to contend with, of course.”

Sins of the Father

“Do I have to do this? Everyone’s fine,” Fox said, gesturing to Mayra and Cal where they stood quietly beaming at each other, affectionately refracting their respective planes of light. “The immortals are out of Volos’ cages, aren’t they? I really don’t see why any further game-playing is necessary.”

“First of all, everything is not fine,” Isis corrected, gesturing unsubtly to where Vi and a vacancy in the air that Fox assumed to be Tom Parker IV were standing apart from each other. He noted, too, that she was wearing her husband on her head, though it didn’t seem worth pointing out. “And secondly—”

“Excuse you,” Raphael cut in. “I rather think it’s our job to lay out the details of what the mortal must or mustn’t do.”

“Is it?” Isis asked skeptically. “Is it really, though?”

“Right, so, secondly,” Gabriel announced, picking up where Isis left off, and frowned. “What was the first thing?”

“That things aren’t fine,” Raphael reminded him.

“Right, things are most certainly not fine,” Gabriel said firmly.

“For one thing, however this ends, we’ll all have to face an inquiry,” Raphael said.

“Yes. And it won’t be pleasant,” Gabriel agreed.

“Inquiries rarely are,” Fox sighed.

“We won’t pretend there weren’t some wrongs committed,” Raphael sniffed.

“It’s crossed our minds that perhaps some errors were made,” Gabriel added.

“Some minor misconceptions—”

“—totally unintentional, of course—”

“—not to mention practically harmless—”

“Right, practically harmless,” Fox grumbled, rolling his eyes. “Nearly didn’t destroy mankind—”

“Did that happen?” Raphael prompted. “Did it?”

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed. “Do you see yourself in service to a demon king?”

“No, but—”

“No,” Raphael confirmed emphatically, “so it’s fine.”

“I don’t understand how this all happened,” Vi ventured, taking a tentative step forward and looking over at Fox. “Are demons normally this powerful?”

“No,” Isis told her. “This was a contractually-driven exception.”

“Yes,” Raphael said. “Supernatural clauses, et cetera.”

“No, no ‘et ceteras,’” Fox groaned. “Explain what you mean.”

“Every being who plays the game signs a contract,” Gabriel supplied.

“A waiver of liability, if you will,” Raphael added.

“It leaves them beholden to the laws of the tables,” Gabriel continued.

Vi frowned. “So when the tables are in play—”

“They are beheld,” Raphael confirmed. “And then of course there was the small problem of Volos being particularly powerful where it comes to situations of vice, which certainly didn’t help.”

“I just don’t understand why we can’t simply stop now,” Fox protested. “The whole Volos situation is taken care of, isn’t it? Why can’t you just end the game here?”

“We can’t end the game,” Gabriel said stiffly. “We didn’t start it.”

“Yes, and we didn’t invent it, either,” Raphael added. “The tables don’t answer to us; we simply operate them.”

“Why, again?” Vi asked them.

The two archangels shrugged.

“Bored, mostly,” said Gabriel.

“Also, we’re very good at contracts,” contributed Raphael.

“Though, again, primarily there’s just such a vastness of time,” Gabriel lamented, “and so little with which to fill it.”

“But I don’t want to play my own godfather,” Fox cut in flatly. “Can’t I just forfeit?”

“Whoever masters the table masters the game itself,” Raphael replied. “If you play it, and either you or Death win, the game need never be played again.”

“Yes,” Gabriel sniffed, “so best to close the cycle now, unless you’d like mankind to suffer this again.”

Fox looked up, eyeing where Death stood at the table, no longer shackled in place. Just beyond him, Fox could also see that Brandt sat alone in one of the stadium seats, his fingers quietly steepled at his lips, but Fox tore his gaze away, focusing instead on his current immortal problem.

“Papa,” he said. “I don’t want to do this.”

“Too bad,” Death replied. “You heard the shitty angels.”

“Papa,” Fox groaned. “Band.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, mortal,” Death retorted. “I raised you, didn’t I?”

“Do I really have to do this, then?” Fox asked, somewhat sulkily, and Death shrugged.

“Only if it matters to you that you never have to play it again,” Death replied, in a fairly convincing argument.

Fox paused a moment, grimacing, and then he nodded slowly.

“Okay, Papa,” he sighed. “Let’s play.”

Vi waited until Fox had wandered unwillingly over to the final table before finally permitting herself to look up at where Tom was standing, his gaze already on hers.

“Hi,” he said.

She swallowed. “Hi,” she permitted, noting that Isis, still wearing Volos as a crown, had conspicuously wandered away.

“So,” Tom continued, floating over to her. “This was a pretty weird way to find out the Parker curse was actually my great-grandfather being horrendously in debt to a demon, right? Not to mention that my girlfriend was never really my girlfriend,” he added, looking as if he hadn’t quite come to grips with that part yet. “But I think it’s best I not dwell on that.”

“Well, at least you got an answer,” Vi told him. “And maybe now you can, you know. Move on.” She paused. “Right?”

Tom tilted his head, considering it. “I hadn’t thought about it,” he admitted. “But I suppose so, yes.”

“And to think, all of this was only ever a contractual discrepancy,” Vi remarked. “If I’d had Sly look at the deed to the house sooner, we might not have had to go through any of it, would we? We might never have had to cross worlds, or save Death.” She paused. “Or defeat any demons, for that matter.”

“Though we also might never have gotten to know each other,” Tom pointed out.

“That’s true,” Vi said, and then, after a moment, “Maybe that would have been better.”

Tom floated very still, not saying anything.

“Well, thank you, anyway,” he said after a few moments, his voice unusually brisk and toneless. “For coming, I mean. Even though you clearly didn’t need to.”

“Well, I had to make sure everything was taken care of,” Vi reminded him. “I had a responsibility to the house. And, you know. The sale.”

“Right,” Tom said. “Yes, of course.”

Another pause.

“And,” Tom sighed, “I’m sorry about—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Vi cut in, shaking her head. “It was just a game, right? All of this was just a game for bored immortals, and none of it ever meant anything. Nothing about any of this was ever real.”

Especially not the parts, she thought, remembering the way his fingers had laced with hers, that felt more real than anything.

“Right,” Tom said quietly, nodding his agreement as they turned to watch Fox’s final match. “Right.”

“Hello, Papa,” Fox said, opening his eyes in the bright white room.

“Hello, Fox,” Death replied, materializing across from him.

“You know, I’ve never given much thought to why you look like this,” Fox commented, gesturing to Death’s corporeal form. “Do you look this way to everyone?”

“No,” Death replied. “I designed this form for you. Hazel eyes,” he said, gesturing, “to match yours. Dark hair like your mother’s. Your father’s height,” he added. “I could go on, but I think you get the idea.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you make this for me?”

“Well, you were a baby,” Death said. “I couldn’t exactly not take the form of something familiar, could I? Would be, I don’t know. A poor attempt at habitat adaptation. I do have other outfits, though,” he added. “The cloak and stuff, you know. But easier this way, I think.”

Fox chuckled.

“Impractical, cloaks,” he remarked in agreement. “Always getting in the way, I find.”

“Well, I’m not without some theatricality,” Death replied. “I have other forms, too. Female on occasion. I can be animals, elements; that vague sensation of having forgotten something at home—”

“But you chose this one because—?”

“Because you liked it best,” Death said easily, and after a moment, Fox nodded, swallowing.

He let a few seconds pass.

“I don’t actually have to win, do I?” Fox asked.

“You do, I’m afraid,” Death said. “The archangels are correct. If we both lose the game, the whole thing would be ripe for the taking once more, and Volos will not stay contained for long.”

“But why are you so convinced you will lose?” Fox pressed.

“I told you. Because I have a regret.”

“Yes, you’ve said this, but—”

“I have a regret,” Death continued, “which is highly impractical. A mortal sensation. I find it disturbingly weakening, and no other immortal would share it.”

“Well, what about me?” Fox asked. “I have regrets.”

“Do you?” Death prompted. “Were there things you failed to say?”

“I—” Fox paused. “No, not exactly, but—”

“Anything you might have done differently?”

“Well, I’m not proud of everything I’ve done, but differently? I don’t—”

“I have a regret,” Death said. “And therefore, I will lose this game.”

Fox chewed his lip.

“You kept Brandt from me,” he said. “Is that it?”

Death blinked.

“Please,” a wearied Brandt was pleading. “Please, you have to give it back. You have to give it back, I’m begging you—”

“No,” Death replied coldly. “You gambled him, godling, and you lost. You are selfish; you wish, as you always have, to possess all things. You have always been a thief and a liar, a cheat and a swindler, and now you think to somehow rightfully possess my godson’s love? No, godling. You will not.”

“Take something else from me, then,” Brandt begged. “Take whatever you want, just please, please don’t take Fox—”

“You’ll never set eyes on him again,” Death said curtly. “Not so long as I maintain my hold over the mortal world. And you are banned from the tables, godling, as you have always been. You will not compel me here again.”

Fox could see on Brandt’s face that the consequences of this game were far worse than what he had imagined.

“But he is waiting for me,” Brandt croaked. “Will you tell him what I’ve done?”

“Tell him you gambled him?” Death scoffed. “Yes, I’m sure he’ll fucking love that.”

“You don’t understand,” Brandt insisted. “You don’t understand him! He’s a mortal—he’s going to feel pain in my absence whether you feel it is best for him or not—”

“I understand everything,” Death scoffed. “I’m an immortal being, godling, and can certainly match the intellect of a meandering thief.”

Brandt looked pained, his head dropping in misery.

“Will you tell him I love him?” Brandt asked.

“No,” Death said.

Brandt raised a hand to his face, covering his mouth for a moment, and then he nodded.

“Fine,” Brandt said wearily. “Maybe it’s better that way.”

Elsewhere, Fox knew, a past version of himself was waking up alone.

“You can stop now,” Fox called from within the vision, swallowing hard as the image of Brandt rose mournfully to his feet. “Papa, I understand that you regret it.”

The scene around him flickered, and Death materialized beside him again.

“No, that’s not my regret,” Death said. “I simply wanted you to see it.” He paused. “I didn’t think I was doing such a terrible thing,” he said slowly, almost childishly. “I thought I was protecting you.”

“You were,” Fox permitted. “In a sense. But you also caused me the most terrible pain of my lifetime.”

“Yes,” Death said, “and that is part of my regret.”

Fox frowned.

“Part of it?” he echoed.

“Yes,” Death said.

“But then—”

“I regret,” Death explained slowly, “that I spent so long ruling the ends of mortals that I had underestimated their abilities. I might have gone eternity never needing to know,” he added, and Fox nodded, “but I made myself weak when I took a mortal godson.” He paused. “When I chose,” he amended, “a mortal son.”

The phrase registered first, and Fox’s breath suspended.

And then confusion set in.

“You regret raising me?” Fox echoed, blinking, and Death shook his head.

“I regret underestimating you,” he corrected. “I regret thinking that you were so small and fragile that loving an immortal was something from which you needed protection. I regret that in my attempt to insulate you from the beings I believed to be more complex than you, I caused you pain—which,” he determined quietly, “is in fact something I should not be capable of feeling, but which I have learned from you.”

“What, pain?” Fox asked.

“Yes,” Death said.

“I hurt you?” Fox asked.

“I hurt,” Death clarified shamefully, “when you hurt.”

For a moment, after hearing his godfather’s most haunted confession and knowing that it had plagued him for so many years, Fox wanted to comfort him.

Instead, though, Fox chuckled.

“What?” Death demanded.

“Papa,” Fox sighed, shaking his head. “That pain you feel? That’s love.”

Death paused.

“Is it?” he asked.

“Yes,” Fox said.

“Well,” Death grumbled, “then it’s fucking stupid.”

“It is,” Fox agreed. “And a highly mortal impulse.”

