Queen of Nothing (Marla Mason Book 9) (12 page)

Ayres appeared before her, and she rose from her throne in alarm. One of his eyes was swollen shut, a gouge in his cheek bled, and he held one hand, twisted and withered, against his chest. His undertaker’s suit was singed and torn. “Majesty,” he said. “There is something terrible rising, in the depths of the primordial chaos.”

The queen scowled. She’d gone into the depths during her last month in the underworld, to kill a monster that had invaded her realm and fed on the souls of the dead... though in the end she’d been unable to kill the beast, and had been forced to make an accommodation with it instead. “Not that
dragon
again?”

“No, majesty, she departed as promised, and has not attempted to return. This is... something new. I questioned him, and he struck me. He is rising through the sea of afterlives now. He says he is coming here. He says he is coming for
you
.”

The air shimmered, and the queen suddenly wore elaborate armor made of bones, and ice, and precious metals. The terrible sword of Death appeared in her hand, glittering and envenomed. “Some monster thinks I am weak now, because my husband has died? He tries to strike at me because he thinks I cannot strike back? He will learn otherwise.”

“I am no monster, woman.” The voice reverberated through the cavern, booming and vast.

Ayres whimpered and crouched, squeezing his eyes shut.

A figured stepped into the light cast by the candles, and with every step he took, the throne room changed around him: the stone walls became bare rock, the candles smoky torches. He dragged a more primitive realm into immanence with him, and he seemed better matched to life in a cave than a palace: muscular, bronze-skinned, bare-chested and scarred, wearing rough-woven pants with a belt of rope, and no shoes on his feet. His body was that of a man, but his head was an immense bird’s skull, perhaps a vulture's. Red lights glowed and streamed in his ocular cavities, like embers rising on warm updrafts.

The queen brandished her sword. Whether she felt fear or misgiving was unimportant: she had her duty, and she would defend her realm. “How dare you come to this place uninvited? Those who do so often find it impossible to leave.”

He stopped a few feet away from the huddled form of Ayres, the edges of his cave shimmering against those of her palace. “I have no intention of leaving. Travel to the mortal world is a corrupting influence. I wish to remain pure.” He glanced at Ayres. “You were a horrible man, weren’t you? Avaricious, selfish, petulant, petty. You would have done even more damage than you did, if you’d had a stronger mind. Your afterlife has not been pleasant, I see, dwelling in a little world shaped by your own failings and fears... but it is not harsh enough for justice. You deserve a worse Hell. Go to it.” He gestured, and Ayres vanished.

The queen widened her eyes and tightened her grip on the sword. She tried to call her steward back, but though she could sense Ayres, she could no longer reach him. He was back in the bubble of his own afterlife, which—like all the afterlives of every soul in this place—was shaped according to his own expectations, decorated and populated from the jumble of his living memories and the vestiges of his living mind.

Or, at least, it had been. Now the interior of his bubble was full of fire, screams, pursuits, knives, and more terrible things: punishments inflicted on him by demons. She tried to reach through the barrier, to bring him out of that place of torment, but the permeable borders of his afterlife were solid as iron now.

She screamed and launched herself at the skull-headed interloper, but he merely crossed his arms, and the ground beneath her feet turned to mud, then solidified again around her ankles, holding her in place. The reality of his cave spread like ink through water, encroaching on her palace, overwriting the red velvets and dark walls with damp, unhewn stone.

He sat cross-legged on the ground before her, head cocked, and when she swung the sword at his head from her fixed position, he caught the flat of the blade between his palms, twisted his wrists, and wrenched the sword from her grasp. Her armor fell to pieces around her, bone and ice clattering on the cave floor. She stood in a shift of white cotton, and she trembled.

“There,” he said. “That’s better.” He adjusted his legs, sitting in the lotus position. “I am the new god of Death. The universe sensed the absence of the old god, and drew me into being. I floated in the dark at the bottom of the primordial chaos for a time, growing to understand the realm I was made to rule. I watched your return, and your attempt to set the ruin to right. I admit you are competent, in your way, but your fundamental principles are soft and corrupt. They simply won’t do.”

