Dead Reign

by T. A. Pratt

  “I was hoping you’d call.” Death strolled in from a door that didn’t usually exist. “Ayres is driving me mad. He still insists he’s alive, even though I got a mirror and showed him the wound in his head. Compliment your Dr. Husch on her cure. The man is fixed in his delusion of life. I’m thinking of sending him to a perfect facsimile of Felport and letting him wander among illusions of all of you, just to calm him—”

  “Shut up,” Marla said. “I don’t care about Ayres. Now, what the fuck is this about us being married?” She shook the letter at him.

  “You married the Sitting Death, Marla.”

  “Yes, and I’m a very sad widow woman, since you killed him.”

  “The Sitting Death is a title, Marla, not a person. I was the Walking Death when I wandered, but when I took the throne, I became the Sitting Death. As in the presiding Death, you see. And, yes, by the laws of the gods, you and I are married. My father and I are, shall we say, magically identical. We were never meant to overlap the way we did. That’s why I couldn’t give you back the dagger when I was done. It’s too dangerous in your hands. You are still the queen of the underworld, though it’s strictly a ceremonial position, for now, while you’re above. Apart from the power to see through illusions at will, you have no more powers than you did before. I think it’s better that way. The arrangement you made with my father stands. At the moment of your death, you will be taken to the underworld, there to rule by my side.” He went down on one knee. “I would have asked for your hand in marriage anyway, if my father had not done so first. You made me what I am today.”

  “I don’t want to be the queen of the underworld, a pretty ornament in an uncomfortable chair. I don’t care if spring is especially lush—I like the winter better anyway.”

  “My father was not truthful with you, Marla. The position of queen of the underworld is far more than ceremonial. He told you it was a role of no consequence because he was so jealous and possessive of power. You will have great strength, and great responsibilities.”

  “Like what?”

  He told her. It took a while, and he had to repeat parts of it several times because of her interruptions. When he was done, she stared at him. “You…you’re serious? All that?”

  “Yes. But you’ll forget what I just told you, I’m afraid. It might weigh on your mind otherwise. You’re still mortal, for now, and it’s not right for mortals to know such things.”

  “Okay,” Marla said. Already the details were fading, but the job was important, she knew—she clung to that—so very important. “I guess I accept, godsdamn it.”

  He gave her a charming little half smile. “That’s good. Because the laws of the underworld don’t recognize divorce. If it’s any consolation, though, infidelity is okay. I mean, we have a long-distance relationship, and we’re married, not dead.”

  “How did you get a sense of humor?”

  “I always had one. You just cut out the part of it that found ripping the legs off frogs funny. I have one other question. About that thing you thought was a cloak—”

  “I’m taking care of it,” she said. “Putting it someplace way more remote than the bottom of the bay.”

  “I could attempt to destroy it with the sword,” he said, a trifle doubtfully.

  “Do you think it would work?”

  “I am the death of everything that lives in this universe, but the cloak seemed…wrong to me. I think it might come from someplace else. Someplace older.” He shook his head. “What if stabbing it didn’t kill it, but only made it angry? Perhaps you’re right. Seal it away somewhere until this universe ends.”

  “Consider it done.” She fingered the hilt of her new dagger and sighed. “I went from having two artifacts to having none.”

  “Now, now. That dagger of office is still an artifact. It was forged from eldritch metals in the fires of one of those godawful hot Hells you humans have favored for the past several centuries. It counts.” He took her hand, bowed low, and kissed it. “Farewell, Marla.”

  She looked at him, and tried to decide if he was handsome. It was tricky, because she could see him with her goddess vision, too, and he didn’t look much like a man at all when she saw him that way. He was something far more icy, remote, and beautiful. “Well, just don’t come around here all the time. I’ve got my own life.”

  “You rang my bell, Mrs. Death,” he said, and slipped away.

  Marla put the bell back in her desk drawer, gently, so it wouldn’t ring.

  Someone knocked at her door. “Come,” she said, and Pelham entered, dressed in archaic gentleman’s traveling attire, complete with a little hat.

  “Your Majesty,” he said.

  “I told you not to call me that.” No one but Pelham knew about her marriage…and even he thought she was a widow now, though he insisted she was still royalty, technically, and she’d gotten tired of arguing. “You all packed?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And the…item in question…is secured. I had Beadle triple-check the bindings, though I didn’t tell him what was inside.”

  “Good,” Marla said, coming around the desk and shaking Pelham’s hand. “You stay gone at least three years. Longer if you need to. Find a place where the cloak will never, ever be found. Tell no one where you’ve hidden it. You know the spells to cloud minds and obscure memories, so even guides to remote places won’t remember you. I don’t want to know where it is, under any circumstances.”

  “It’s a great responsibility, Ms. Mason. I thank you for trusting me.”

  Marla put her hand on his shoulder. She’d noticed a certain restlessness in him in the days after they returned to Felport, and she understood—he’d never left home before, and on his one outing he’d seen the joys of California and the bizarre, horrific majesty of the underworld. Now he was supposed to go back to folding shirts and brewing tea? He was willing, but clearly, having glimpsed the world outside, he wouldn’t be happy close to home. She’d considered firing him, but was afraid the trauma would upset him too much—they were magically linked, after all, and it would result in some serious separation anxiety. So she’d hit on the idea of sending him on a mission, to travel to every place in the world he could think of until he found the perfect place to hide the cloak, preferably forever, or at least until the Earth burned to a cinder when the sun went nova. He was utterly trustworthy, and this way, he’d get to see the world without feeling like he’d abandoned his duty. “Be careful, Pelham. Send postcards. Let me know if you run low on funds.” She kissed him on both cheeks—it was the way the Chamberlain said farewell to her friends, and she thought it would mean something to Pelham. “Hamil will get you a ride to the train station.” He said good-bye, and there were tears in his eyes. She’d never seen him happier.

