Trent Jamieson - Death most definite

Lissa sighs. "What you gonna do, eh?"

Mike laughs. "Yeah."

I reach out a hand, pat his wrist and he's gone. I grunt with the pain of it, hunched over. Then I cough.

Every one of these is getting worse, and there's only ever going to be more of them. Souls always take the path of least resistance. As the number of Pomps fall, the souls of the dead are going to go to the closest Pomps they can find, and they're going to come in hard and fast. Sure, some will use Stirrers but if I had a choice of a nice well-lit hallway or a cave dripping with venom, I know which one I'd pick. Doesn't mean I like it.

"I'm doing your job for you," Lissa says, as I straighten with the slow and unsteady movements of the punch-drunk. It seems a long way up to my full height. And there's blood in my spit: a lot of it. My mouth is ruddy with the stuff.

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

"Some punters need talking down. That guy didn't even need it and you still couldn't manage to be professional."

I raise my hands. "Whoa, you're being much too hard. For Christ's sake, I don't even know if there's a job now."

Lissa flits around me. "As long as they keep coming to you, you do your job." Her eyes are wide and set to ignite. "You didn't want this? Well, neither did I, boy. But we chose this, none the less, when we chose to do what our parents did. Without us, without you, things are going to get bad and fast. So do your job."

"Yeah, well, easy enough when you're not experiencing each pomp." I can feel the sneer spreading across my face. "I'm bruised on the inside. My job is going to get me killed." One way or the other it will, I'm certain of that now.

"Maybe, maybe not," Lissa says. "But you've got to keep moving, and you've got to keep sucking it up. Death doesn't end."

"What the hell do you think I'm doing?" I demand, while not moving at all. My hands are on my hips, and I've a growl stitched across my face, my jaw bunched up so tight it hurts.

"Stopping, wandering aimlessly, a little bit of both." Lissa counts out on her fingers. "Oh, and I could throw in some misdirecting of anger."

She's right of course, but I'm not going to admit it.

I'm walking toward the river-there, that's a destination, everything in Brisbane leads to the river, eventually-through the pedestrian and cyclist underpass near Land Street, concrete all round. The traffic of Coronation Drive rumbles above. Cyclists race past me, all clicking gears and ratcheting wheels, thunking over the seams in the concrete, each thunk jolting me into a higher level of stress.

All these people are in a hurry to be somewhere. Going home, they're the last wave of the working day, the sunset well and truly done with. Until yesterday I was one of these restless commuters, my phone always on, hoping that it wouldn't ring with a change of schedule.

"You know, I had a home once," I whisper. "Had four walls, a dog and a bloody fine CD collection. Shit, I didn't care about the CDs or the house, but Molly. Molly."

"We've all lost things, people we care about," Lissa says. "I've got feelings, too. It's all I have. If you give in to your losses you may as well give up."

I walk around in front of her. She stops, and we hold each other's gaze. "What was your place like?" I ask.

"It was nice, near the beach, not far from a tram line. Oh, and the restaurants." She stops. "Bit of a pigsty, though. Never really got into the whole house-frau thing."

"No one's perfect."

Lissa smiles. "Would have driven you mad."

"I'm sure." I want to say that I would do anything to be driven mad by her. But now's not the time.

I pull my duffel coat around me. The evening's grown a gnawing chill. A wind is funneling through the underpass, lifting rubbish, and it swirls around us like this is all some sort of garbage masque. For a moment it passes through Lissa's form, spiraling up almost to her head. She blanches, shifts forward, and the rubbish topples behind her, leaving a trail of chip packets, cigarette butts and leaves.

"Well, that's never happened before." There's something delightful about her face in that moment, something starkly honest that hurts me more than any pomp. I want to touch her cheek. I ache for that contact, but all we have are words.

"Look, I'm sorry about before," I say, startling a jogger, one of the few I've passed not listening to an mp3. He looks at me oddly, but keeps running.

"So am I," Lissa says. Suddenly a part of me wants to take another jab at her, because maybe it would be easier if she hated me. After all, I'm going to lose her. But I clamp my jaw shut.

I reach the river end of the underpass. There's a seat there and I slump down into it and stare at the water, the city's lights swimming like lost things in the restless dark.

"I think that little fellow wants you," Lissa says.

I look up. There's a tiny sparrow perched on the ledge behind me. I look at it more closely. It's an inkling. One of Morrigan's. Its outline is an almost ornate squiggle of ink.

The little bird regards me with bright eyes, its head tilted, then hops closer. It coughs once, strikes its beak against the ledge and coughs again. I put out my hand, flinching slightly as the sparrow jumps quickly onto my finger. Its squiggly chest expands and shrinks in time with its breathing, and all the while its eyes are trained on me, unreadable and intelligent.

There is a tiny roll of paper clipped to its leg. I reach for it, and the sparrow pecks down hard on my arm, drawing blood. An inky tongue darts out.

"Shit." I'd forgotten about that, mobile phones are a sight easier than this stuff. The sparrow needs to know that it has the right person, and there's also a price. Blood's the easiest way. Satisfied that I am the correct recipient, the tiny roll of paper falls from its leg into my open palm.

The sparrow looks at Lissa and starts chirping angrily, fiercely enough that it's almost a bark, surprisingly loud from such a small creature. Lissa glares at it and the sparrow gives one final growl of a chirp, launches itself into the air, and is gone into the night.

"I don't think it was too happy to see me," Lissa says. "In fact, I know it wasn't."

"Why?"

"Because I've outstayed my welcome, I shouldn't be here. The world wants me to go."

"I don't want you to go."

Lissa crosses her arms. "Steven, you haven't been acting like it."

"I-"

"Just look at the note, would you?"

I unfold the paper. Morrigan's handwriting is distinctive: all flourishes and yet completely legible, even when it's covered with bloody fingerprints. Still alive, Steven. You're not the only one. Don's in Albion, Sam is too. Get there if you're able. Your best chance is together.

Be careful.

M

I read it aloud. Lissa frowns as she looks from the note to me. She shakes her head. "Steven, this doesn't feel right. It could be a trap."

"Everything feels like a trap, though, doesn't it? Every street's a potential ambush. If we keep this up, whoever our opponent is will have won." I heft up my backpack. "Morrigan's alive. I have to cling to some sort of hope."

Lissa's lips tighten, she's not happy at all. "But there's hope and then there's insanity, Steve."

I look her squarely in the eyes. "I've got a bit of both, I reckon. And anyway, besides you and the contents of this pack, it's all I've got."

I'm also much happier following Morrigan than trying to get Mr. D's attention. Lissa has explained the ritual, and why the craft knife is necessary. Anything else has to be worth trying first. Lissa knows that. It's hanging there in front of us, this secondary truth. Drawing Death the old way scares the shit out of me, and I can understand why most Pomps would be unfamiliar with the process. There's too much pain. It's one thing to have people wanting you dead, another entirely to take yourself to that place.