Death said.
Marla cocked her head. “You shouldn’t make threats like that. You don’t know what it does to me.”
“I cannot take the dagger from you by force, but I have powers you cannot begin to comprehend. I can banish you. I can make this city my plaything, and make you irrelevant. The dagger—”
“Right,” Marla said. “The dagger. See, the thing about this dagger is, it can cut through anything. Hell, we saw what it did to your fingers. That got me wondering. Flesh may be a convenience for you, maybe that body is just a costume you put on, but there’s some essential
you
underneath…and I want to see if it bleeds.” She leapt, dagger in her hand, and Rondeau fired his shotgun at Death just as Pelham hurled two mason jars full of chittering ensorcelled insects over the bar.
The shotgun was loaded with crystals that would freeze Death on contact and slow him down, so he couldn’t move with that horrible inhuman speed, and the jars with their insects were venomous bombs that would poison and weaken him, screw up his magics and leave him dizzy and confused and, soon, dead. Of course, those attacks wouldn’t work as well if he was
really
a god, which seemed more likely now than it had a few hours ago—at least, if Ayres could be believed. But Marla’s dagger shouldn’t care if he was a god or not. Marla’s dagger was a simple thing. It cut. Whatever touched the blade parted against it.
Time slowed. The shotgun pellets held still in the air. The mason jars hung, unexploded, in mid-arc. Marla, too, was suspended, paralyzed, but still aware. Death walked toward her, hands clasped behind his back. “Sad.” He plucked a single hair from her head and twined it around his fingers, the wet follicle dangling. “Listen. I’m banishing you now. You will not be allowed into Felport until you agree to relinquish the dagger. I trust you’ll come to your senses quickly.” He tucked a little silver bell into her pocket. “When you’re ready to make a deal, ring that, and I’ll hear, and appear before you. But don’t bother ringing it until you’re ready to give in. I’ll be most unhappy if you summon me under false pretenses. You don’t want to make me unhappy. Do you know why? Because I’m a
god,
you stupid woman.”
Marla couldn’t strike, couldn’t speak. He looked at the dagger in her hand longingly, sighed, and flicked his fingers. Everything went black, and the blackness moved around Marla with tremendous speed, and she was afraid.
“Oh, sweet unholy fuck.” Rondeau stared at the spot where Marla had just been. He gestured at Death with the barrel of his apparently useless gun. “If you just disintegrated Marla, I’m going to break this gun off in your ass, pretty boy.”
“Mind your tongue!” Ayres’s voice quivered with indignation or fear or some other emotion Rondeau couldn’t be bothered to puzzle out.
Death chuckled. “Fear not, little man. I’ve just sent her to the time-out corner until she’s ready to behave. Only banishment, not execution. In the meantime, I’ll be running things here in Felport. I’m sure she’ll come to her senses soon, but until then, I’ll have to keep myself entertained somehow. First, of course, I’ll need oaths of loyalty from Marla’s former subjects. You may kneel before me here.”
“How about you kneel,” Rondeau said. “I’ve got something long and hard for you to suck while you’re down there.” He grinned and hefted the shotgun. “I mean this, of course. I run a family establishment.”
“But then again,” Death said, unruffled, “perhaps it would be better for you to swear fealty in a more regal setting. Where is Marla’s throne room?”
“Throne room? Are you kidding? Do you believe this guy, Pelly?” Rondeau turned toward the bar, expecting to see the valet there, but Pelham was gone, or else hiding. Rondeau frowned. Pelly hadn’t struck him as the cowering type, more a stiff-upper-lip-in-the-face-of-adversity kind
Marla cocked her head. “You shouldn’t make threats like that. You don’t know what it does to me.”
“I cannot take the dagger from you by force, but I have powers you cannot begin to comprehend. I can banish you. I can make this city my plaything, and make you irrelevant. The dagger—”
“Right,” Marla said. “The dagger. See, the thing about this dagger is, it can cut through anything. Hell, we saw what it did to your fingers. That got me wondering. Flesh may be a convenience for you, maybe that body is just a costume you put on, but there’s some essential
you
underneath…and I want to see if it bleeds.” She leapt, dagger in her hand, and Rondeau fired his shotgun at Death just as Pelham hurled two mason jars full of chittering ensorcelled insects over the bar.
The shotgun was loaded with crystals that would freeze Death on contact and slow him down, so he couldn’t move with that horrible inhuman speed, and the jars with their insects were venomous bombs that would poison and weaken him, screw up his magics and leave him dizzy and confused and, soon, dead. Of course, those attacks wouldn’t work as well if he was
really
a god, which seemed more likely now than it had a few hours ago—at least, if Ayres could be believed. But Marla’s dagger shouldn’t care if he was a god or not. Marla’s dagger was a simple thing. It cut. Whatever touched the blade parted against it.
Time slowed. The shotgun pellets held still in the air. The mason jars hung, unexploded, in mid-arc. Marla, too, was suspended, paralyzed, but still aware. Death walked toward her, hands clasped behind his back. “Sad.” He plucked a single hair from her head and twined it around his fingers, the wet follicle dangling. “Listen. I’m banishing you now. You will not be allowed into Felport until you agree to relinquish the dagger. I trust you’ll come to your senses quickly.” He tucked a little silver bell into her pocket. “When you’re ready to make a deal, ring that, and I’ll hear, and appear before you. But don’t bother ringing it until you’re ready to give in. I’ll be most unhappy if you summon me under false pretenses. You don’t want to make me unhappy. Do you know why? Because I’m a
god,
you stupid woman.”
Marla couldn’t strike, couldn’t speak. He looked at the dagger in her hand longingly, sighed, and flicked his fingers. Everything went black, and the blackness moved around Marla with tremendous speed, and she was afraid.
“Oh, sweet unholy fuck.” Rondeau stared at the spot where Marla had just been. He gestured at Death with the barrel of his apparently useless gun. “If you just disintegrated Marla, I’m going to break this gun off in your ass, pretty boy.”
“Mind your tongue!” Ayres’s voice quivered with indignation or fear or some other emotion Rondeau couldn’t be bothered to puzzle out.
Death chuckled. “Fear not, little man. I’ve just sent her to the time-out corner until she’s ready to behave. Only banishment, not execution. In the meantime, I’ll be running things here in Felport. I’m sure she’ll come to her senses soon, but until then, I’ll have to keep myself entertained somehow. First, of course, I’ll need oaths of loyalty from Marla’s former subjects. You may kneel before me here.”
“How about you kneel,” Rondeau said. “I’ve got something long and hard for you to suck while you’re down there.” He grinned and hefted the shotgun. “I mean this, of course. I run a family establishment.”
“But then again,” Death said, unruffled, “perhaps it would be better for you to swear fealty in a more regal setting. Where is Marla’s throne room?”
“Throne room? Are you kidding? Do you believe this guy, Pelly?” Rondeau turned toward the bar, expecting to see the valet there, but Pelham was gone, or else hiding. Rondeau frowned. Pelly hadn’t struck him as the cowering type, more a stiff-upper-lip-in-the-face-of-adversity kind
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