wondering who.
My office is a bit stuffy. I switch on the lights and the aircon. It’s your basic sort of corner office, except for Brueghel’s painting, ‘The Triumph of Death’ against one wall (not a copy, the real thing, all those skeletons bringing on the apocalypse, herding the living to Hell) and the throne, of course.
I drop into the throne, and my region immediately grows more vital around me. The beating hearts, the creaking tree.
Sitting in my throne I feel what Tim’s reports can only tell me. We’re stretched painfully thin. My Pomps are struggling out there. It might be a picture of industry in the offices, but it’s little more than a veneer painted over chaos. I’ve been ignoring this for far too long.
‘We need more staff,’ I say to Tim.
‘Lissa’s doing the best she can,’ he says irritably. ‘It’s not exactly easy to advertise for Pomps. There’s a whole bunch of stages that we have to steer people through. I think it’s remarkable that we have as many staff as we do.’
‘We’ve got to do better.’
‘You could take a more active role. That might help,’ Tim says sharply.
‘I’m doing the best I can,’ I say, mimicking his tone.
Tim groans, shakes his head. ‘How about a unified front?’
‘Yeah, how about it?’
‘Sometimes you piss me off, de Selby.’
I grin at him. ‘That’s what family is for.’
‘Maybe that’s why I decided to become a Black Sheep.’
‘Nah, you can’t escape it no matter what you do. As long –’ and I stop myself there. I was going to say as long as there is family left, but there isn’t that muchfamily remaining. There are some things neither of us are ready to joke about.
I’m almost relieved that Faber Cerbo shifts into the foyer at that moment. Apparently Ankous can do that, if their RM is sufficiently skilled. Morrigan could, and it didn’t seem to hurt him, either, the prick. Cerbo’s appearance is presaged by a slight pressure in my skull. His heartbeat, a sudden addition to my region, is loud – like you’d expect from an Ankou – even louder than Tim’s, and at a steady sixty beats per minute.
I glance at my watch. He is exactly thirty seconds late, and I can’t help feeling that Suzanne is making a point. Lundwall – heartbeat ninety-three bpm, up from seventy, now that Cerbo has appeared at his desk – leads him into the room.
Faber Cerbo, like any self-respecting Pomp, is in a suit. We all are, here. As though Death was truly like any other business. Well, we can pretend. The real reason is the vast number of funerals we attend and morgues and mortuaries we visit. In those places a suit makes you virtually invisible – even in Brisbane on a forty degree day. Unlike Tim and I, Cerbo is wearing a hat, a bowler. That, and the pencil-thin moustache, make him look like a mash-up of a British accountant from the thirties and the filmmaker John Waters, and are completely at odds with his Texan accent. I’ve never liked wearing hats, they mess up my hair. But it suits him, somehow. Gripped in his left hand, his nails coated with black nail polish, is a brown leather folder.
Cerbo doffs his bowler, and rolls his shoulders. Bones click with the movement.
I don’t get up from my throne, in fact I make a point of swinging back on it, looking as casual as I can. After all, here I am in the seat of my power, so to speak. It is poor form to neglect it.
I nod at Cerbo and gesture to one of the chairs in front of the desk. He gives a swift and slightly mocking bow – well, I think it’s mocking, and if I can’t be sure, the odds are high. My rise to RM was something of a shock to a lot of people – myself included – and I’m not treated as seriously as I could be. But then again, it fits into my tactic. Just grin and let them think you’re stupid.
Tim shakes his hand. Cerbo gives him a warm smile then sits down, so lightly it’s as if he’s hardly sitting at all. He puts the folder on the table.
‘My
My office is a bit stuffy. I switch on the lights and the aircon. It’s your basic sort of corner office, except for Brueghel’s painting, ‘The Triumph of Death’ against one wall (not a copy, the real thing, all those skeletons bringing on the apocalypse, herding the living to Hell) and the throne, of course.
I drop into the throne, and my region immediately grows more vital around me. The beating hearts, the creaking tree.
Sitting in my throne I feel what Tim’s reports can only tell me. We’re stretched painfully thin. My Pomps are struggling out there. It might be a picture of industry in the offices, but it’s little more than a veneer painted over chaos. I’ve been ignoring this for far too long.
‘We need more staff,’ I say to Tim.
‘Lissa’s doing the best she can,’ he says irritably. ‘It’s not exactly easy to advertise for Pomps. There’s a whole bunch of stages that we have to steer people through. I think it’s remarkable that we have as many staff as we do.’
‘We’ve got to do better.’
‘You could take a more active role. That might help,’ Tim says sharply.
‘I’m doing the best I can,’ I say, mimicking his tone.
Tim groans, shakes his head. ‘How about a unified front?’
‘Yeah, how about it?’
‘Sometimes you piss me off, de Selby.’
I grin at him. ‘That’s what family is for.’
‘Maybe that’s why I decided to become a Black Sheep.’
‘Nah, you can’t escape it no matter what you do. As long –’ and I stop myself there. I was going to say as long as there is family left, but there isn’t that muchfamily remaining. There are some things neither of us are ready to joke about.
I’m almost relieved that Faber Cerbo shifts into the foyer at that moment. Apparently Ankous can do that, if their RM is sufficiently skilled. Morrigan could, and it didn’t seem to hurt him, either, the prick. Cerbo’s appearance is presaged by a slight pressure in my skull. His heartbeat, a sudden addition to my region, is loud – like you’d expect from an Ankou – even louder than Tim’s, and at a steady sixty beats per minute.
I glance at my watch. He is exactly thirty seconds late, and I can’t help feeling that Suzanne is making a point. Lundwall – heartbeat ninety-three bpm, up from seventy, now that Cerbo has appeared at his desk – leads him into the room.
Faber Cerbo, like any self-respecting Pomp, is in a suit. We all are, here. As though Death was truly like any other business. Well, we can pretend. The real reason is the vast number of funerals we attend and morgues and mortuaries we visit. In those places a suit makes you virtually invisible – even in Brisbane on a forty degree day. Unlike Tim and I, Cerbo is wearing a hat, a bowler. That, and the pencil-thin moustache, make him look like a mash-up of a British accountant from the thirties and the filmmaker John Waters, and are completely at odds with his Texan accent. I’ve never liked wearing hats, they mess up my hair. But it suits him, somehow. Gripped in his left hand, his nails coated with black nail polish, is a brown leather folder.
Cerbo doffs his bowler, and rolls his shoulders. Bones click with the movement.
I don’t get up from my throne, in fact I make a point of swinging back on it, looking as casual as I can. After all, here I am in the seat of my power, so to speak. It is poor form to neglect it.
I nod at Cerbo and gesture to one of the chairs in front of the desk. He gives a swift and slightly mocking bow – well, I think it’s mocking, and if I can’t be sure, the odds are high. My rise to RM was something of a shock to a lot of people – myself included – and I’m not treated as seriously as I could be. But then again, it fits into my tactic. Just grin and let them think you’re stupid.
Tim shakes his hand. Cerbo gives him a warm smile then sits down, so lightly it’s as if he’s hardly sitting at all. He puts the folder on the table.
‘My
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