“I hate it,” Death said. “I’d prefer it gone.”

“Doesn’t really work that way,” Fox said, shrugging. “But if it helps, it’s very nice to hear.”

“Is it?” Death asked again, frowning. “Sounds fake.”

“Yes, well, I’d imagine that to most mortals, the godson of Death playing in an immortal gambling tournament also sounds fake.”

“Limited imaginations,” Death commented. “Stupid, I think, that mortals could possibly believe that only one world was made for them.”

“One world was made for them,” Fox said. “Isn’t that the point?”

“Hush, you little shit,” said Death. “You’ve always been too clever for your own good.”

“Wish I’d been a little cleverer, actually,” Fox lamented.

They paused for a moment.

“So, what if you win?” Fox asked, clearing his throat. “What will you take?”

“I can’t win,” Death said.

“Well, not with that attitude,” replied Fox.

“No, I actually can’t,” Death said. “I’m just waiting for you to win.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” Fox asked.

“How should I know?”

“You’re Death,” Fox reminded him. “You know everything.”

Death shrugged.

“If you win, you are entitled to something from me,” Death remarked tangentially.

“Am I?” Fox asked.

Death nodded. “That’s why most beings play the game to begin with,” he clarified. “Should be pretty straightforward. You can have anything you want. Immortality,” he suggested. “Wealth, riches. Anything.”

Fox thought about it.

“I’d want you to take Tom Parker,” he said. “If you could be gentle with him, that would be ideal. I think he’s probably suffered enough not to have any continuing debt.”

“That’s a given,” Death agreed. “The end, not the gentleness. In general, though, I’d call that request a personal favor, not a reward.”

“The ghost,” Fox added. “Help him meet his end, too?”

“Right,” Death said. “Yes, that’s doable. And the vampire?”

“Why?” Fox asked, surprised. “She’s fine, isn’t she?”

“Well, she’s in love with the ghost,” Death said.

“What? How did you know that?”

“I know everything, young man,” Death reminded him.

“Oh. Then ask her what she wants, I suppose.”

“Well, I’ll have Raphael and Gabriel sort that out,” Death said. “Though, who knows what will even happen to them once God and Lucifer find out what’s transpired.”

“Don’t they already know?” Fox asked. “Omnipotence and all that.”

“Omniscience,” Death corrected, “and sure, they technically might know, but who can keep track of everything that one knows when one already knows everything?”

“That’s dizzying, but fair,” Fox said.

“Anything else?” Death asked.

“Mayra,” Fox said. “And Cal.”

“Ah, yes,” Death agreed. “Done. And?”

Fox paused.

“Forgive Brandt,” he said.

“What, pardon his ledger? Easier said than done, Fox—”

“No,” Fox said, shaking his head. “Just—forgive him.”

“Well, okay, done,” Death said. “That’s really sort of only hard for mortals.”

“Right,” Fox said.

“Do you need help with it?” Death asked, arching a brow. “Forgiving him, I mean.”

He took a moment.

“No,” Fox replied, chewing his lip. “I love him, Papa. I forgave him the moment he came back. I would love him still, even if he left me again. I would love him through several lifetimes, I think,” Fox determined, resigning himself to the truth, “and I would love him in every world.”

“Oh,” Death said, and made a face. “Sounds stupid.”

“It is,” Fox agreed. “Immensely.”

“So do you want eternity, then?” Death asked kindly. “I could give it to you if you wanted.”

“No,” Fox said, shaking his head. “To be honest, I think it might be overrated.”

“Huh,” Death said. “Interesting read.”

“Yeah,” Fox sighed. “I actually don’t really want anything. I mean—” he shrugged. “Sure, there are things I might want in the future, but I think I can figure it out myself, so—”

“Well,” Death interrupted, looking pleasantly surprised. “Are you ready to win the game, then?”

“What?” Fox asked, startled. “How?”

“Like this,” Death said, and stepped towards him. “I love you, Fox.”

Fox blinked.

“I love you too, Papa,” he said.

Death smiled.

And then—

“Fox D’Mora has won the Immortal Game,” announced Raphael, and slowly, the bright white walls fell away.

Forever is a Gift (… and a Curse)

“You’ll have to stay,” Raphael said.

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed. “Because balance is king.”

“Right,” Raphael added. “And yes, for now Volos is defeated, sure—”

“But still, there’s no ridding the world of him entirely,” Gabriel continued. “He is vice, and he is necessary still.”

“And even if he weren’t,” Raphael lamented, “he’d break free soon enough.”

“Right,” Gabriel agreed, as he often did. “And we can’t have him running around unchecked.”

“Yes,” Raphael said, “because, again, balance is king.”

Isis sighed, folding her arms over her chest.

“You know he’d say Volos is king,” she reminded them.

“Sure,” Gabriel permitted, “but Isis is queen, isn’t she?”

Isis’ lips curled up slowly.

“True,” she conceded. “So do I have to give this mortal’s body back?” she asked, gesturing lasciviously to her human breasts.

“Yes,” Raphael confirmed. “Though I’m sure she’ll be very happy with what you’ve done, if that helps.”

“Are you hitting on me?” Isis asked.

“What? No,” Raphael protested indignantly. “It’s just a compliment.”

“A creepy one,” Isis remarked.

“There’s no need to be rude,” Gabriel cut in, sniffing.

“Fine,” Isis muttered.

“Also, you could try to be a bit more virtuous,” Raphael attempted.

“I’m not the personification of virtue,” Isis reminded him. “I’m just the queen of it.”

“Fine,” Gabriel sighed. “I think you see our point, though.”

“Fine,” Isis permitted. “Maybe I do.” She paused. “And to be honest, I did miss Volos a little. He’s sort of entertaining.”

“Oh, vastly,” Raphael agreed. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

“I mean, yes, he’s the worst,” Isis confirmed. “But, you know. In an endearing way.”

“Agree to disagree,” Gabriel said.

“And anyway, like we said,” Raphael reminded her, “balance is king—”

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed. “So keep him in check.”

Isis tilted her head, nodding.

“Can I visit Lupo and the others?” she asked.

“You’re the demon queen,” Raphael said. “You can do whatever you want.”

“What’s going to happen to them?” she asked.

“Well, they’re living in the Parker house now,” Gabriel said. “Since nobody’s coming back to claim it, I suppose it’s theirs permanently.”

“Can’t imagine the lawyers are having any fun with that,” Isis remarked.

“Yeah, well, we’re not too fussed about lawyers,” Raphael said.

“Aren’t you two basically lawyers?”

“We’re more like judges,” Gabriel corrected, “and I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re kind of suspect ourselves.”

“I did notice, actually,” Isis said, rolling her eyes.

“So,” Raphael said, “as to the subject of your ledgers—”

“We were not previously aware of the nature of your good deeds on behalf of the godson of Death,” Gabriel said, “but that has now been factored in.”

“Your service in the afterlife is complete,” Raphael concluded.

“You may go,” Gabriel agreed.

“Go,” Cal echoed. “Go where?”

“On,” Raphael supplied.

“To what?” Mayra asked.

“We don’t know,” Gabriel said.

“We’ve never actually been there,” Raphael agreed.

“We’re told it’s lovely, though,” Gabriel assured them.

“Yes,” Raphael agreed, “but again, no actual confirmation.”

Mayra and Cal exchanged glances.

“Counter offer,” Mayra suggested. “We keep doing what we’re doing now, only I get more miracles a year.”

“Yes,” Cal said, “and we get each other’s relics.”

“Oh yes, good idea,” Mayra agreed, nodding firmly. “Yes, that.”

There was a pause.

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel said blankly. “What?”

“We like what we do now,” Cal said. “You know, helping mankind and all that.”

“Yes,” Mayra confirmed. “Also, it’s very obvious that you’ve been bribed.”

“Oh, immensely obvious,” Cal agreed. “There’s no way our ledgers evened out. Did you actually see what we’ve done on behalf of Fox?”

“Not too many good things,” Mayra said. “He’s sort of a little shit.”

“Yes,” Cal said. “So, we assume Death got to you.”

Raphael and Gabriel exchanged glances.

“Yes, fine,” Gabriel admitted grudgingly. “Death bargained for your respective retirements.”

“Knew it,” Mayra said, snapping her fingers. “He’s a real pal, Death.”

“That’s an outrageous thing to say,” said Raphael.

“True,” Cal said. “But still, the point stands.”

“Besides,” Mayra said, “we can’t go anywhere yet. We still have to keep an eye on Fox, don’t we?”

Raphael and Gabriel exchanged another glance.

“You’re going to pass on the offer of paradise,” Gabriel clarified slowly, “so that you can ‘keep an eye’ on the godson of Death?”

“Well, he’s the master of Death too, now, isn’t he?” Mayra asked. “Also, he gets into a lot of trouble.”

“Yes,” Cal agreed. “He’s sort of a handful.”

“And we love him,” Mayra said.

“And each other,” Cal agreed.

“Yes,” Mayra said. “So this seems like a fine compromise.”

Raphael sighed.

“Fine,” he said. “You may have each other’s relics.”

“And seven miracles a year,” Gabriel permitted.

“Ten,” Mayra countered.

“Eight,” said Raphael.

“Twelve,” Mayra said.

“Can I have some?” Cal asked.

“Fine,” Raphael said. “Twelve miracles between the two of you.”

Mayra and Cal glanced at each other, conferring silently.

Raphael and Gabriel waited.

“Fifteen,” Mayra eventually said, and Raphael groaned.

“Fine,” Gabriel growled. “Are we done here?”

Cal Sanna gave Mayra Kaleka one of his five smiles.

The one, of course, that he reserved just for her.

“Yes,” Mayra agreed. “Yes, I think we are.”

“This is,” Raphael said slowly, frowning. “Quite a ledger.”

“You murdered someone?” Gabriel prompted. “That’s just—I won’t lie, it’s not great.”

“Well, I ate his heart,” Vi said sheepishly. “But in my defense, I was hungry, and not entirely in control of my, um, appetite.”

“That is a spectacularly bad defense,” Raphael informed her.

“Yes, Viola, hush,” Tom cut in. “As her attorney, I will hereby speak on my client’s behalf.”

“Why are you here again?” Raphael asked him.

“I’m clearly defending my client,” Tom said brusquely. “Aren’t you listening?”

“You aren’t a lawyer,” Gabriel reminded him. “You have an M.B.A,, not a J.D., and Death specifically said that all we had to do with you was help you move on.”

“Details,” Tom said, waving a hand. “Vi’s in trouble, isn’t she? So I’m here. And the point is, Viola Marek is a singularly good human being. She cares about others more than anyone I have ever met. She helped me,” he added, glancing reassuringly at her, “when there was nothing in it for her.”

“She was trying to sell a house,” Raphael said.

“She said that over twenty times,” Gabriel added.

“DETAILS,” Tom said. “Everyone knows she was lying. It was me she wanted to help.”

Vi sighed, not quite seeing the benefits to continuing the facade.

“That’s true,” she finally confessed.

“I KNEW IT,” Tom said.

“Stop,” Vi replied.

“Anyway,” Tom continued, “she did everything in her power not to give into her impulses, didn’t she? It’s not her fault she was a vampire,” he informed them, “and I hardly think she should be punished for incidental damages.”

“I’m not totally sure you understand criminal law,” Raphael remarked.

“Nobody understands it,” Tom countered. “It’s the product of political bias!”

“Still,” Gabriel said. “We can’t do anything about her ledger being negative.”

“I’m still not sure how mine managed to be positive,” Tom admitted. “I mean, I had a lot of premarital sex.”

“Well, we go easier on that than you think,” Raphael said. “Plus you did a lot of philanthropic work.”