  Marla dropped into her desk chair and swiveled back and forth a few times. Then she opened the bottom drawer of her desk, lifted up a pile of dusty black books, and stared down at the white softness of her neatly folded cloak. The cloak Pelham had wrapped up in all those magical bindings was just an old bedsheet with a glamour cast on it. She wished she could get rid of the real cloak, but despite her deeper knowledge of its true nature, it was simply too valuable to put away forever. She also had the terrible suspicion that even if she did send it away, it would find its way back to her. Marla was the one who’d found the cloak in that thrift store for a reason. The cloak had some horrible destiny in mind for her, and she didn’t think it would give up hope that she might someday fulfill it. Still, she now believed it was better to let everyone think the cloak was well protected and gone forever. She’d temporarily lost her city to a man who wanted one of her artifacts. Maybe letting people know she possessed items of such power wasn’t such a bright idea. Plus, the mission got Pelham out of the house. He’d return to her with a greater understanding of the world and human nature, still with all his competence and dependability, but without a tendency to break down in airport bathrooms.

  “Good night, you old bitch,” Marla said, and closed her de
sk drawer, which was as impregnable as any of Viscarro’s vaults; she’d ordered him to design the drawer just last week, after all. She hoped she never had to take the cursed cloak out again, let alone put it over her shoulders. Those red eyes, those needle teeth…she shuddered and put the cloak out of her mind.

  Things were sorted, more or less. For now. As for what would happen to her after death, well, there was plenty of time to worry about that, and anyway, there would be advantages, like, ah…the advantages escaped her. Something about the duties and powers of the queen of the dead. She remembered that she’d forgotten something, which was a thousand times more annoying than forgetting alone.

  Before she had time to worry the thought any further, Rondeau appeared. He was frowning. “Marla. There’s this guy here to see you.”

  “What, an ordinary? What for?”

  “He says…” Rondeau looked over his shoulder. “He says he’s your brother.”

  Marla sat still for a moment, then her hand crept, almost of its own accord, toward the hilt of her new dagger. “Okay. Send him in.”

  Looking anxious, Rondeau departed. Maybe it’s a lie, Marla thought. Or an assassination attempt. Or a trick. Or—

  A man entered. He smiled, and the smile was dazzling and familiar. “Hello, Marlita.”

  Still gripping the dagger, Marla rose. She didn’t smile. “Hello, Jason.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a book about Death has the potential to be a sad and lonely business, but I was lucky enough to have a lot of help and support. Thanks first to my lovely spouse, H. L. Shaw, who is my most steadfast supporter and sounding board; to the rest of my writing group (Lisa Goldstein, Darrend Brown, David Ira Cleary, Susan Lee, Lori Ann White), who read the whole book in its rather lumpy first draft and provided invaluable feedback; to other fearless first readers, including Jenn Reese, Greg van Eekhout, Michael J. Jasper, Susan Marie Groppi, and Sarah Prineas, who helped make this a much better book; to my cover artist, Daniel Dos Santos, who makes such beautiful pictures from these stories; to my copy editor, Pam Feinstein, who saved me from a couple of monumental continuity errors; to my agent, Ginger Clark, who lets me concentrate on the writing by taking care of all the pesky business-related stuff; to my dauntless editor, Juliet Ulman, who consistently pushes me to write better; and to all the other friends and family and coworkers who’ve had to endure my babbling and complaining and thinking aloud about this book. I couldn’t have done it without you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  T. A. Pratt lives in Oakland, California, with partner H. L. Shaw and their son, and works as a senior editor for a trade publishing magazine. Learn more about your favorite slightly wicked sorceress at www.MarlaMason.net.

  THICKER THAN WATER

  “Marlita,” the man said again, standing just inside the door to her office. He regarded Marla with an expression of mingled admiration and delight, and extended his arms, beckoning for a hug.

  Marla Mason—ruthlessly pragmatic chief sorcerer of Felport, a woman who’d recently outwitted the avatar of Death, who’d once kicked a hellhound across a room, who’d thwarted the king of nightmares, and who had even killed a god (admittedly, a very implausible one)—stood behind her desk and stared at him, this man who was not quite a stranger, but almost. She’d already said his name once. She didn’t think she could bring herself to say it again just yet. There was a dagger in her hand—when had she picked that up?—and she gently put it down. “You. Here. Why?”

  “Eloquent as always, little sis.”

  SPELL GAMES

  by T. A. Pratt

  Look for the next exciting Marla Mason adventure in spring 2009 from Bantam Spectra.

  ALSO BY T. A. PRATT

  Poison Sleep

  Blood Engines

  DEAD REIGN

  A Bantam Spectra Book / November 2008

  Published by

  Bantam Dell

  A Division of Random House, Inc.

  New York, New York

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2008 by T. A. Pratt

  * * *

  Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks and Spectra and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  * * *

  eISBN: 978-0-553-90572-4

  www.bantamdell.com

  v1.0