The queen frowned. “
You
are my new husband?”

He shrugged. “Technically, I suppose –”

“There is nothing technical about it. I am married to Death. That means I am married to you.”

“Traditionally, the mortal consort of the god of Death goes into oblivion with the god.”

“Traditionally, the god of Death and his consort rule for centuries or millennia, and pass on naturally, according to cycles of death and rebirth that are beyond even our understanding,
husband
. Traditionally, death isn’t murdered by a monster from another universe. I’m not sure what good relying on
tradition
will do us here, and anyway, I’m not going anywhere. I’m not the hurl-myself-onto-the-funeral-pyre type.” She scowled hard at her feet, exerting her will, and the floor released her feet. Rather than aim a kick at her new husband’s face, she sat down across from him. “We’re going to be working together. Frankly, I could use the help. Let us find a way to move forward, for the good of this realm, and the world beyond.”

He shook his head. “You
stink
of mortality, woman.”

“That mortal core is the whole
point
of me, husband. Death takes a mortal consort because his business is mortality, and it’s useful to have a reminder of what the living are actually like. I don’t like mortal-me all that much better than you do—she’s irrational and pig-headed and always thinks she’s right—but she serves an important purpose. Circumstances here can become a bit too rarefied and removed from the reality of the living.”

“Pig-headed? Always thinks she’s right? It is not only your mortal form that exhibits such qualities, woman. I have reviewed your tenure. You attacked my predecessor with his own blade, and altered his personality.”

“He was unpleasant. I made him better.”

“You
diminished
him. How do I know you won’t turn on me some day, and cut away those parts of myself you find objectionable?”

“I can make a promise. When gods promise, they stick. Though to be honest, you seem rather unpleasant, too. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a trim? I’m a deft hand with a magical scalpel.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You do not amuse. You, a creature born of man and woman, dare question, dare
change
, beings born of infinite possibility?”

“Who are you to question me? Who’s got more experience ruling Hell? You were
literally
born yesterday. Those scars on your chest are decorative. I’ve earned mine.”

“I may be new to this world, but I came to life infused with the wisdom of my forebears, and a more basic, fundamental understanding of the nature of my role and reality than you will ever possess. You had to learn to rule Hell: I was
born
knowing how. That is why my will is stronger than yours, here, and why the nature of this place responds to my desires more readily than yours.”

“You know, the old Death and I ruled as equal partners –”

“Nonsense. You were selfish. You insisted on spending fully half the year living as a mortal, leaving the old Death to shoulder the burdens of rule himself the rest of the time, juggling affairs in the underworld
and
the world above.”

“The Persephone clause wasn’t
my
idea. Take it up with my mortal self. I much prefer the distance and perspective godhood provides. That restriction seems to have been lifted, now, anyway, so I can stay by your side.” Somewhere inside the queen, her mortal self howled, and she thought of Bradley, Rondeau, Pelham, those mortals she was so attached too, and of the strangers she thought she could help, too. But the queen could ignore her mortal self’s outrage. In several decades, at most, her friends would be dead anyway, and dwelling here, as would any innocents Marla might have helped.
Everyone
came here eventually.

“I have no desire to rule beside you, woman. We have... differing ideas. You and my predecessor ran a remarkably lax realm. You truly let the dead souls organize their own afterlives?”

The queen shrugged. “Why not? They’re given a little bubble of primal chaos to shape as they see fit. Those who expect flames and damnation get it. Those who expect angels and harps get that. Those with less clear expectations end up in some sort of dreamland of their own unconscious devising. Most of them don’t even realize they’re dead. It keeps them occupied and at peace, mostly.”

He shook his vulture’s head. “Such freedom is offensive. I looked in on the afterlife of a man who was a deranged killer in his life, and his realm was horrifying, continuing his Earthly activities.”

The queen rolled her eyes. “Sure, but now all his crimes are committed against imaginary constructs. They’re no more real than daydreams. He’s not hurting anyone anymore.”