“Yeah, but because I had to,” Tom reminded them. “Vi’s a good person just because she’s, you know. Good,” he said firmly, turning to look at her. “She’s the best person,” he said quietly, “and I think she deserves to be happy.”

Vi blinked, suddenly registering that she hadn’t let out a breath.

Then she exhaled, slowly.

“I don’t mind if I have to work,” she contributed, clearing her throat. “Mayra granted me a wish, so I’ve already had enough favors.”

“What did you wish for, by the way?” Tom asked, and Vi’s cheeks heated slightly.

“You,” she said. “Only I didn’t know it at the time.”

Tom blinked.

“Oh,” he said softly, and then she blinked, meeting his curious gaze.

“You can work it off as an angel if you want,” Gabriel offered, interrupting.

“Or a reaper, more likely,” Raphael told her.

“What about the other options?” Vi asked, tearing her eyes from Tom’s. “Just out of curiosity.”

“Well, you could be reincarnated,” Raphael said. “With a ledger like this, you could be, hm hm hmm—” he looked down, eyeing a chart that manifested from nothing. “A parrot.”

“Could be fun,” Tom said, “but I’m thinking no, right?”

“Yeah,” Vi agreed. “Being a cat part of the day was fine, but I’d rather not be a perpetual bird.”

“You could join Odin,” Gabriel said. “Be one of his warriors.”

“Eh,” Vi said. “Maybe not that.”

“There’s that spot in Hades’ underworld,” Raphael said, frowning in thought. “Just sort of a nothing-zone where Persephone has a garden?”

“I mean, the souls can be loud at night,” Gabriel said. “It’s not a great neighborhood.”

“Certainly not paradise,” Raphael agreed.

“But could she really live there?” Tom said. “And, um. Feel?”

“Aren’t those the same thing?” Gabriel asked.

“Not really,” Vi said.

“Well, in any case, the answer is no, I think,” Raphael said. “Afterlife rules and such. Plus you might have to do some odd jobs from time to time, which isn’t really ideal.”

“Odd jobs?” Vi asked.

“Yeah,” Gabriel confirmed. “Feed Cerberus when Persephone’s gone, et cetera—”

“Well, who doesn’t like dogs?” Tom said.

“Do you have much experience with three-headed ones?” Raphael asked him dubiously.

“Meh,” Tom replied, shrugging. “It’s fine.”

“Hold on,” Vi said, turning back to Tom. “This is crazy. I’ll just—” she glanced over at the archangels, swallowing hard. “I don’t know. I’ll just work on my ledger however you want me to, and maybe I’ll—maybe I’ll move on later. And, I don’t know, find you. Right?” she asked. “It’ll be fine,” she exhaled. “You don’t have to do this, you know. You don’t have to defend me, Tom. I’m going to be fine,” she repeated, “and you can just move on, and be, I don’t know. Happy, I guess. That’s all I want,” she mumbled, looking down at her hands. “That’s all I want.”

Tom stared at her, giving her a strange, unreadable look.

And then—

“Yes, actually, I do have to do this,” Tom said firmly. “Don’t you understand, Vi? Can’t you see that—” he groaned. “Hasn’t any of this shown you anything at all?” he demanded, rounding sharply on the archangels. “There has to be a place,” Tom insisted furiously, brandishing a finger at them. “There has to be. Out of all the worlds, there has to be one, at least, where Vi can just—” he grimaced. “Just live, right?”

Raphael glanced at Gabriel.

Gabriel made a face.

Raphael countered with a head tilt.

Gabriel shook his head.

Raphael pouted.

“Um,” said Vi. “Sorry, but—”

Gradually, Gabriel sighed, turning back to them.

“Hold on,” he said gruffly, and Vi blinked.

When she opened her eyes again, it was to a groggy vision of a far too familiar ceiling.

“Oh no,” she muttered. “Not this house again.”

At that, Sly’s face promptly hovered above her.

“Oh good,” he said cheerfully. “You’re awake.”

Vi sat up unsteadily, her head instantly rushing with nausea.

“God, I’m starving,” she groaned. “What happened?”

“Juice box?” Sly offered, holding it up, and Vi shoved it away, gagging at the smell of it.

“What the—”

“Sly, you know she’s mortal again,” Louisa chided, entering the room and shaking her head firmly. “You’ll have to get her, I don’t know. Nachos? Cheese fries? A bar of soap?”

“Pizza,” Vi said, blinking. “Pizza would be ideal. Chicago classic,” she added, “well done.”

“Ah yes, we call that the ‘Queen of Virtue’ now,” Lupo said, entering as Louisa exited, dialing into her phone and perching lightly on the bed at Vi’s feet. “How do you feel?”

“Starving. Achy. Excited? Hungry. Angry,” Vi said. “No, wait, confused. No, excited again. No, anxious? Sort of like, burdened? But also, I don’t know, relieved? This is—no, sorry, mostly hungry, so—”

“That angel friend of yours said it might be this way for a while,” Lupo offered apologetically. “It might take some time to adjust.”

“Mayra was here?” Vi asked, frowning.

“She left you this,” Sly confirmed, picking up a small scroll. “Said to give it to you when you woke up. She’ll be back soon,” he added. “She said she wanted to do something about a hurricane in Puerto Rico, but then she’ll be right back.”

“Huh,” Vi said, unrolling the scroll and reading it aloud. “Be kind to a stranger: five points. Forgive a grudge: fifteen points. Wait five seconds before honking when the light changes: one point. Choose to give rather than receive: thr-”

“Is that a sex thing?” Louisa interrupted, reappearing in the frame. “Eh, probably not. Pizza’s on the way,” she added, bounding out of the room again.

“Sounds like a list of good deeds,” Lupo mused. “Does your ledger need improving?”

“Yes, actually,” Vi said, setting the scroll down. “I guess they gave me another chance.”

She paused, something swelling uncomfortably near her lungs, and Sly frowned.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “You look like you’re having some sort of indigestion.”

“I think I’m sad, actually,” Vi said, gauging the creak in her chest.

“Well,” she heard from the doorway and jumped, startled. “That just won’t do, will it?”

“Thomas Edward Parker the fourth,” Vi exhaled at the sight of him, and Tom grinned, loping in from the doorway and falling down beside her, taking her hand in his.

“Actually, Tom Parker’s already pretty dead, so I needed a new persona. I was thinking I could take your name,” he suggested. “Tom Marek?”

“That’s very progressive of you,” Vi said, pausing to press her free hand to her chest.

“What?” Tom asked, looking concerned at the motion. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she assured him. “It’s just that—” she swallowed. “I don’t know. Something is—” she paused, blinking. “Oh shit,” she realized, feeling the moisture at her eyes. “Fuck me, I’m crying, I don’t—what the—”

“If it’s intestinal, it’s guilt,” Sly advised.

“No, I just think I’m,” she attempted, and swallowed. “I’m just so happy you’re here,” she exhaled, sheepishly sighing it out, and Tom took her in his arms with his broad, infuriating smile. His dark hair fell briefly into his eyes and Vi brushed it away, feeling the excellent swelling in her lungs again and suffering the euphoric creak in her chest at the feel of him, close and comfortable and real.

“You’ll want to leave, boys,” Tom said to Lupo and Sly, not bothering to turn around from where he held her. “It’s about to get very inappropriate in here.”

“Well, don’t take too long, there’s pizza coming,” Lupo reminded them. “And if you’re going to live here, you’re going to have to pay us rent, you know.”

At that, Tom turned over his shoulder, glaring at him.

“This is my house,” Tom reminded them, exasperated.

“Nope,” Sly countered. “We bought it for seven dollars. It’s ours now.”

“You can have it,” Vi assured them.

“We know,” Sly said, winking at her, and then he and Lupo slipped out the door, leaving Vi and Tom alone together.

“So,” Vi said, feeling a little itch along her arms; anticipation, she estimated.

Arousal, she amended, suddenly registering the feel of Tom’s fingers alighting on her arm.

“So,” Tom replied.

“What should we do now?” she asked, a little breathless by how close he was.

Tom smiled.

“Well, are you happy with the way things turned out?” he asked her, and she considered it.

“I only ever wanted to be normal,” she said. “So yes, I suppose now I finally am.”

To her complete lack of surprise, Tom scoffed. “You’ve never been normal, Viola Marek,” he chided her, shaking his head.

“Why,” she asked, “because I’m paranormal?”

“Stop,” he groaned, reaching out to shove her away, but she caught his hand and ran her thumb slowly over each of his knuckles; tracing the shape of them, traveling the length of them, and glorying in his touch.

“You’re not normal, Vi,” Tom murmured to her, tangling his fingers with hers. “Not even close, and I mean that.”

“What else do you mean?” she prompted, and he smiled again; brilliantly this time.

And this time, when he kissed her, she felt everything at once.

“So,” Raphael said. “What’s our punishment?”

God and Lucifer exchanged glances.

“Nothing,” God said.

“Or everything,” Lucifer amended.

“Depends how you look at it,” God agreed.

“Wait,” Gabriel attempted, coughing. “We’re not in trouble, then?”

“Oh, you definitely are,” God said. “You were bookies for an illegal gambling ring.”

“Not ideal,” Lucifer commented.

“Definitely not ideal,” God agreed.

“Okay,” Raphael said slowly. “Sure, but—”

“You’ll just have to continue doing your current jobs for all eternity,” God said, turning to Lucifer. “Right?”

“Right,” agreed Lucifer. “That sounds fair.”

“Oh,” said Gabriel.

“Oh,” agreed Raphael.

God and Lucifer nodded.

“Off you go,” they said in unison, sending the two archangels back to their void.

Masters of Death

The moment the game had ended and Fox and his godfather had parted, he sought out Brandt where he sat in the stadium seats, absently staring into the crowd of newly-freed immortals.

“Godling,” Fox called, and Brandt rose slowly to his feet at his summons, appearing to briefly hold his breath before descending the coliseum steps.

“Lillegutt,” Brandt returned cautiously, coming to stand beside him, and Fox rolled his eyes.

“I’m not a child,” Fox reminded him.

“I know,” Brandt agreed. “You’re the master of Death, aren’t you?”

“I think that’s just a technicality,” Fox said, “but I appreciate you finally giving me my due.”

“Well, you were never just a mortal, Fox,” Brandt said, and then blinked, startled.

Fox’s mouth quirked up slightly.

“That was a truth, wasn’t it?” Fox asked.

Brandt stared at him, confused.

“I shouldn’t be able to do that,” he said, touching his hand to his mouth in awe.

“Well, you can now,” Fox said, shrugging. “I pulled a few strings.”

“Oh,” Brandt managed, swallowing.

They both paused.

“Have you ever noticed how bad the truth tastes?” Brandt asked. “Real truths, I mean. They’re so bitter and unpleasant. I’m out of practice, obviously, but still, I think it should be noted somewhere that the truth is actually somewhat sour in flavor, and—”

“What do you love more,” Fox cut in. “Me, or vengeance?”

Brandt blinked.

“It’s more like—”

“Recompense, sorry,” Fox amended. “Right. But still.” He swallowed. “I hope it’s me,” he said slowly, “because …”

He trailed off, raising his wrist, and Brandt blinked.

“The watch,” Brandt noted, frowning. “You took it off?”

“Yes,” Fox told him. “I don’t want forever. I just want—” he swallowed again. “I just want one lifetime with you, actually, if I can have it. And if I can’t,” he said, exhaling the hesitations of his past, “then I definitely only want one lifetime, because forever without you seems pretty fucking worthless.”

Brandt blinked.

“Band,” he said.

Fox blinked.

Then, dutifully, he snapped it.

“Well,” Brandt said, clearing his throat. “So I take it you agreed to give Time his watch back in exchange for my truths?”

“Yes,” Fox said, nodding. “You know how immortals love deals. They’re all about their contracts.”

