Anne Ursu - The Shadow Thieves

"Philonecron," he said, his black eyes burning. "You are banished. You have betrayed me, and my world is forbidden to you now. You may never set foot in the Kingdom of the Dead again. You will spend all of eternity wandering through the empty plains of Exile." He turned to go. Philonecron squirmed. Hades stopped, turned, and added, "Oh, and have a nice life."

For one year Philonecron wandered around the outskirts of Death, forbidden by Hades' very words to cross the threshold into the Kingdom. He slept in a cave and spent his days wandering the outer banks of the Styx with the Unburied- the lost souls who, for one reason or another, Charon would not ferry into Death.

He practiced his spell casting (there was a great advantage to having a demon father) and performed experiments on the Unburied. He followed the Messenger into the Upperworld nearly every day to collect blood, but as the days went by, he could not help but despair. He would never have enough, he could never keep the Shades alive long enough to overthrow Hades. He was a general with no army.

Then one day something happened. He was out on a blood-gathering round; the scent of Death had taken him to the body of an old woman somewhere in England. She had died peacefully, bloodlessly, and Philonecron would have to look elsewhere. But something struck him about the tableau in front of him. It was a typical deathbed scene: a family-a man, a woman, and a boy- tears rolling down their cheeks, heads bowed, whispers hanging in the still air. But there was something unusual about it. Something off. Something that caught his eye. The light in the room – no, no; the position of the body-no, no. It was the boy. There was something strange about the boy.

Philonecron could not believe what he was seeing. But it was true. There was no denying it.

The boy's shadow was loose.

GATHER SOME CLAY FROM THE BANKS OF THE STYX. You may have to bribe Charon to look the other way, but that's easily done. It would be better to use clay from the other bank, the one in the Underworld, but you cannot go there. So you make do.

Take the clay. Soften it well with Stygian water. Form it into the shape of a man.

Pause for a moment and think about your place in history, think about how the Titan Prometheus did just this, so long ago, to make the race of Man.

Well, not quite this.

Take one Unburied. Don't use force. Be gentle. You need his loyalty. Tell him you will make it worth his while. Tell him you are going to change things.

Show him the corpse of clay.

Tell the Unburied to lie down. Right inside it. It won't hurt a bit.

Watch as the clay embraces his shadowy form.

Now take an urn of ram's blood. Pour it over the body. Don't be shy. Drench the clay.

Say the magic words.

Wait.

Wait…

Purse your lips.

Think.

Take an urn of human blood. Pour it over the body. Drench the clay. Don't be shy.

Say the magic words.

Wait.

Wait…

Purse your lips.

Think.

Raise up your arm.

Mutter a few words.

Let the skin on your arm open, then the vein, and let your own blood, your half-demon-half-god blood, drip over the clay form.

Say the magic words.

Wait…

There!

Behold.

A limb twitches. And again. Clay skin adheres to clay bone. Unburied spirit relaxes into molded form. Fingers wriggle. Eyes open. Mouth. He blinks up at you, you nod, and he slowly lifts his body out from the ground that birthed him. Clay falls from him. He stands, he looks his body up and down. Feet. Shins. Knees. Thighs. Hips. Stomach, chest, shoulders, arms… it's all there. He is a man, or something very like a man. His body seems to stretch before your eyes, the stocky frame becomes too tall now, too thin, soon he stands as tall as you do, you, his master, but he looks as though you could break him with a glance. His death-white skin stretches tautly over his frame. His face is like a white clay skull. His eyes are yellowed, like memory. His lips are gray and scaly.

Well, you say, looking him up and down.

And then you make more.

Soon you have twelve- a good number, an Olympian number-and you line them up, one by one, murmuring to them, murmuring to yourself. You have twelve, all identical, except for the letter of the alphabet you carve into each of their foreheads to signify the order they were made. You have twelve of them in front of you, their clay skin crackling, their every bone painted in shadow, and you hold your arms out magnanimously and say:

My children. My people. How beautiful you are.

We are one, you and I. We are the same.

We are citizens of Exile, and I am your leader.

Together we will make a Kingdom.

But we will not be content to stay here, for we must take back what has been denied to us.

Soon we will rule the Underworld.

But we need an army. And you are going to help me get it.

Their eyes drink in your meaning. You survey them up and down. Your eyebrow arches. You clear your throat. You clap your hands together and say:

Right … let's get you some clothes, shall we?

THE MORNING AFTER HIS GRANDMOTHER 'S DEATH ZEE woke up feeling odd. This was to be expected-his grandmother had just died, and her death had been an unwelcome intruder in dream after restless dream the night before. So when he awoke, he found himself feeling achy and exhausted. He was torn between letting sleep carry him off again and trying to shake it off and face the day. But if he fell asleep, he'd eventually have to wake up and remember all over again that Grandmother Winter was dead.

Zee decided that once was enough. He rubbed his eyes and stretched in the bed. He sat up. As soon as he was upright, a wave of dizziness flooded over him. His eyes filled with black, then the whole world seemed to go black, and he lay back down again. He exhaled, squeezed his eyes closed, and slowly sat up.

Much better.

He yawned, stretched, and stood…

And had to sit down again.

After a few minutes of steady breathing Zee managed to get up without any more problems, though his muscles still felt like dried-out clay. And his chest was filled with a burning, hollow feeling that was not remotely physical.

Eventually Zee made it to breakfast, where, once again, his grandmother was not. His mother was there, sitting in the big green easy chair in the living room, wrapped in an afghan and staring off at nothing. She gave Zee a long hug and touched his cheek. Zee made his way into the kitchen, feeling his muscles protest a little. His father was scrubbing some pots in the kitchen sink.

"Hey," he said gently "Can I make you something?"

"Sure," Zee said.

Mr. Miller opened the fridge and took out a big pack of sausages and some eggs. He poured a tall glass of orange juice and brought it over to Zee, squeezing his shoulder softly. Zee drank the juice down.

"How're you holding up?" his dad asked quietly.

Zee shrugged. His dad sat down at the table and put his arm around him. They sat for a moment, and his father seemed about to say something but then stopped when he noticed Zee's face. "You know," he said, "you look awfully pale… are you feeling all right? I mean physically…"

"Yeah, um… I feel a little off today"

"Well," Mr. Miller said, standing up, "let's get you a nice big breakfast, shall we?"

After breakfast (eggs and many, many sausages, which did help Zee feel better) his father sat down and talked to him gently about what would happen next. There would be a small funeral on Friday in Exeter. Afterward Mr. and Mrs. Miller would stay for a week or two to tie everything up. It would be a lot of work, and Zee could go back to London after the funeral if he wanted.