Anne Ursu - The Shadow Thieves

Really, Philonecron did not care about the Shades either, but he wasn't about to tell them that. Because the Shades outnumbered the Administrators at least five thousand to one. If someone could only incite them… It took him quite a while to get past all the Underworld Preservation protections and start collecting the blood. You couldn't just go waltzing through the doors to the Upperworld anymore; the only Immortal who could go through without a pass-besides Hades himself, and he never went anywhere-was Hermes, the Messenger. And there was just no bribing that guy. Philonecron had tried.

But he was not to be thwarted, and soon he figured out that since the Messenger was the only one who could get through the doors, all he would need to do was follow him out. The wing-footed fruitcake would be too busy showing off his speed to notice.

And he was. In and out of the doors of Death Philonecron went, lurking in the shadow of the Messenger. Even more so than he had expected-he had thought that once he was in the Upperworld, he would wander freely, yet once there, he found himself strangely drawn to Death, in fact, to the site of the same Death that had called the Messenger through the doors in the first place. He found, too, he could travel only so far from the Death before he was drawn back to it.

No matter. With Death, so often, came blood, lots of it, especially in this day and age. War and murder were everywhere, and firearms produced so much blood;

Philonecron wished he had invented them. Disease ate away at life bloodlessly, but in the vast, sterile buildings that housed the sick and dying there were great storage facilities of blood, almost as if someone there, too, had been trying to stage a coup in the Underworld. In a quieter Death scene, a heart attack by a lone man, there were always neighbors somewhere, sleeping too soundly to notice a quick exsanguination spell. Nothing too harsh. Just a couple of pints. You'll be a little dizzy in the morning. Rest up, drink some apple juice, you'll be fine.

Philonecron was patient. He spent years building up his supply, storing bottles in thick containers under piles in the refuse dumps. He knew they would keep; the Underworld was a natural refrigerator. The only problem would be keeping the Shades from sensing the blood too early-hence the use of the rubbish yard filled with the fetid flotsam of Administration life.

He lured customers gradually, peddling his product on his garbage rounds. "They'll be more where this came from," he would say. "Just you wait."

The Shades began to follow him on his rounds, lurking in the shadows to see if he might have something for them. He always did. More came, and still more.

"Come to the Vale of Mourning on the King's Anniversary," he would whisper. "I'll have something for you. Tell everyone."

The King and Queen's wedding anniversary was a Kingdom-wide holiday in Death. All Administration offices were closed. So you would think someone would have found it odd to see an extra-large garbage wagon making its way from the central refuse dump to the Vale of Mourning, but no one did. Nor did any of the Administrators think anything of the swarms of Shades that seemed to be following it. The Dead were an odd sort, prone to strange gatherings, and the Administrators didn't think much of it. Really, they didn't think about the Dead at all.

Even the Underworld Security Agency would be closed. The ten-foot-tall Sons of Argus, with their burly bodies and giant clubs, would be so full of wine and roasted Calydonian boar they wouldn't be able to see out of any of their one hundred eyes.

It was evening and a holiday. Time for fun. Time to frequent the ambrosia clubs and Anniversary galas. Time to drop by Tartarus (for Tartarus was always open for business) and watch the action, maybe buy a few souvenirs. Time to bathe in barrels of wine and darn the consequences. It's a holiday!

So there were thousands of Shades on the Vale that night, like a giant spectral army, all buzzing in expectation. And there, on top of his great wagon, was Philonecron, eight feet tall, swathed in a giant black robe, with a magnanimous smile stretched oddly across his pale, shadowy face.

"Drink up!" he shouted. "There's plenty for everyone!" He threw small jars one by one into the masses, and ghostly arms reached up and plucked them from the sky. "Don't be shy!"

More Shades came and still more; in front of Philonecron legions of Dead clamored and thronged. "I am Philonecron!" he shouted, hurling bottles everywhere. "Friend of the Dead!"

"Philonecron!" a few voices shouted, and then more. In front of his eyes the Shades were thickening, gaining definition, character, even speech. One by one the Dead had life again-they were laughing, hollering, shouting his name. And with definition, character, laughter, came something else. He saw it in their eyes. They had will. He had them.

"Would you like some more?"

"Yes!" they screamed, and he picked up the tremendous hose he had made from Minotaur intestine and began to drench the crowd.

And then he waited. He waited until every last Shade he could see had been touched by the blood. Hundreds, thousands of useless shadows becoming whole before his very eyes. And they had him to thank for it.

"Does King Hades give you blood?" he shouted.

"No!" they cried.

"No! He denies you the one thing you want most. Is that fair?"

"No!"

"Ladies! Gentlemen! What kind of a king denies his subjects what they most desire? What kind of a king deliberately keeps his people in shadow? Death need not be a phantom existence. With me, you could Live again!" He had been practicing this speech for decades.

He had it all thought through. "The Underworld is not for the gods, but for the Dead! For you! It's time to take it back!" He raised his arms up in the air, so excited by the speech that he did not notice the cheers of the audience were slowly weakening.

"Rise up!" he shouted. "Rise up against tyranny! Rise up! Follow me! We will have a new rule in the Underworld!"

That's when he noticed the immense shapes approaching him. He turned to look. Six Underworld Security Agents were lumbering toward him, clubs poised, apparently not glutted on Caledonian boar. Six hundred eyes blinked menacingly at him. Ten Griffins swooped down from the sky, howling and cackling, their enormous claws poised to rip into his skin. Three Erinyes appeared behind him, the snakes in their hair hissing wildly. And with them was the black, willowy form of Thanatos, riding in on a black winged horse, staring at him with an eerie composure that was marred only by a slight twitch in his left eyebrow.

The Erinyes grabbed him, pulled snakes from their hair, and tied his hands with them. Before they could gag him, he shouted to the throng in front of him, "See what they do? See? Knock down the Palace! Free yourselves!"

But it was too late. The effects of the blood were wearing off. They were becoming Dead again, Shades, phantoms, useless. They milled around aimlessly. Their will was gone.

Philonecron was pulled away. Thanatos appeared and raised his hands to the crowd. The Vale was silent.

"Go your ways, everyone," Thanatos said, his voice carrying as if through eternity. "There is nothing for you here."

Philonecron had expected to be sent to Tartarus -where there was a special chamber for disloyal Immortals. He wasn't afraid. Pain only made him stronger. He would come out eventually, he would begin his collection again, he would have enough blood to sustain the Shades through revolution, and then he could sit on Hades' ebony throne and lock all the Shades up in Tartarus for good. It would take time, but he would begin again. He would collect blood for years, decades, centuries if he had to. He would not fail next time.

But he was not sent to Tartarus. The Erinyes dragged him into Hades' Palace. Hades stood before him, a mountain of cold rage.