“And what if I told you I preferred immortality?” Brandt asked neutrally.

“Then I would still have no regrets,” Fox told him. “Which,” he added, shrugging, “is what I’m assured is the important bit.”

Brandt nodded slowly.

“I have been doing this for a long time,” he said, after a moment.

“Doing what?” Fox asked.

“Existing,” Brandt supplied. “Strange to give it up. I’d never considered the prospect of losing my hair,” he determined thoughtfully, reaching up to run a hand through it, “or of aging at all, actually.”

“Neither had I,” Fox agreed. “Not for some time, anyway. But I suppose,” he ventured tentatively, “the prospect of it seems rather palatable—if I can do it with you.”

Brandt swallowed again, processing this.

And then he reached out, his fingers extending tentatively before they settled around Fox’s cheek.

“You will never grow old for me, Fox D’Mora,” Brandt promised him, and instantly made a face. “Yuck,” he said, extending his tongue. “Tastes terrible—”

Fox wanted to laugh; but then he’d gambled so much on one move, he wasn’t quite sure he could manage it yet.

“Better make a decision,” Fox said, drawing moisture to his throat. “I don’t have forever anymore, you know.”

The scar on Brandt’s lip leveled as he smiled.

Then he drew a golden apple from his pocket, eyeing it.

“Do other apples taste this good, you think?” Brandt asked, drawing it up towards his nose and taking a deliberate, careful sniff.

Fox held his breath.

“Well, I suppose I’ll find out soon enough,” Brandt mused, and shifted to place the apple on the table beside them, centering it right where Fox had defeated Death to win the immortal game.

Fox waited, holding his breath, and knowing that whatever Brandt said next could equally enrich or destroy him.

“Will you love me, Fox D’Mora,” Brandt asked neutrally, not taking his eyes or his hand from the apple on the table, “for as long as you walk the earth?”

An easy question, much to Fox’s relief.

He reached out, catching Brandt’s wrist.

“Longer,” Fox promised.

And this time, when Brandt kissed him, he didn’t pull away.

“Is this really necessary?” Fox asked the archangels. “We’re not dead.”

“No, you aren’t,” Raphael said. “So thankfully, you’re really not our problem.”

“Still,” Gabriel sighed, “we do have to close the inquiries.”

“Okay,” Brandt said. “So what do you want us to say?”

“That you won’t do it again?” Raphael asked, glancing at Gabriel for confirmation. “Is that right?”

“That’s a good start,” Gabriel confirmed.

“Hold on,” Fox interrupted. “You want us to say we won’t get unwillingly dragged into an immortal tournament—again?”

“Or is it the whole ‘replicating a ledger that ends up getting one or two people killed’ thing that’s bothering you?” Brandt mused, not looking up from his fingernails.

“Both. Neither,” Gabriel said.

“We don’t know,” Raphael admitted.

“Though we should really talk about your ledgers,” Gabriel added accusingly. “Do you have any idea how much adultery is on here?”

Fox glanced at Brandt, frowning. “You?”

“You,” Brandt corrected. “Though yes, I had some moments.”

“You seduced a married goddess,” Raphael reminded him.

“I said I had moments,” Brandt countered defensively.

“There’s also unbelievable amounts of theft—”

“You,” Fox informed Brandt firmly.

“And you,” Gabriel told Fox.

“Okay, but—less,” Fox insisted.

“You’re both relatively terrible,” Raphael informed them. “Are you sure you want to be mortal? It’s going to be a highly questionable life.”

“I think we can manage to get it together,” Fox assured him.

“And if we don’t,” Brandt added, “we’ll just come here and work for you, won’t we?”

Raphael and Gabriel exchanged a glance, grimacing.

“Oh,” Brandt added. “And by the way, I’m keeping the key.”

Raphael sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Of course you are,” Gabriel muttered.

“What was your plan, godling?” Raphael demanded. “How did all of this possibly work out so favorably for you?”

“We know for a fact Fortune hates you,” Gabriel added.

“Well, in fairness, there were many opportunities for it to go horribly wrong; though, I suppose it was less of a gamble than you might think,” Brandt said, glancing at Fox. “I was never going to accept Fox as a prize from Volos, obviously—I’m not stupid.”

“There’s no point pretending to be innocent, either,” Fox informed him, and Brandt rolled his eyes.

“You,” he pronounced with a sigh, “don’t know the half. Don’t you two remember?” he prompted, turning to the archangels. “I knew you’d pick a mortal, and obviously I knew that Fox would be the obvious choice to play the game.”

“You did no such thing,” Raphael scoffed.

“You? Predict our movements? Impossible,” Gabriel sniffed.

“Fine,” Brandt said, shrugging. “Then it’s a mystery.”

“No, don’t do that,” Fox ventured brusquely. “You seemed genuinely surprised when you found me at the Parker house. Did you know this was going to happen then?”

“I was genuinely surprised to see you,” Brandt confirmed. “It had been a possibility, certainly, but I hardly have any gifts for omniscience,” he said, gesturing to the archangels. “I, of course, can’t see everything that may or may not come my way.”

“But then how did you know it would be me they would choose?” Fox pressed. “Or that I would go with you, after everything? Or that I could even win?”

Brandt sighed. “So many questions, lillegutt—”

“Don’t,” Fox growled, and Brandt laughed; the boundless, limitless chuckle belonging to a man who possessed happiness at last.

“Perhaps,” Brandt said, turning slowly to face him, “I just had a little faith.”

“So that’s it, then,” Iðunn said sadly, running her fingers across Brandt’s final book of everything. “The godson of Death defeated the immortal game, ran away with the son of a god, and now his tale is over?”

“Oh, the story’s far from over,” Fox assured her, glancing at Brandt, who nodded. “And we can come back and visit you, of course. There doesn’t have to be a trade involved.”

“That sounds lovely,” Iðunn said, sighing. “Well, I’ll miss hearing your stories until then, gudssønn. I’m afraid I’ll be quite lonely without them.”

Brandt bent down, brushing his lips against her cheek.

“I thank you for my youth,” he told her, “and for everything you made me see about my world.”

“And I,” she replied, “thank you for sharing all of it with me.” She glanced up, smiling briefly at Fox. “Though I can see now that his world now belongs to you, the master of Death.”

“Oh, that’s just a story,” Fox told her, managing a smile in return. “I’m just a regular mortal. Nothing special.”

“I doubt that very much,” Iðunn said, running her hands over the leather volume. “Is any of it real?” she asked, gesturing to the worn pages inside and looking up at them, her expression bright and hopeful.

“All of the important bits, yes,” Brandt said.

“Some of the dialogue may be misremembered,” Fox said, shrugging.

Iðunn’s lovely smile broadened as she reached out her hand to Fox, taking his fingers lightly.

“Then go,” she told them. “Have your lives together, and may they be long and full of wonder.”

She released his hand, and Fox turned to Brandt, stepping back to permit the other man’s farewell.

“Was that another of your immortal benedictions?” Brandt asked quietly. “I find those to be something of a blessing and a curse, you know.”

Iðunn laughed her youthful laugh, dousing them both with beauty.

“No,” the goddess replied, her voice warm. “No, gudssønn, not this time. This time,” she murmured, “it’s just a silly woman’s wish.”

A Word From Our Sponsor

You know something? Only a mortal could have won it, now that I think about it.

Not just any mortal, obviously, but the game was designed to go on forever by beings who only know how to go on forever, so by extension, only a being who understands how to end could have ended it.

Fucking dizzying, I know.

I won’t keep you much longer. I just wanted to say that I started this whole sad episode of mortal tomfoolery with the details of your world, and the Otherworlds, and perhaps now you understand. Or perhaps you don’t. It’s not your fault. You’re not designed to understand everything as I understand it. But I thought perhaps you might wish to take a lesson from Fox; though he is not, in any way, an apt role model for anything else. As I’ve said, I would not recommend him as a friend, or a counselor, or a lover, or basically anything of consequence unless you wish to rob a bank, or commit a heist.

Or, alternatively, win some sort of high-stakes gamble for humanity.

Fox says he’s cleaning up his act now, true, but he’s young still (in the scheme of things) and I’m sure he’ll slip up again at some point as he wanders from world to world. He is, after all, a right little shit, however dearly I may love him, and the godling is no great influence, as I’m sure you’ve sorted out. I might have chosen someone else for my godson, but as I understand it, that’s not my imposition to undertake, so I suppose I shall simply continue my tasks of undertaking.

(Get it? That’s a pun, which I’m told is the height of wordplay.)

While I have you here, though, let me remind you that although Fox D’Mora is technically the master of Death—having bested me, as you know, in an immortal game of wills—that does not mean that he keeps a golden lasso tied around my neck, or anything of the sort. Can we rid ourselves of this misconception, please? It’s libel. A veritable massacre of my faultless reputation. True, Fox D’Mora is hardly your average mortal; he wears a ring that was made for him by the son of a god, and yes, he used to have the relic of an angel and and a reaper, and he once wore a watch belonging to Time, but that’s it. He’s gotten very carried away with telling the story; though, again, I attribute that particular flagrance to the godling.

Writers. They have such an unforgivable tendency for lies.

In any case, I have a number of things to do, so I’m going to leave you with this: try not to take it personally when I see you again. It’s bound to happen, after all, and I’d like to be able to keep it friendly between us, if we can. We’re both simply fulfilling our purposes, aren’t we? You’re a mortal, and I’m Death. It could never have gone any other way.

But, if Fox is to be believed, then it isn’t the worst thing to meet an end.

To have lived is, as he tells it, reward enough in itself.

(But, of course, he’s full of shit, so—)

(Chances are, he’s lying.)

Acknowledgements

The book before you would not exist without a number of people in my life. Special thanks to my mother, for listening to my ramblings about my very, very recalcitrant plot; to my godmother, for teaching me about vampires; and to my fathers for endless support, even though I know perfectly well you had no idea what I was talking about. Tine, thank you for helping me craft my Norse godling. Editing credits and eternal love to Aurora (my rant friend and goddess of the dawn), Cynthia (the first person to ever read this book in its entirety), and Sally (my murder pal and bouncy wall): thank you to each of you for helping me clean up my mess.

And, of course, last but not least, a heaping mound of gratitude to my famed illustrator and friend Little Chmura, who is responsible for bringing my characters to life and for (thankfully) taking the cover out of my hands and giving me a masterpiece: you are a blessing, and I will never be able to repay you for the beauty you bring to my work.

As for the story, you may have noticed I employed some real locations in Chicago along with some fictional ones. I called the city home for three years, and I found myself attached enough to affectionately alter its history. Some notes on the characters: the Parker family is based on the legacy of Potter Palmer, whose Lake Shore mansion no longer exists, but certainly served as excellent inspiration. The ‘Parker Curse’ is based loosely on the ‘Kennedy Curse’ (no demons that I know of, though) while the backstory for Fox is based (also loosely) on the story ‘Godfather Death’ by the Brothers Grimm. (That one doesn’t end so well for the godson—just a warning.)

I often say that writing is a lonely process; I am alone right now, actually, drinking a Red Bull (not a sponsored statement, although willing to consider selling out—hit me up, Red Bull) and hoping I didn’t make a mess of the characters who swam into my brain and demanded their stories be told. I’ve been pondering how to put everything I’m feeling into words, and I think it is summed up insufficiently with: thank you. I consider myself a storyteller (an artist, on my good days) and I am nothing without someone to consume my work. This story means a great deal to me, and I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading it. If all has gone perfectly to plan, then perhaps I have given you something that stays with you for a while. If everything has gone terribly, then … I’ll sort that out in the next book.

