Trent Jamieson - Death most definite

"It gets easier."

Don shakes his head like he doesn't believe her. "Morrigan's decided he doesn't need to hide now. And there's something you need to know: every time a Pomp dies, he becomes more powerful. Whatever presence or energy they have, well, he gets it. That's something he let slip."

Which means he must be pretty powerful now if there's only him and Sam and me left.

"But I was speaking to Morrigan this morning, at Mount Coot-tha," I say, feeling the blood drain from my face. Then I do what anyone would do in that situation-start with denial. "It can't be him. He didn't look powerful at all. He told me-"

"Well, he's a fine actor. Must be, to have pulled all this off. Steve, the bastard shot me," Don snaps. "How much more of a definitive delineation of betrayal do you need? We have to get you out of here, out of the city. Morrigan's holding off on killing you now."

"I met Alex," I say. We're running out of the car park and onto the road, then around under the train tracks and into the basketball court's car park. My head is spinning. I really thought I could trust Morrigan. It had been a good feeling, having a central point in all of this, the idea that someone was guiding the ship again, and now…

Don grins. "My Alex, a good boy. Total Black Sheep. I love the kid. Was going to go to the footy with him on Sunday. Broncos match. Hate the Broncos, but the boy's dead keen." Don shook his head. "I couldn't believe it, about Morrigan, I mean. I started trusting him when you made it alive down off Mount Coot-tha. I think that was the plan all along. No offense, Steven, but Morrigan reckons he can kill you off when he likes, when the rest of us are done with. But he doesn't count-"

Don's gone with a soft sound like the ringing of a tiny bell, a sparrow cutting through him, pomping him, its wings whirring. I'm still blinking at the sight of Don sliding out of non-corporeal existence, trying to understand why Morrigan might be keeping me alive. The bird flits past me.

It's one of Morrigan's sparrows. The inkling twists sharply in the air and hurtles toward Lissa.

I'm running at her, trying to get in between her and the sparrow. If it gets there first then I'm alone. I just make it, the sparrow hits my chest hard enough to hurt. It thumps off and onto the ground, and I stomp down. Little sparrow bones crunch beneath my boot. And then it sinks away into a tiny puddle of ink and feathers.

Hope that hurt you, Morrigan.

And then there are more of them. And more.

Someone slows in their car beside me, and then picks up speed. I don't blame them, I must look insane thrashing and swinging at the little birds. I dance around as one sparrow, then another and another and another, descends. They're all around us. I can't do anything about it.

But something else can. Crows crash from the sky, like the eagles in Lord of the Rings. If someone had started yelling "The crows are coming! The crows are coming!" I would have cheered. The black birds are cawing and crying, snatching sparrows out of the air with their dark beaks in a maelstrom of wings above and around us.

Then the crows are gone and the only remnants of the melee are inky puddles.

"That was… interesting," Lissa says.

"Wasn't it just," I say.

We look at each other. There's another player in the game. The sparrows are Morrigan's; the crows, they belong to Mr. D. So maybe he's not as in the dark as we believe.

I'd seen Morrigan form an inkling once, at a party. He was charming then as usual. We were talking about tatts, comparing our ink. My cherub had gotten a few appreciative comments, newly cut. Then Morrigan, one never to be outdone, had said, "That's a fine tattoo, boy, but can you do this?"

He'd pulled up his sleeve to the first Escheresque tangle of sparrows that ran from his sinewy biceps and over his back. He whistled then, a shrill, short note, and a bird pulled free of his flesh. "Inklings are quite simple once you get the hang of it."

The sparrow flew around the room, picking up snacks and bringing them back to him.

It had appeared effortless, until I saw him later, coming out of the bathroom. He'd been a bit shaky on his feet. I could smell the sweat on him, even over his cologne. I didn't want him to have a stroke, still, I'd respected his pride and just quietly helped him to a chair. If only I had known what it would come to… Well, I would have kicked the legs out from under him.

That had been one sparrow, now we had seen tens of them. And he was using them to pomp the dead. Don was right, Morrigan's powers had increased incredibly.

So what do we do?" I ask, staring at the ink-stained ground. "I can't see how I can keep you safe."

"First we're going to need cover," Lissa says, and heads back toward the hospital car park. I follow, hurrying to keep pace.

"You're going to have to bind me to you and this realm," Lissa says.

"I'm unfamiliar with the process. I've heard of bindings, but never seen it done."

"There's a reason for that. OK, a couple of them, the first being that it's old. You wouldn't have come across it unless you're particularly interested in the history of pomping. And there really isn't much written about Pomps. It takes quite a bit of research." Lissa smiles, a little too mockingly for my liking. "And, no offense, you don't exactly strike me as the studious type."

I take immediate offense at that. "Morrigan never exactly encouraged it."

Lissa nods. "Well, we know why now. Anyway, people don't talk about this stuff, in the specific. You have to really dig. The process is… It's a little confronting." She flashes me another smile. "But if we don't do it, I'm worried that Morrigan will pomp me, and you need me." She's so right, but I rail against that a little. She can see it in my face, and her laugh is both affectionate and mocking. "Don't you try and suggest otherwise, laddy."

We're under the cover of the car park. "OK, so how do I do it? How do I bind you? It sounds pretty kinky, you know."

Lissa reddens, just a little, and I get the feeling that she's more embarrassed for me than anything else. "Well, it sort of is."

"What do you mean?"

"Most of these types of ceremonies involve blood, but in this case that's not enough, because you're not pomping, you're binding." Her eyes seem to be having trouble meeting mine. "You're going to need semen. Your own semen."

"Here?" I turn in a quick circle. There's no one about, but this is a car park. Of course I'm sure there's been plenty of that here, but not mine. "I'm supposed to-"

"This is no time to be squeamish, or prudish," Lissa says impatiently. "There might be a whole flock of bloody sparrows on their way."

"Pressured is the word that comes to mind, actually."

"Performance anxiety, eh? Well, I'm dead, it'll be our little secret. Besides, I've already seen you naked."

"Well, there's naked and then there's naked." I am utterly exposed out here, and it's cold. The odds of me being able to ejaculate are pretty grim. Lissa leers at me. That doesn't help.

She rubs her hands together. "Well? Pants down, prong up."

"Could you look away?"

"I'll look away," she says. "Just think about some of those busty trollops and you'll be OK."

Wicked woman!

There's got to be cameras around here somewhere. I imagine the image as I, um-present-another addition to the caseload against me.

"Hurry up," Lissa hisses at me. "I can hear a car coming."

OK, deep breaths: a half dozen of them. I know that I have to do this, that there's nothing else to be done, but I'm feeling very peculiar about it. In fact, I'm feeling very dirty-old-mannish. Friction isn't enough. Nor is strength of will.

It has to be done. It has to be done.

And it is. And at the moment of ejaculation, a quick hard orgasm, I see Lissa's face.