Trent Jamieson - Death most definite

"Can we just finish this? I've had enough of your talk, years and years of your bloody talk," Morrigan says. "I have a lot of work to attend to."

"Of course you do," Mr. D snaps. "The creatures with which you have made your curly, crooked deals will ensure that. You were the one who started rolling the knuckle bones, Morrigan. But it is up to me to bring it to an end. I cede, I was outplayed, one by one you have gained my powers… but I wonder if you haven't outplayed yourself."

Morrigan sighs. "This is exactly why I began this in the first place. I'm tired of this slow, slow bureaucracy. You were never fast enough, nor efficient enough. I know I can do better. Just let me start. Just let me get it done."

Mr. D is having none of that. "The cleverest thing, of course, was that you left the weakest Pomp till last."

The penny drops. Ker plunk.

I realize how I've been manipulated. I glance over at Wal, and he shakes his head. Seems the idea's just struck him as well.

Everything was done to drive me to this place. I would have died a week and a half ago if Morrigan hadn't wanted it to end up here. He shaped everything, probably even Lissa's ability to stay in the land of the living. I don't know how I know that but, here, on top of the tree, I'm certain of it. Lissa came and went too conveniently. Now I understand why Morrigan looked so shocked to see me in the Underworld, and why he had grown so angry at me attempting the ceremony. It hadn't, as I'd thought, been a remnant of avuncular concern. If I had died then, he'd have been forced to fight one of the other more capable Pomps. And he'd counted on me. Of course, he'd adjusted quickly. He'd known I would pomp Mr. D on the side of that road, and had even hurried it along by getting my Stirrer father to fire at me.

I understand now why Mr. D hadn't known about the crows. By that stage Morrigan even had control over them. And why Lissa survived "unnoticed" around all those Stirrers. I was never meant to die, just to believe I was going to, until he had me where he wanted.

I think about all those other Pomps better able to challenge Morrigan physically or experientially. Morrigan was behind every step I've taken and, looking at it, I can sense his smiling presence in everything. He's known me all my life, knows how I think.

The dickhead even used me as bait.

"You did this because you thought I'd be the easiest one to beat," I say.

Morrigan looks over at me like I'm a pet he's extremely fond of. "Steven, you were my best choice. Why do you think you've managed to keep your position as a Pomp all these years?" He shakes his head. "Even then, you nearly ended up killing yourself a half-dozen times. Why did you go home? That bomb wasn't meant for you, just to keep you away so you wouldn't have a chance to regroup. I needed you running, not thinking, because even your brain starts to consider things eventually."

Morrigan planted that bomb there himself. Now I know why Molly hadn't seemed worried when I got home. She knew Morrigan, he'd actually taken her for a few walks a couple of weeks ago. My hands clench to fists.

Mr. D motions for me to stop. "Not yet, boy," he whispers. Then, more loudly, he says, "Of course, Steven is quite different now. Your attempts at engineered mayhem were perhaps a little too realistic. I rather think you underestimated him. Now, you have to face the consequences."

Then it sinks in. What this is all about. The heat of my rage chills.

"I don't want to be RM," I say, and it sounds a little whiny. "That's never what I wanted. I was just trying to survive, that's all."

There's a gasp from all the attendant Deaths. It's as though they can't understand why anyone wouldn't hunger for this job. Mr. D did and Morrigan does, but they have known me in one way or another since I was child. My ambitions have never been as focused or as cruel.

Honestly, I hadn't even thought about it. Maybe I'd had some hazy idea that after beating Morrigan (not that I'd ever really believed that I could) all the other Deaths would gather together and vote on a new Regional Manager. But I'd really only been thinking about the corporate veneer, not the rough and callous beast that lies beneath it.

OK, I'm screwed.

Mr. D brings his bleak eyes to bear on me. "You want to give all this to him? You want Morrigan to get away with everything he's done, and become the new RM?"

I don't say anything. My gaze slips from Mr. D to Morrigan. There's a bad taste in my mouth that has nothing to do with Stirrers. Bloody Morrigan. He knew I wouldn't want this.

Morrigan smiles. "Then it's easy. The Negotiation's done. I desire this, I have the will, and I most definitely have applied the way. Send me back," he says to Mr. D.

Our old boss shakes his head; he even waggles his finger. "That's not how it works," he says. "No, we're talking about death here. And death is brutal."

"No," I say. "I'll do what it takes, but I don't want to be Regional Manager."

Mr. D sighs. "Look, Steven, it's time you grew up. You've drifted along, cashed your checks and done your job, but little more. If this job hadn't existed, you'd be a video-store clerk, getting angrier and more bored. Sometimes the world hands you something and you have to take it."

"You don't have to," Morrigan says. "We can negotiate."

Mr. D nods his head. "Of course you can. The problem is that this Negotiation is done with knives. And it has begun."

The other Regional Managers draw in close, their black cloaks flapping in the wind like a murder of crows. There is a deep and awful sense of anticipation. Blood lust glints in their eyes, brighter than hair in a shampoo commercial. This is the moment they've been waiting for, the reason calls have remained unanswered, why Australia hangs, teetering on the brink.

I look down at my feet where a stone dagger, the length of my forearm, lies. The damn thing wasn't there a moment ago. It shivers with a hungry anticipation that is palpable and more than the sum of the gathered RMs'. The only one not hungry for this is me.

Morrigan fits in here. He knows this game, he will excel at it.

"You either pick it up, or there's no resurrection for you, Steven," Mr. D says, impatiently. "Hurry."

Morrigan has already snatched his dagger up from the ground and is running at me. All right then. I get the feeling that this isn't one of those cases where, if I die willingly, I get the job and Morrigan is hurled into the depths of Hell.

Do I want this?

Do I really have any choice?

I crouch down quickly and snatch the blade up. It's heavy but well balanced, as though it wants to cut, its point dipping and rising, seeking out Morrigan's blood. The hilt's cold, with a spreading iciness that runs up my arm and envelops my flesh. Morrigan is already on me, swinging his dagger down. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Wal, up against Morrigan's flock of sparrows. He's snatching at them, but they're fast. His skin is already flecked with tiny wounds.

A storm explodes about us as I meet Morrigan's strike. It's a violent raging gale, cold and laden with stinging raindrops. Morrigan has attacked me with such force that I stumble. Somehow I'm meeting his next strike, then I realize that the dagger is guiding me, because there's no way I should have been able to block that blow. There should be a stone dagger jutting from my windpipe. My knife is already slicing through the air, cutting off another jab.

Oddly enough, and this is the hardest thing, winning this is going to be a matter of trust. If I fight against the dagger I am going to slow my response time. I realize that I'm not exactly going with the flow when Morrigan's blade draws a red line across my chest. I pull away just in time. The cuts mark my skin millimeters above my nipples.

It burns like hell. I'm lucky that this competition isn't to the first blood. By the end of it there's going to be so much of it. Our hearts are pumping and the knives slice deep.