For now, suffice it to say once more that it has been an honor to put these words down for you. I very much hope you’ve enjoyed the story.

xx, Olivie

Keep reading for a sneak peek of

Alone With You in the Ether

© 2019 by Olivie Blake

a hypothesis

THERE WOULD BE TIMES, particularly at first, when Regan would attempt to identify the moment things had set themselves on a path to inevitable collision. Moments had become intensely important to Regan, more so than they had ever been. Considering it was Aldo who had altered the shapes and paths of her thinking, it was probably his fault that she now considered everything in terms of time.

Her own hypothesis was fairly elementary: There was a single moment responsible for every sequence thereafter. Regan wasn’t the science enthusiast Aldo was—and certainly not the genius he was, either—but her view of causality was methodical enough. Everything was a consequence that rippled out from some fixed point of entry, and it had become a game of hers (probably stolen from him) to expose the genesis from which everything else had sprung.

Had it begun the moment Aldo met her eye? Was it when he said her name, or when he told her his? Had it been the moment she’d told him Get up, you can’t sit there, or did it have nothing to do with him at all? Could even that moment have been the product of something begun days, weeks, even lifetimes prior?

With Regan, everything came down to sacredness. She liked, in the time between docent tours, to wander her favorite parts of the Art Institute, which she typically selected to match the religiosity of her moods. Which was not to say she gravitated to religious art specifically; more often she aimed to match her private longings with the god (who was sometimes God, but not always) being worshipped through a polished frame. In early Catholic paintings, she looked for awe. In modern work, for sleekness. In contemporary, the vibrancy of dislocation. Deities themselves had changed over time, but the act of devotion had not. That was the torment of it, of art, and the perpetual idolatry of its creation. For every sensation Regan could conjure, there was an artist who had beautifully suffered the same.

The wandering was a foregone conclusion—a constant, as Aldo would say—but the armory, that day, was not. When Regan had chosen to visit the armory in the past it had been because it stood for the sacredness of purpose: there was no frivolity here. Instead there was the irony of peace; empty shells of weaponry, garish red walls, fossils of conquest. It reminded her of a time when people still committed their violence eye to eye, which gave her a paradoxical sense of gratification. It was intimate because it was not. It was religious because it was not. It was beautiful because, at the heart of it, it was twisted and soulless and ugly, and therefore it mirrored something masochistic in Regan herself.

Her choice of the armory that day implied Significance; it had the ripple effect of Consequence, cosmically so. But then what had been the cause? Had she met Aldo there because fate had willfully intervened, or because they already possessed such similar forms of rumination? Was it inevitable, god descending from machine, or was it because she had been vacant where he was vacant, and therefore both would inevitably seek to be filled?

Did it matter where it started, and would it matter where it would end? Either yes, it mattered very much, because everything was a consequence of something and therefore what became of them was somehow predetermined, or no, it did not matter at all, because beginnings and endings were not as important as the moments that could have happened or the outcomes that might have been. Either it was everything to know the whole story, to look back and see the shape of it while standing along its periphery; or it was nothing, because things in their entirety were less fragile and therefore less beautiful than the pieces within the frame.

By the end, Regan would know the answer. Having turned a corner from where she’d been, she would come to recognize that it was less a question of when everything had happened and more a surrendering to when there had been no turning back. It was always a matter of time in the end, just as it had been in the beginning.

Because for once, in a moment that was either everything or nothing, there would be someone else in Regan’s universe, and from there everything would be as it was, only very slightly different.

part one, befores.

THE DAY BEFORE was nothing special. It was special only because of how unspecial it was, or perhaps by how unspecial it would very soon become. Things were always stranger in retrospect, which was a funny little consequence of time.

Aldo, who was called less frequently by his surname, Damiani, and even less commonly by his birth name, Rinaldo, had rolled a joint five minutes prior to his episode of silent meditation. He was twirling it between his fingers, staring into nothing.

SCENE: The air that afternoon has the crisp, weatherless quality that only happens in Chicago for about a week in mid-September. The sun is bright overhead, and the leaves on the tree above him are mostly undisturbed.

ACTION: Aldo raises the joint to his lips, saturating the cigarette paper.

The joint was unlit, because he was thinking. He’d come out to this park to sit on this bench to solve something, and he had been sitting there for ten minutes, thinking for nine and a half, rolling for four and now fake-smoking for a good thirty seconds. Muscle memory, Aldo had always thought, was the key to unlocking any door that wouldn’t open. The act of solving something was, for him, as superstitious as anything.

ALDO glances at the audience. Noticing nothing amiss, he looks away.

The mechanics of his ritual were simple: Raise the joint to his lips, breathe in, breathe out, let his hand fall. This was the formula. Formulas he understood. He brought the joint to his lips, inhaled, and exhaled into nothing.

A BREEZE slides through the leaves overhead.

Aldo’s right thumb beat against his thigh, percussive to the rhythm of Grieg’s In the Hall of Mountain King

CUE SOUNDTRACK.

which then infected the rest of his fingers. They drummed against the threading of his jeans, impatient, while his left hand continued the motion of faux-smoking.

Aldo was thinking about quantum groups. Specifically, hexagons. It was Aldo’s firm belief that the hexagon was the most significant form in nature, not purely because of his fondness for the Apis—commonly known as the honeybee—but not entirely unrelated. Many people were typically unaware how many kinds of bees there were. The bumblebee was slow and stupid enough to be petted, which was sort of sweet, though not quite as interesting.

THE NARRATOR, AN AGING, ARTHRITIC MAN IN POSSESSION OF MANY BOOKS: We interrupt your perusal of Aldo Damiani’s intrusive thoughts to provide some necessary academic insight. The great Kurt Gödel, a twentieth-century logician and friend of Albert Einstein, believed that a continuous trajectory of “light cones” toward the future meant that one could always return to the same point in spacetime. It is Aldo Damiani’s essential thesis that these cones travel methodically, perhaps even predictably, along hexagonal paths.

Hexagons. Quantum groups. Symmetry. Nature loved balance, especially symmetry, but rarely managed it. How often did nature create perfection? Almost never. Math was different. Math had rules, finite and concrete, but then it just kept going. The problem and the thrill of abstract algebra was that Aldo had been studying it in depth for over seven years, and he could study it for seven million more and still understand almost nothing. He could spend infinite lifetimes studying the mathematical basis of the universe and the universe would still not make sense. In two weeks it might snow, might rain sideways, and then this park would not be available to him. He could get arrested for not-smoking or die at any moment, and then he’d have to do his thinking in jail or not at all, and the universe would remain unsolved. His work would never be done, and that alone was tragic, exhilarating, perfect.

Right on schedule,

FROM ALDO’S POCKET: a vibration that prompts the audience to reach instinctively for their own pockets.

his father called.

Aldo tucked the joint into his pocket and dug out his phone. “Hello?”

“Rinaldo. Where are you?”

There was a long answer and a short answer, and Masso would probably insist on both. “Working.”

“You mean school?”

“Yes, Dad. I work at school.”

“Mm.” Masso already knew that, but the asking was another ritual. “What are you thinking about today?”

“Bees,” said Aldo.

“Ah. The usual, then?”

“Yes, something like that.” There was never an easy way to explain what he was working on. It was nice of his father to ask, but they both knew that anything Aldo had to say was mostly lost on him. “Everything okay, Dad?”

“Yes, yes, fine. How are you feeling?”

There was a right answer to this question and many, many wrong ones. This question, much like quantum groups, did not get any easier the more times Aldo was asked. The more times he ran the scenarios, in fact, the more the variables changed. How was he feeling? He had been bad before. He would be bad again. It would cycle and fluctuate the same way the weather would. It would rain in two weeks, he thought.

THE WIND picks up slightly, tendrils of it slipping through the leaves.

“I’m fine,” Aldo said.

“Good.” Masso Damiani was a chef, a single father, and a worrier, in that order. Masso thought about the universe often, the same way Aldo did, but differently. Masso asked the universe how much salt to boil in the water, or whether this vine or that one would provide the sweetest fruit. He knew when the pasta was done without looking, probably because of the universe. Masso had the gift of certainty and did not require any superstition.

Aldo’s mother, a lively Dominican girl too young for motherhood and too beautiful to stay long in one place, had never been very present. If she had ever asked anything from the universe, Aldo imagined she’d probably gotten what she wished.

“Rinaldo?”

“I’m listening,” Aldo said, though what he meant was I’m thinking.

“Mm,” Masso said. “Did you try the museum?”

“Maybe tomorrow. It’s nice out today.”

“Is it? That’s good. Rare.”

SILENCE.

Masso cleared his throat.

“Tell me, Rinaldo, what are we doing today?”

Aldo’s mouth twitched slightly. “You don’t have to keep doing this, Dad.”

“It helps, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, of course, but I know you’re busy.” Aldo checked his watch. “It’s nearly lunchtime there.”

“Still, I have two minutes. Or so.”

“Two minutes?”

“At least.”

ALDO hums to himself, thinking.

“Well,” said Aldo, “I think maybe today we’re on the ocean.”

“What year?”

He considered it. “When was the Trojan War?”

“About … 12th century B.C.?”

“Yes. That.”

“Are we fighting, then?”

“No, we’re leaving, I think. Journeying.”

“How is the wind?”

“Poor, I suspect.” Aldo took the joint between his fingers again, rolling it slowly. “I think we may be at sea quite a while.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll just have to find out again tomorrow, then.”

“You don’t have to, Dad.”

ALDO says this every day.

“True, maybe I won’t.”

So does MASSO.

“What’s the special today?” Aldo asked.

“Ah, porcini. You know I like to mark the season with truffles.”

“I’ll let you get to it, then.”

“Okay, good idea. Are you going back now?”

“Yes, I have to teach soon. At three.”

“Good, good. Rinaldo?”

“Dad?”

“You are brilliant. Tell your mind to be kind to you today.”

“Okay. Thanks, Dad. Enjoy the fungi.”

“Always.”

Aldo hung up, tucking the phone back into his pocket. No answers today, unfortunately. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Maybe not for months, years, decades. Luckily, Aldo was not a ‘right now’ sort of person. It had once been a quality that frustrated the other people in his life, but he’d gotten rid of most of them by now.

He glanced over his shoulder at his bike,

PROP: a 1969 Ducati Scrambler.

which slid easily through traffic and pedestrians and, as far as Aldo was concerned, through time and space as well. Why anyone would own a car rather than a bike was beyond him, unless they were opposed to the possibility of accidents. He had broken his arm once, scarring up the side of his shoulder.

If he were a ‘right now’ sort of person, he’d probably get on his bike and drive it directly into Lake Michigan, which was why it was probably best that he wasn’t. Aldo was a ‘maybe tomorrow’ sort of person, so he tucked the joint back in his pocket and picked up his helmet from the bench.

ALDO rises to his feet and inhales deeply, thinking about hexagons.

Turns, he thought. One of these days he’d hit a corner and there’d be something else on the other side; something very like this, only 120 degrees different. He mimicked a boxing pivot to the left, struck a left hook, and then kicked a little at the grass.

Maybe tomorrow, everything would be different.

REGAN, MEANWHILE, had begun the exact same day by shooting upright in bed.

SCENE: A lavish master bedroom. Shoes have been mislaid. Articles of clothing have been flung. Whatever has happened here, no mother would approve.

ACTION: Regan squints at the clock, which reads an abysmal 2:21 P.M.

“Well, fuck me entirely,” Regan announced to the room.

Beside her Marc rolled over with a groan, managing with great difficulty to expel a series of unintelligible male sounds. Regan presumed them to be a version of “I’m sorry darling, explain?” and answered accordingly.

“I’m going to be late.”

“For what?”

“My fucking job, Marcus,” Regan said, sliding her legs out from beneath the duvet and stumbling upright. “You know, that thing I do from time to time?”

“Doesn’t the Institute have those … what are those things,” Marc grumbled, shoving his face back into his pillow. “You know, the little … radio things. For people who can’t read placards.”