“Yes, but neither is he suffering for his crimes.”

“You want to punish him? Well, go ahead. I held the odd personal grudge or two from my mortal life, and made things unpleasant for some people, and improved a few afterlives, too. It’s petty, but gods can be permitted a little pettiness, I suppose. There’s no point in punishing anyone, though. The idea of eternal suffering as a deterrent for undesirable activity is already prevalent in the mortal world, without any need for it to be
true
—and anyway, the threat of eternal suffering is used to deter all kinds of harmless behavior, and frankly, it’s a lazy way to run a system of morality. Life’s hard enough for most people without making their afterlife hard, too
.
We aren’t in the business of rehabilitating people, either. There’s no point. They’re
dead
. They aren’t going anywhere. Why not let them stew in their own juices? It’s more practical.”

“There need to be consequences for those who commit transgressions in life.”

“Why? Look, as a mortal I was brutal, uncompromising, and unforgiving... but I was also a pragmatist. There already are consequences for people who do bad things. They get
death
. That’s not just the wages of sin; that’s the wages of everything.”

“We have fundamentally different worldviews. I believe in justice. Harsh, fair, and eternal.”

“Okay. But I’ve been a god, and a mortal, and something in between, so I know what I’m talking about, and you don’t. You want to torment the souls of the dead, for no reason, forever? That’s just sadistic.”

“That is justice. And that is how it shall be, from now on.”

“Not on my watch.”

“I am stuck with you as a consort, woman... but I don’t really need your help to rule here. I believe my earlier incarnations allowed themselves to be distracted. Meddling in Earthly affairs, easing the passage of souls, ushering in the seasons... none of that appeals to me. The dead will die, and come here, and this is the only realm I care about. I will cede the mortal realm to you, then: we will be married, but separated. If you love the living so much, so you may dwell among them.”

The queen hesitated. She would hate to give up her access to this wondrous realm, and taking on responsibility for the greening of the Earth was hardly playing to her strengths as a destroyer, but the core of her
did
enjoy life in the world above... it might not be such a terrible bargain to strike. She hardly relished the idea of ruling alongside this New Death, anyway. “What will you do with the underworld, if I cede control to you?”

“Cede? I will
take
control. I do not require your permission. As for my plans... it is time to return this realm to the classics. To the visions of Dante, and Bosch, and the nine hells of China, and the dark caves where the weeping dead eat clay and twitter like birds, and the icy caverns of Hel. You prefer to see the afterlife shaped by human imagination? That’s fine. I will look there for my inspiration as well.”

She shook her head. “And what about the guiltless? The blameless?”

“Mmm. The very young, perhaps, can be spared—they wouldn’t understand the terrors inflicted upon them anyway. But everyone else... no one is truly
blameless
. Even those lauded for their nobility in life held evil in their hearts.” He shrugged. “I may refine my system in time, but for now, blanket torment seems simplest. It will be appropriate for more of the dead than not.”

“So you want to turn my underworld of infinite variation into a scary theme park? No. It won’t happen. You don’t want to fight me, Death. War in Hell isn’t good for anyone.”

He stood up, and as he did, the throne room vanished, replaced by a gritty, ashen plane, beside a sluggishly flowing river. The terrible sword was in the New Death’s hand, now, and he approached her. The queen rose and stepped backward, retreating before his slow approach, though each step took her closer to that river’s banks.

“I’m not sure what would happen if I killed you,” the New Death said. “I’m not even certain I can. But I can certainly rid myself of you. Send you back to Earth, and out of my way.”

“You think you can just kick me out, birdbrain? That hasn’t worked too well for people, historically.”

“Your destiny is exile, woman. No one likes having you around.” His skull shifted, the beak drawing inward, the shape of the bones shifting, and now he had the skull of some dire-fanged wolf instead. “The water behind you is another of the classics: the river Lethe, where flow the waters of forgetfulness.”

“Yes, I
know
. We used to allow a little bit of Lethe water to be exported to the mortal world. There’s no better potion for selective memory erasure in the world.” She stopped on the shores of the river.