buildings with awe.
He’s like some ignorant hayseed,
Ayres thought.
The past is the functional equivalent of the middle of nowhere.
“Nice rings,” said a young man, stepping from a shadowy alley to block the sidewalk. He wore a baggy sweatshirt, and he lifted the hem to show the pistol in his waistband. “I wouldn’t mind having me some rings like that.”
Death didn’t even break stride, just walked on as if the mugger wasn’t even there. The man reached for his gun and tried to tug it out of his waistband, but it snagged on something, and Death just stepped right over him, kicking him almost incidentally as he passed, then stepping on his chest with his full weight when the man fell. The mugger started to sit up, cursing, and Ayres lashed out with his walking stick, cracking the boy in the side of his head. The lad groaned and lay still. Not dead, but no longer a threat. Death had nothing to fear from bullets, but Ayres was still mortal.
Booth paused, knelt, and took the pistol from the mugger’s waistband, tucking it into his own belt.
“Do you even know how to use that?” Ayres said peevishly. “Guns have come a long way since your day. What did you shoot Lincoln with? A flintlock? A
musket
?”
“A .44 caliber single-shot Derringer,” Booth said coolly. “A fine weapon, when held in a sure hand. Your buildings may be taller than those of my time, and your weapons more complex, but the essentials are the same, and I shall adjust accordingly.”
“Maybe I don’t want you to have a gun,” Ayres said.
“I am happy to accompany you, and assist you in your business, but do not presume to tell a gentleman whether or not he should carry a weapon, sir.”
“That’s it,” Ayres said. “I’m sending you back to Hell.”
Before Booth could speak, Death paused in his forward motion. “No, no. Keep him, Ayres. I like having him around. He reminds me of home, and I like the contours of his mind.”
“My lord, I must insist. He is insolent, disrespectful, troublesome—”
“All words that could describe you, and the way you’re addressing me.” Death frowned, only slightly.
Ayres bowed his head. “Apologies, my lord.” Inside, he seethed. Being dressed down, in front of Booth! The humiliation! He would raise another servant, a pliable servant, soon. If Death liked Booth’s company so much, let them stay together, then. Ayres’s nostrils suddenly filled with the unmistakable scent of decay, and his flesh began to itch, as if infested by beetles and maggots and grave-bugs. He squeezed his eyes shut and took shallow breaths, willing the hallucination away. His affliction returned to him in moments of stress and dismay, though he was always able to fight it back, thanks to his years of therapy. When the smell subsided, he opened his eyes, and Booth and Death were nearly a block ahead, side by side, talking. Ayres gritted his teeth and hurried to catch up.
“They’re here.” Rondeau sat with his back against one of the club’s support pillars, a shotgun across his lap, barrel pointed vaguely toward the front door. He had a mild magical connection to the club, Marla knew, which allowed him to sense the ebb and flow of crowds, and it was sufficient to tell him when their visitors had arrived.
“Oh, good,” Marla said. All the lights were on, and the club was bizarrely bright, looking far less spacious and cool with all its dirty corners and speckled floor tiles illuminated. Pelham was behind the bar, standing beside a row of mason jars containing live scorpions and mantids. They were sort of the magical equivalent of Molotov cocktails, already primed by Marla with long hours of enchanting, and they only needed to be thrown.
Marla gestured, and the doors flung themselves open, leaving Mr. Death and his associates squinting at the light. Well, the associates anyway. Mr. Death didn’t appear to take any notice, nor did the doors flying open give him pause. He walked in, smiling and nodding.
He’s like some ignorant hayseed,
Ayres thought.
The past is the functional equivalent of the middle of nowhere.
“Nice rings,” said a young man, stepping from a shadowy alley to block the sidewalk. He wore a baggy sweatshirt, and he lifted the hem to show the pistol in his waistband. “I wouldn’t mind having me some rings like that.”
Death didn’t even break stride, just walked on as if the mugger wasn’t even there. The man reached for his gun and tried to tug it out of his waistband, but it snagged on something, and Death just stepped right over him, kicking him almost incidentally as he passed, then stepping on his chest with his full weight when the man fell. The mugger started to sit up, cursing, and Ayres lashed out with his walking stick, cracking the boy in the side of his head. The lad groaned and lay still. Not dead, but no longer a threat. Death had nothing to fear from bullets, but Ayres was still mortal.
Booth paused, knelt, and took the pistol from the mugger’s waistband, tucking it into his own belt.
“Do you even know how to use that?” Ayres said peevishly. “Guns have come a long way since your day. What did you shoot Lincoln with? A flintlock? A
musket
?”
“A .44 caliber single-shot Derringer,” Booth said coolly. “A fine weapon, when held in a sure hand. Your buildings may be taller than those of my time, and your weapons more complex, but the essentials are the same, and I shall adjust accordingly.”
“Maybe I don’t want you to have a gun,” Ayres said.
“I am happy to accompany you, and assist you in your business, but do not presume to tell a gentleman whether or not he should carry a weapon, sir.”
“That’s it,” Ayres said. “I’m sending you back to Hell.”
Before Booth could speak, Death paused in his forward motion. “No, no. Keep him, Ayres. I like having him around. He reminds me of home, and I like the contours of his mind.”
“My lord, I must insist. He is insolent, disrespectful, troublesome—”
“All words that could describe you, and the way you’re addressing me.” Death frowned, only slightly.
Ayres bowed his head. “Apologies, my lord.” Inside, he seethed. Being dressed down, in front of Booth! The humiliation! He would raise another servant, a pliable servant, soon. If Death liked Booth’s company so much, let them stay together, then. Ayres’s nostrils suddenly filled with the unmistakable scent of decay, and his flesh began to itch, as if infested by beetles and maggots and grave-bugs. He squeezed his eyes shut and took shallow breaths, willing the hallucination away. His affliction returned to him in moments of stress and dismay, though he was always able to fight it back, thanks to his years of therapy. When the smell subsided, he opened his eyes, and Booth and Death were nearly a block ahead, side by side, talking. Ayres gritted his teeth and hurried to catch up.
“They’re here.” Rondeau sat with his back against one of the club’s support pillars, a shotgun across his lap, barrel pointed vaguely toward the front door. He had a mild magical connection to the club, Marla knew, which allowed him to sense the ebb and flow of crowds, and it was sufficient to tell him when their visitors had arrived.
“Oh, good,” Marla said. All the lights were on, and the club was bizarrely bright, looking far less spacious and cool with all its dirty corners and speckled floor tiles illuminated. Pelham was behind the bar, standing beside a row of mason jars containing live scorpions and mantids. They were sort of the magical equivalent of Molotov cocktails, already primed by Marla with long hours of enchanting, and they only needed to be thrown.
Marla gestured, and the doors flung themselves open, leaving Mr. Death and his associates squinting at the light. Well, the associates anyway. Mr. Death didn’t appear to take any notice, nor did the doors flying open give him pause. He walked in, smiling and nodding.
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