“The audio guides?” Regan said, pressing a hand to her temple. Her head spiritedly condemned her poor decisions with a decisive throb. “I’m not a walking audio guide, Marc, I’m a docent. Astonishingly, people might notice if I’m not there.”

THE NARRATOR, A MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN WITH A BRISK INTOLERANCE FOR NONSENSE: Charlotte Regan has a degree in Art History and would likely say that she has dabbled in art herself, which is in many ways an understatement. She graduated college at the top of her class, which had been no surprise to anyone once upon a time; except maybe her mother, who considered the top of a liberal arts program to be the equivalent of being, say, the winner of a dog show. Among the things Charlotte Regan was not was her older sister Madeline, who’d finished at the top of medical school, but that is of course not relevant to the subject at hand. Presently, Charlotte Regan is a docent at the Art Institute of Chicago, a coveted role at one of the oldest and largest art museums in the United States. Charlotte’s mother would say it’s a glorified volunteer position rather than a job, but that, again, is not relevant at this time.

While many things made Regan #blessed,

THE NARRATOR, DISAPPROVINGLY: She is being sarcastic.

primary among them was her hair, which was characteristically perfect, and her skin, which was generally resistant to the consequences of her lifestyle. Genetically speaking, she was built for waking up late and rushing out the door. A swipe of mascara would do the trick, and maybe a rose-tinted lip stain for the high bones of her cheeks, just to make her look slightly less dead. She pulled out one of her black sheath dresses and a pair of black ballet flats, twisting the Claddagh ring on her finger. Then she reached for the earrings she’d stolen from her sister’s room after college graduation: the little teardrop garnets that made her ears look like they were slowly weeping blood.

She paused to eye her reflection with something of a honed ambivalence. The dark circles were getting notably worse. Luckily her mother had given her the East Asian genes for eternal youth and her father had given her a trust fund that made people think twice about rejecting her, so it didn’t really matter whether she slept or not. Regan pinned her nametag to her chest, pricking her thumb only once in the process, and stopped to eye the finished product.

“Hi,” she said to the mirror, practicing a smile. “I’m Charlotte Regan, and I’ll be your guide to the Art Institute today.”

“What?” Marc asked groggily.

“Nothing,” she said over her shoulder.

They’d fucked last night to moderately successful results, though Marc never got particularly hard when he’d done that much cocaine. But at least she’d gone home with him. At least she’d gone home at all. There had been a moment when she might have opted not to; when a stranger standing in the corner near the back of the room might have been the more interesting choice, whereupon she might have hazarded a little sashay his way. All it would have taken was a breathy laugh, a sly Take me home, Stranger, and then wouldn’t it have been so easy? There were a million spidery webs of possibility in which Regan had not come home, had not slept with her boyfriend, had not woken up in time for work, had not woken up at all.

She wondered what she was doing out there in all those mirror-shards of lives unlived. Maybe there was a version of her who had woken up at six and gone jogging on the lake path, though she doubted it.

Still, it was nice to consider. It meant she possessed creativity still.

This version of herself, Regan calculated, had fifteen minutes to get to the Art Institute, and if she believed in impossibilities she would have believed it to be impossible. Fortunately or unfortunately, she believed in everything and nothing.

She fingered the bloody tears of her earrings and pivoted sharply, eyeing Marc’s shape beneath the sheets.

“Maybe we should break up,” she said.

“Regan, it’s seven in the morning,” Marc replied, voice muffled.

“It’s almost two-thirty, dipshit.”

He lifted his head, squinting. “What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

“Mm.” He burrowed his face in his pillow again. “Okay, sure, Regan.”

“We could always just, I don’t know. See other people?” she suggested.

He rolled over with a sigh, propping himself up with his elbows.

“Regan, aren’t you late?”

“Not yet,” she said, “but I will be, if you want.” She knew he wouldn’t.

“We both know you’re not going anywhere, babe. All your stuff is here. You hate inconvenience. And you’d have to use condoms again.”

She made a face. “True.”

“Have you taken your pills?” he asked.

She glanced at her watch. If she left in five minutes, she’d probably still make it.

She considered what she could do in five minutes. This isn’t working, I’m not happy, it’s been fun—that would take what, thirty seconds? Marc wouldn’t cry, which was something she liked about him, so it wouldn’t be terribly inconvenient. Then she’d have four and a half minutes to gather up the things that mattered and throw them into a bag, which would really only require about two. Which would then leave two and half minutes. Ah, but thirty seconds for pills, she kept forgetting. Five seconds to take them but twenty or so to stare blankly at the bottles. Which … what could she do with the remaining two minutes? Eat breakfast? It was nearly two-thirty. Breakfast was out of the question, temporally speaking, and besides, she wasn’t sure she could eat yet.

Motion from the clock suggested that Regan’s five minutes for flight had dropped to four. There’d be such a terrible restriction on her time now unless she recalculated, rescheduled. Changed her priorities.

“I have to do something,” she said suddenly, turning away.

“Are we breaking up?” Marc called after her.

“Not today,” she told him, snatching the orange bottles from their usual place beside the fridge before making her way to the bathroom. She set the pills aside and pulled herself onto the sink, hiking one leg upright to rest her heel atop the marble counter, and slid her hand under her seamless thong, unlocking her phone with her free hand. She’d never enjoyed porn, finding it kind of … upsettingly unsubtle. She preferred mystery—craved it like a drug—so she pulled up a password protected note on her screen.

THE FIRST PHOTO is a grainy shot of a nondescript male hand under a short skirt, positioned lasciviously between the slim curves of female thighs. The second is a black-and-white image of two female torsos pressed together.

This, Regan determined, was worth it. This was the better decision. She could have ended her relationship, true, but instead she had these four minutes. No, three and a half. But she knew her physicalities well, and therefore knew she’d need only three, tops. That left at least thirty seconds.

With the remainder of her time, she could do something very Regan, like tucking her underwear into Marc’s jacket pocket before she kissed him goodbye. He’d find it later that evening, probably while he was schmoozing with some bespoke-suited exec, at which point he’d sneak into a bathroom stall and take a picture of his dick for her. He’d expect something in return, probably, but in all likelihood she’d be sleeping. Or maybe she wouldn’t have come home at all. What a mystery, her future self! The possibilities were fascinatingly mundane and yet, somehow, perfectly endless, which was close enough to elation itself.

She came, biting down on the sensation, and exhaled.

Forty-five seconds.

REGAN reaches for the bottle of pills and says nothing. She wonders how long it will be until she feels something again.

ALDO WAS GETTING HIS PH.D. in theoretical mathematics, which meant a broad variety of things depending on who he was saying it to. Strangers were typically impressed with him, albeit in a disbelieving sort of way. Most people thought he was joking, as people who looked like him did not typically say the words “I’m getting my doctorate in theoretical mathematics” unironically. His father was proud of him but blindly, having been bewildered by most things Aldo had done or said for the majority of his life. Others were unsurprised. “You’re one of those brainy fucks, right?” Aldo’s dealer used to say, always asking about the chances of winning this or that, and though Aldo would remind him that statistics was a practical application, i.e. applied math, his dealer would simply shrug, ask something about life in outer space (Aldo didn’t know anything about life in outer space) and hand him the items he’d requested.

Aldo’s students detested him. The truly gifted ones tolerated him, but the others—the undergraduates who were taking calculus to satisfy requirements for study—positively loathed him. He lent very little thought to why, which was likely part of the problem.

Aldo was not an especially good communicator, either. That was what the drugs had been for to begin with; he was an anxious kid, then a depressed teen, and then, for a brief period, a full-blown addict. He had learned over time to keep his thoughts to himself, which was most easily accomplished if his brain activity was split into categories. His mind was like a computer with multiple applications open, some of them buzzing with contemplation in the background. Most of the time Aldo did not give others the impression he was listening, a suspicion that was generally correct.

“Exponential and logarithmic functions,” Aldo said without preamble, walking into the poorly lit classroom

SCENE: A university classroom.

and suffering the usual itch to dive out its institutional windows. He was exactly one minute late, and, as a rule, was never early. Had he been any earlier to arrive, he might have had to interact with his students, which neither he nor they wished him to do.

“Did anyone struggle with the reading?”

“Yes,” said one of the students in the second row.

Unsurprising.

“What exactly is this used for?” asked a student in the back.

Aldo, who preferred not to dirty his hands with application, loathed that particular question. “Charting bacterial growth,” he said on a whim. He found linear functions banal. They were mostly used to simplify things to a base level of understanding, though few things on earth were ever so straightforward. The world, after all, was naturally entropic.

Aldo strode over to the whiteboard, which he hated, though it was at least less messy than chalk. “Growth and decay,” he said, scrawling out a graph before scribbling g(x) beside it. Historically speaking, this lecture would be extremely frustrating for all of them. Aldo found it difficult to focus on something that required so little of his attention; conversely, his students found it difficult to follow his line of thought. If the department were not so hard-pressed for qualified teachers, he doubted he would have been promoted to lecturer. His performance as an apprentice had been less than stellar, but unfortunately for everyone (himself included), Aldo was brilliant at what he did.

The university needed him. He needed a job. His students, then, would simply have to adapt, as he had.

For Aldo, time in the classroom regularly slid to a crawl. He was interrupted several times by questions that he was required by university policy not to remark were stupid. He enjoyed solving problems, true, but found teaching to be more tedious than challenging. His brain didn’t approach things in an easily observable way; he unintentionally skipped steps and was then forced to move backwards, usually by the sound of some throat-clearing distress at his back.

He knew, on some level, that repetition was required for some base level of learning—extensive boxing training had been part of his self-inflicted rehab, so he knew the importance of running the same drill over and over until his head pounded and his limbs were sore—but that didn’t stop him from lamenting it. It didn’t keep him from wishing he could walk out of the room, turn a corner, and head in an entirely different direction.

Theoretically speaking, anyway.

THE FIRST OF THE DAY’S TOURS included an elderly couple, two twenty-something women, a handful of German tourists, and what Regan furtively ascertained (having made it a custom to check for rings whether she was interested in the outcome or not) to be a married couple in their mid-thirties. The husband was staring at her, poor thing. She knew that particular stare and was no longer especially flattered by it. She’d started using it to her advantage as a teenager, and now simply stored it among her other tools. Philip’s head, paintbrush, saturation scale, the attraction of unavailable men; it was all the same category of functionality.

This particular husband was good-looking, sort of. His wife had a pretty but unremarkable face. Likely the husband, a “catch” by virtue of what Regan guessed to be a practical job selling insurance, saw the Chinese mixing with Irish in Regan’s features and considered it some sort of exotic thrill. In reality, she could have been the genetic combination of half the Art Institute’s current occupants.

“I’m sure many of you will recognize Jackson Pollock’s work,” Regan said, gesturing to the Greyed Rainbow canvas behind her.

THE NARRATOR, A TEENAGE GIRL WHO IS BARELY PAYING ATTENTION: The piece Greyed Rainbow by Jackson Pollock is basically just a black surface covered with splotches of grey and white oil paints with, I don’t know, some other colors at the bottom. It’s like, abstract or whatever.

“One of the most remarkable features of Pollock’s art is how tactile it is,” Regan continued. “I encourage you to step forward to witness the painting’s depths up close; the layers of paint have a distinct solidity you will not find elsewhere.”

The Wife stepped closer, eagerly eyeing it upon Regan’s suggestion, and the others followed suit. The Husband hung back, hovering in Regan’s eyeline.

“Amazing they even call this art, isn’t it? I could do this. Hell, a six-year-old could do this.” The Husband’s gaze slid to hers. “I bet you could do it much better.”

Regan estimated his dick to be average-sized, and while that wasn’t necessarily problematic, the fact that he probably didn’t know what to do with it was. A pity, as he was handsome enough. He had a pleasant face. She guessed that he was unhappily married to his college sweetheart. She would have guessed high school girlfriend, given how that was relatively standard for people with his Minnesotan drawl, but he seemed like a late bloomer. She caught the faint pitting from acne scars on his forehead, which was a detail that most people probably missed—but they wouldn’t have missed it in the tenth grade, and Regan didn’t, either.

She had a couple of choices. One, she could fuck him in a bathroom stall. Always an option, and never not worth consideration. She knew where to find privacy if she wanted it, and he seemed like he’d probably strayed once or twice already, so there wouldn’t be a lot of easing his conscience beforehand.

Of course, if she wanted mediocre dick, that was deplorably easy to find without picking this mediocre dick. Out of all the things in the museum to focus his attention, the fact that Regan was his object of choice said far more about him than it did about her.

It could be a diverting ten minutes. But then again, she’d had more fun in less.

“Jackson Pollock was highly influenced by Navajo sand painting,” Regan said, her own gaze still affixed to the painting. “With sand,” she explained, “the process is just as important as the finished product; in fact, more so. Sand can blow away at any moment. It can disappear in a matter of hours, minutes, seconds, so the process is about the moment of catharsis. The reverence is in making art—in being part of its creation, but then leaving it open to destruction. What Native Americans did with sand, Jackson Pollock did with paint, which is perhaps an empty rendition of it. In fact, he never openly admitted to adopting their techniques—which makes sense, as it’s far closer to appropriation than it is to an homage. But could you do it?”

She turned to look at The Husband, sparing him a disinterested once-over.

“Sure, maybe,” she said, and his mouth twitched with displeasure.

The art is always different up close, isn’t it? she thought about saying, but didn’t. Now that he knew she was a bitch, he wouldn’t bother pretending to listen.

Eventually the tour ended, as all tours did. The Husband left with The Wife without having fucked any docents that day (that she knew of, though the night was still young). Regan readied herself for the next tour, feeling a buzz in her blazer pocket that meant Marc had found the underwear she’d left for him.

Everything was so cyclical. So predictable. At one point, Regan’s court-appointed psychiatrist had asked her how she felt about being alive,

THE NARRATOR: That whole thing was honestly so stupid.

and Regan had wanted to answer that even when it was never exactly the same, it seemed to follow a consistent orbit. Everything leading to everything else, following the same patterns if you happened to look closely enough. Sometimes Regan felt she was the only one looking, but she’d given the doctor a more tolerable answer and they’d both gone home satisfied, or something. Mostly Regan had felt thirsty, a result of her recent lithium increase. Dehydrate even a little and the pills would gladly offer her the shakes.

“Saint George and the Dragon,” Regan said, pointing out the painting to the next tour. A visiting family’s teenage son was staring at her breasts, and so was his younger sister. There’s no rush, Regan wanted to tell her. Look how warped the Medieval works are, she wanted to say, because there’s no perspective; because once upon a time, men looked at the world, took in all its beauty, and still only saw it flat.

Not much has changed, Regan thought to assure the girl. They see you closer than you are, but you’re further from reach than either you or they can imagine.

ALDO LIVED IN A BUILDING OF LOFTS that had once been occupied by a printing company in the early twentieth century. Initially he’d lived closer to the University of Chicago, on the city’s south side, but restlessness had driven him north to the South Loop, and then slightly east to Printer’s Row.

SETTING: Printer’s Row is a neighborhood south of the Chicago downtown area known as the Loop. Many buildings in this area were once used by printing and publishing businesses but have since been converted to residences.

It was warm this evening, the air still playing host to remnants of summer’s humidity, and Aldo opted to take advantage of an evening run. He didn’t live particularly far from the lake path

THE NARRATOR, AN OVERZEALOUS CUBS FAN: Nowhere in the city of Chicago is ever too far from the lake path!

but he often preferred to run on city streets. The beat of his stride against pavement was too similar to a pulse sometimes. Without interruption, it was disquieting. Made him too conscious of his breathing.

That, and the path was often occupied.

After his run was shadow boxing, bag work, occasional sparring. Aldo wasn’t training for anything, as such, but he supposed he was ready if it came. He’d always been naturally wiry and thin

THE NARRATOR: One of them skinny little shits like my cousin Donnie, eh?

and lacking much in the way of ego or temper. Generally speaking, Aldo was unlikely to get into any sort of street fight, much less a formal boxing ring. He just liked the reminder that, from time to time, he retained the option of adrenaline and pain.

After three or so hours he’d come home, locate a couple of chicken breasts, probably some spinach, and definitely some garlic, for which he didn’t use a press. (Diced garlic was an outrage, as his father had told him many times, an abomination for its lack of taste. When it came to garlic, Masso said, it would have to be crushed or whole—no exceptions.)

Few people ever came to Aldo’s apartment, but the ones who did had commented without exception on the sparseness of his possessions. It was an open-air loft with red Ikea cabinets and modern stainless-steel appliances, and Aldo owned exactly one pot and one pan. Two knives: a Santoku knife and a paring knife. His father had always said that was all anyone ever needed. Aldo did not own a can opener or an ice tray. He did own a pasta maker, though he preferred to make ravioli or tortellini the way his nonna had insisted. Adalina Damiani had taught both her son and her grandson to cook, but while Masso found cooking to be a religious experience, Aldo considered it something best reserved for special occasions, or homesickness. Though, in his experience, most people considered religion precisely the same way.

On nights when Aldo couldn’t sleep (i.e., most of them), he would head up to the roof to light whatever remained of the joint still languishing in his jacket pocket. He specifically chose the type of marijuana reserved for bodily aches and mindlessness, soothing the prattling going on at the back of his head. His bones would cease their frantic motions for the evening, and inevitably his body would buzz, searching for something new to fill its vacancies.

AND NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, we are proud to present … Aldo Damiani’s thoughts!

Buzz. Bees. The honeybee’s wings flapped 11,400 times per minute, which was what created the buzzing sound. Bees were known for industriousness and organization; see also, the phrase ‘worker bee.’ That, plus determination; a beeline. Aldo was similarly single-minded, even if he was many-thoughted. He floated out on an exhale, adrift and out to sea.

He would have to try something different tomorrow, since his problem solving had not been particularly fruitful that day. He had a number of favorite places within the hive of the city, and typically bounded around between them. The top floor of the public library was an atrium called the Winter Garden, though Aldo couldn’t understand why. There was no particular season involved, but there was a pleasing vastness, a certain proximity to the heights and the heavens, and it was frequently empty. The concrete beams lofting up the glass ceiling would descend on him in hexagonal shadows, and if he positioned himself correctly beneath them, perhaps something new would occur to him. Otherwise, there was always the Lincoln Park Zoo, or the art museum. It was often quite busy, but to the right eye, it still contained places to hide.

THE NARRATOR: Foreshadowing, baby!

Aldo exhaled the taste of burning, the film of it coating his tongue, and then put out the smoldering end of the joint. He had as much of a buzz as he needed, and sleep felt pointless for the night.

Aldo disliked the sensation of being asleep. It felt something very close to being dead, which was an uncomplicated and therefore troubling state of being. He wondered if bees felt that way when their wings stopped beating. Though, he wondered if they ever did. He wondered what a bee would do if it knew its life’s work was contributing to the ecosystems of fancy toasts. Would that be enough to compel it to stop?

Doubtful.

Aldo made his way back to his apartment and fell onto his bed, staring up at the track lighting overhead. He alternated between opening one eye, then the other. He could read, maybe. He could watch a movie. He could do anything, really, if he wanted.

11,400 beats per minute was really something.

He closed his eyes and let his mind wander, settling into the buzz of his thoughts.

“SO, CHARLOTTE—”

Regan fought the urge to flinch and ultimately managed it, opting instead to tuck one ankle behind the other and angle herself slightly away, facing the window. She itched to cross her legs—to fold in on herself entirely—but some habits couldn’t be unlearned, and her mother had taken her social cues from Queen Elizabeth: no legs crossed. Regan suspected she would have also been forced to wear pantyhose, too, if anyone had ever bothered to make it in her skin tone.

“How are your moods lately?” the doctor asked. She was a nice enough woman; well-intentioned, at least. She had a comforting, matronly air to her and the sort of bosom Regan imagined grandchildren nesting into. “You mentioned during our last session that you sometimes feel restless.”

Regan knew enough about the practices of clinical psychology to recognize that ‘restlessness’ in this particular space was code for ‘mania,’ which was in turn code for ‘falling into her old ways’—at least, if her mother were here to translate.

“I’m fine,” Regan said, which wasn’t code for anything.

In fact, she was fine. She had enjoyed her walk here from the Art Institute, passing Grant Park as she aimed herself towards Streeterville. The streets were buzzing with people, which was why she liked it. It felt very alive and full of possibility, unlike this particular room.

Regan often opted to take a meandering path on her way to her bi-weekly appointments, passing contemplatively by all the doors she might have entered while the shops were closing and the restaurants were starting to fill. She had been thinking about what she might want to eat that evening—pasta sounded good, but then again pasta always sounded good, and either way prosecco sounded better—and whether or not she’d make it to yoga in the morning when she’d suddenly recalled that she had yet to check her phone.

THE NARRATOR, A BELOVED KINDERGARTEN TEACHER: Regan’s consistent unreachability was once a carefully honed practice that had gradually become a habit. When Regan was younger, she had coveted the prospect of a call or a text; it meant, primarily, attention. It meant that she had filled the vacancy of someone else’s thoughts. Then, after a while, she began to understand that there was power in devaluing her worth to others. She started to place limits on herself; she wouldn’t check her phone for ten minutes. Then for twenty. Eventually she’d space hours between, making a point to direct her thoughts elsewhere. If others were forced to wait for her time, she thought, then she would not have to owe so much of herself to them. Now, Regan is so very talented at being completely unreliable that people have started to call it a weakness. She takes some pride in their misconceptions; it means people can always be fooled.

“How are things with your boyfriend?” asked her psychiatrist.

On Regan’s phone had been the expected dick pic from Marc; he was wearing the white Calvins that Regan had bought for him some weeks after they’d moved in together.

THE NARRATOR: Marc Waite and Charlotte Regan met at a bar about a year and a half ago, back when Regan was planning a gallery opening with a friend. She’d selected the venue, determined the artists and the pieces, and then she’d met Marc. He’d been going down on her in the bathroom of the Hancock Signature Room—in Regan’s opinion, the best view of the city was from the women’s restroom on the 95th floor—when she received a voicemail from her father listing the ways that her subject of choice, The Fraught Lies of Beauty, was inappropriate for someone who had only narrowly avoided federal prison for white collar crime. “There’s candor, Charlotte, and then there’s hubris,” he’d ranted into her voicemail. She had not actually listened to the message until close to three days later.

“What’s your boyfriend’s name? Marcus?”

“Marc,” Regan said, which he preferred. “He’s fine.”

Which he was, generally speaking. He was something-something hedge funds. He didn’t ask for very much from Regan, which was ideal, because she didn’t typically give very much. If they tired of each other, they simply didn’t speak. They were good at occupying each other’s spaces. She often thought of him as an accessory that matched with everything; some sort of magical mood ring that adapted to whatever persona she had currently filled. When she wanted silence, he was silent. When she wanted to talk, he was generally apt to listen. When she wanted sex, which she often did, he was easily persuaded. Eventually she would marry him, and then everything she was would vanish into his name. She’d attend parties as Mrs. Marcus Waite, and no one would ever have to know a thing about her. She could shrug him on like some kind of cloak of invisibility and vanish entirely from sight.

Not that he wanted her to. If there was one thing Regan would willingly say about herself, it was that she was an ornament, a novelty, a party trick. She was the center of attention when she wished to be, quick-witted and charming and impeccably dressed, but those types of girls grew dull when there were no eccentricities or blemishes. The world loved to take a beautiful woman and exclaim at the charm of her single imperfection; Marilyn Monroe’s mole, or Audrey Hepburn’s malnutrition. It was the same reason Marc took no issue with Regan’s past. He didn’t mind that she had once required reinvention; she doubted he’d take an interest in her if he couldn’t elevate himself with her flaws.

“You’ve been getting along lately, then?”

“Yes,” Regan said. “We’re fine.”

They always got along, because getting along required the least of their energy. Marc would consider a fight to be a poor use of his time. He liked to smile at Regan when she argued, preferring to let her tire herself out.

“And your family?” the psychiatrist asked.

Regan’s phone had contained two voicemails: one from her psychiatrist asking if she could come to her session an hour earlier (she hadn’t received it and had come at her usually scheduled time, it was fine, nobody died), and one from her sister, earlier that evening.

“I know you won’t get this for like, a month,” Madeline said, “but Mom and Dad want you home for their anniversary party. Just let me know if you’re bringing someone, okay? Seriously, that’s all I need. Just text me back a number. One or two, but zero is not acceptable. And don’t just send me a cryptic series of gifs again, it’s not as funny as you think. Are you going to wear that wrap dress you just bought? Because I was going t- ah, hang on, Carissa wants to speak to you.” A pause. “Honey, you can’t tell me you want to speak to Auntie Charlotte and then refuse.” Another pause. “Sweetheart, please, Mommy is very tired right now and you’re going to lose your good behavior stickers. Do you want to talk to Auntie Charlotte or not?” A long pause, and then a shrill giggle. A sigh, “Okay, fine, whatever. Carissa misses you. Though, I can’t believe I have to say this, but please do not buy her more chewing gum, that peanut butter trick only does so much. God, she’s just like you as a kid, I swear. Alright, bye Char.”

Regan thought about Carissa Easton, who was probably wearing a lace headband, perhaps with bows, and a velvet dress whose washing instructions demanded dry cleaning; not simply ‘dry clean,’ which was simply the best method, but ‘dry clean only,’ which was the exclusive method, and which was a distinction that Madeline Easton, nèe Regan, would know.

THE NARRATOR: In reality, Carissa was not much like Regan. Her mother adored her, for one thing, and she was an only child, or at least a future oldest child. Carissa would be more like Madeline one day, which was precisely why Regan made a point to send her chewing gum.

“They’re doing very well,” Regan said. “My parents are having an anniversary party next month.”

“Oh?” asked the psychiatrist. “How many years?”

“Forty,” Regan said.

“That’s very impressive. It must be very beneficial to have such a stable relationship in your life.”

THE NARRATOR: Regan’s parents had slept in separate bedrooms since she was ten years old. In Regan’s opinion, marriage was very easy to do if you simply operated in totally separate spheres. If she were to chart her parents as a Venn diagram, the only three things in the center would be money, Madeline’s achievements, and what should be done about Regan.

“Yes, it’s wonderful,” Regan said. “They’re made for each other.”

“Is your sister married?”

“Yes. To another doctor.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize your sister was a doctor.”

“She is. A pediatric surgeon.”

“Oh.” It was an Oh, how impressive, as it usually was.

“Yes, she’s very smart,” Regan said.

Sibling rivalry was nothing new, though Regan didn’t exactly feel the need to disparage her sister. It wasn’t Madeline’s fault she’d been the more pleasing daughter.

Regan touched her garnet earrings, thinking about what she’d say when she called her sister back. The last thing she wanted was to bring Marc home, and certainly not for this party. Her parents hated him, but not in a fun way, and certainly not from a place of concern. They hated him because they didn’t particularly like Regan, either, but also there was a very palpable sense—to Regan, anyway—that their opinion fell somewhere along the lines of: At least Marc is sufficiently rich. He wasn’t after her for her money, and that, they exhaled, was a relief.

Madeline thought Marc abrasive, but Regan thought Madeline’s husband passive and uninteresting. He was all the worst things about doctors; all diagnosis, no bedside manner. Marc, on the other hand, was bedroom eyes and gregarious laughter, and had he ever told you about the time he lost a goat-milking competition to one of the locals in Montreux?

So, yeah. In Regan’s experience there was always room for disagreement.

“Anyway,” the psychiatrist said. “How is your volunteering going?”

“It’s fine,” Regan said.

The doctor meant the docent job, which had at least put Regan within the realm of art, even if she was no longer studying or creating it. Every now and then she looked around at the pieces and thought about picking up a brush, or possibly rushing out to buy some clay right after work. She had hands that itched to be busy, to be occupied by something or another, but it seemed every time she sat down lately, her mind simply went blank.

“Have you thought about what you’ll do next?”

Next. People were always thinking about what to do next. Other people were always planning their futures, moving ahead, and only Regan seemed to notice how the whole thing was just moving in circles.

“Maybe art school,” Regan said. A safe answer.

“That’s a thought,” the psychiatrist said approvingly. “And how are you adjusting to your new dosage?”

Beside the fridge lived five translucent-orange pill bottles. Regan took three in the morning and three at night (the lithium she took twice). One of them, a name she would probably never remember, was relatively new, and about as difficult to swallow as certain aspects of her personality. Taken with too little food, she got incurably nauseated. Taken too late at night, her dreams were so vivid she woke without any concept of where she was. She usually grimaced at the bottle before finally conceding to open it, placing it on her tongue and swallowing with a gulp of flat champagne.

“In my professional medical opinion, Charlotte Regan is unwell,” was the diagnosis by the psychiatrist that her lawyers (or more aptly, her father) had hired. “This is a young woman who is well-educated, intelligent, talented, and raised in a secure and loving home, and who has the capacity for great contribution to society. But it is my professional belief that her bouts of depression and mania make her easily led astray by others.”

The pill typically went down with the chalky, bitter taste of repetition. Regan was a spontaneous person who was now tethered to the mundanity of a routine—morning and night, plus the monthly blood tests just in case the pills that made her well decided to poison her instead—though she didn’t necessarily resent the doctor for that, either. Resentment seemed a pointless task, and was, like most things, far too much effort to conjure.

Later that night, Regan would take that pill and the rest of her pills and then wander into the bedroom she shared with Marc. The apartment was his space, full of his things and designed to his taste—he’d already owned it when she moved in and Regan hadn’t bothered purchasing anything since her arrival—but she could see why he wanted her inside it.

THE NARRATOR: Regan believes there are two ways to manipulate a man: either to let him pursue you or to let him pursue you in a way that makes him feel he’s the pursuit. Mark is the latter, and he loves her the same way she loves art, which Regan considers a pleasing form of irony. Because even when you know everything about how a piece is made, you’re still only seeing the surface.

“I feel much better,” Regan said, and the psychiatrist nodded, pleased.

“Excellent,” she said, scribbling something down in her notepad. “Then I’ll see you again in two weeks.”

Regan would go to bed before Marc returned home that evening, which was (unbeknownst to her) the occasion of her last normal day. She would pretend to be asleep when he curled naked around her. She would also leave for yoga before he woke up, and the day would proceed as it always did: with pills, water, a meager breakfast, and then to the museum. She would wander, eventually, through the variations of white-washed Jesus in the medieval corridor to the end of the European exhibition. The armory contained red walls, unlike the neutral tones of the other rooms, and featured a bodiless knight in the center, frozen in time as Regan and everything else continued around it.

Everything would be the same in there, precisely as it always was, except for one thing.

That day, there would be someone else inside the armory.

FOR THE RECORD, REGAN WASN’T the only one to speculate on the causality of it all. Aldo was a chronic wonderer, compulsive with his pondering, and therefore crises of meaning and sequence were fairly commonplace.

But unlike Regan, whom he had not yet met, Aldo could be patient with the concept of nothing. Emptiness repulsed Regan, filling her with abject terror, but the concept of zero was something that Aldo had come to accept. In his field of expertise, resolution was difficult (if not fully impossible) to come by. Answers, if they were to arrive at all, took time, which was why Aldo’s specialty was constancy. He had a talent for persisting, which his medical records would confirm.

The night before he met her, Aldo had resigned himself to the fact that an epiphany might never find him, or that it wouldn’t matter if it did. That was the risk with time, that knowing things or not knowing them could change from day to day.

On that day, Aldo believed a certain set of things wholly and concretely: That two and two were four. That of the lean proteins, chicken was most accessible. That he was trapped within the constraints of a maybe-hexagonal structure of spacetime from which he might never escape. That tomorrow would look like yesterday; would look like three Fridays from now; would look like last month. That he would never be satisfied. That in two weeks, predictably unpredictable, it might rain, and therefore in changing, everything would remain the same.

The next day he would feel differently.

THE NARRATOR, A FUTURE VERSION OF ALDO DAMIANI THAT DOES NOT YET EXIST: When you learn a new word, you suddenly see it everywhere. The mind comforts itself by believing this to be coincidence but isn’t—it’s ignorance falling away. Your future self will always see what your present self is blind to. This is the problem with mortality, which is in fact a problem of time.

Someday, Regan will tell Aldo: It’s very human what you do, and at first, he’ll think, No, not true, because bees.

But then eventually he’ll understand. Because until that night, Aldo had been comfortable with nothing, but he would eventually learn because of her: It isn’t constancy that keeps us alive, it’s the progression we use to move us.

Because everything is always the same until, very suddenly, it isn’t.

THE NARRATOR: If I’d known I would meet Charlotte Regan in the morning, maybe I would have gotten some fucking sleep.

ALSO BY OLIVIE BLAKE

The Atlas series

The Atlas Six

The Atlas Paradox

Alone with You in the Ether

One for My Enemy

About the Author

OLIVIE BLAKE is the New York Times bestselling author of The Atlas Six and The Atlas Paradox. As Alexene Farol Follmuth, she is also the author of the young adult rom-com My Mechanical Romance. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, new baby, and rescue pit bull. Find her at olivieblake.com, or sign up for email updates here.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

MASTERS OF DEATH

Copyright © 2018 by Olivie Blake

All rights reserved.

Cover and interior illustrations art by Little Chmura

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates

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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-1-250-88488-6 (ebook)

eISBN 9781250884886

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First Tor Ebook Edition: 2022

Contents

1. Title Page

2. Copyright Notice

3. Dedication

4. Prelude

5. I: Tales of Old

6. II: Communion

7. III: Management

8. IV: Reapers and Sowers

9. V: The Beautiful and Damned

10. VI: Modern Myths

11. VII: Miscreations

12. Interlude I: Acts

13. VIII: Open Season

14. IX: Cause and Effect

15. Interlude II: Wishes

16. X: Call and Response

17. XI: Assembly

18. XII: Touch

19. Interlude III: Games

20. XIII: Prized Possessions

21. Interlude IV: Snippets

22. XIV: Something Wicked

23. Worse Than They Thought

24. XVI: Put It On My Tab

25. XVII: Reinforcements

26. XVIII: Demons

27. Interlude V: Past is Passed, Part I

28. XIX: Roots

29. Interlude VI: Past is Passed, Part II

30. XX: Immortal Peril

31. XXI: The Tables

32. XXII: Arrival

33. XXIII: The Immortal Game

34. XXIV: The Thief, the Fool, and the Gamble

35. XXV: Deconstruction

36. XXVI: The Demon King

37. Interlude VII: Past is Passed, Part III

38. XXVII: Mortal Combat

39. Interlude VIII: Incorporeal

40. XXVIII: Sins of the Father

41. XXIX: Forever is a Gift (… and a Curse)

42. XXX: Masters of Death

43. XXXI: A Word From Our Sponsor

44. Acknowledgments

45. Excerpt: Alone With You in the Ether

46. Also by Olivie Blake

47. About the Author

48. Copyright