S.G. MULHOLLAND

He felt it first before he saw it. A cold smattering of liquid fell on his face, soothing his parched, pinched and cracked skin. He was flush, even if he could not see his face right now, and everything hurt as it always did but there was little to be done with that. He could feel something cold and wet beneath his fingers and the smell of earth, of dirt and the green filled his lungs along with chilly cold air.

“Puck, are you there Puck? Wake up… you have to wake up!” said a soft childlike voice at the edge of hearing.

He could feel the breath against his skin, cold yet soft and soothing. He did not want to move, he just wanted it to end, for the oblivion to take him.                                                                                      

He knew why he had done it and it had been more than simple melancholia. He had wanted an end to his wretched existence for decades and it was only last night, after enough whiskey had been poured down his neck, did he finally find the courage to do it.           

He had cut deep and long enough to make sure that his bleeding was silent and swift. On the banks of the river Ouse, he had sought the end.    Why was it then that he could hear voices?

 “You’re not done Puck, you have to get up, they’re waiting on you?” the voice said more insistently this time. He recognized the voice and even through closed eyes he could feel tears bulb out from his eyes at its sound. He was soul sore to hear her speak but he could not ignore it.

 “Wake up! Now! There is so much left to do, you can’t check out like this!” the voice shouted.

Puck opened his eyes cautiously and stared at the grey sky above.

As he suspected, it was raining. Those who knew Puck understood that there was rarely a time in his life when he was happy, melancholy clipped at his heels like a rabid dog, but right now he was happy. He loved the rain and everything about it. Memories of long walks along the canal back home in Elysium with his father of his childhood came to mind, filling it with thoughts of his father’s long striding steps and his big heavy hands that so dwarfed his own. They would walk for what seemed like hours among the dying sea of sunset leaves, listening to the sound of raindrops falling on the water and never speaking. It was a warm place in his heart and one of only a few places in his soul he truly felt happy.

Sitting up he looked about to see where his drunken nights revere had brought him. He was on a patch of grass just across Lendal bridge, not far from the Troll village. Trolls always rose early, all the better to catch potential customers crossing their bridges. He heard the loud droning cry of the Trollish choir, a most holy and sacred group to their people, chanting basso tones across the water, demanding their kin to rise with gentle authority.

He pulled down his sleeve and ran his thumb over a clear line of scar tissue. His mind was ablur but he did remember the knife and the blood and the sinking feeling he felt. He could only recall somewhat partially the sense of relief he felt that it was going to be done with and the happiness of seeing those he had long missed. His father, his sisters, old friends that had been gone ever so long now, faces he had forgotten in his mind but not his heart. They were all there, ready to greet him, but then he woke.

“Still fucking here” he said. He felt both sorrow and anger at the whole idea of living. Clearly, someone had found him on the bankside last night and decided to be a good Samaritan and heal him. Whether it was an Alfr or a Troll he didn’t know or care, he only cared that he was still breathing, a state he had long since wanted to bring to an end.

Puck got to his feet shakily and ran a hand through his hair, feeling the rainfall through his slick and thin crimson locks. He checked his pockets and found that the only thing missing from his person was the knife he used to do the deed. He checked his wallet to see that he had just enough shillings to buy a breakfast to soothe the aching rumbles of his protesting stomach and set off to soothe his digestive complaints.

“If I’m breathing I might as well grab a bite” he said to himself.

The Perky Peacock was the nearest coffee shop to hand. Situated on Wellington Row, right at the corner edge of the Troll village, it was one of, if not the only, human run establishments to hand in the area. The coffee shop was a converted postern tower, left over from the days when York was the powerhouse of the north, defending dear old England from rebellious scots. Run by a miserly old goat by the name of Carmine and his cheery and loving wife, Delilah (Dee to all who knew her). It was an old world establishment, the kind that attracted more Mythic business than any other Hume establishment in the city. Yet Mythic’s were not alone in their love of the Peacock; Humes flooded the coffee shop day and night, eager for a cup of Carmine’s hand crafted coffee or a slice of Dee’s lovingly made chocolate cake.

Puck staggered up the stairs to the front door of the old tower and tried the door handle. Finding the door locked, Puck pulled free his pocket watch, one of the few items of Hume invention he adhered to, and consulted the time. Finding that the Peacock was two minutes from opening he planted himself on the top step and leaned back against the door. At first he had considered knocking to see if Carmine would let him in but he knew the cantankerous hume would never countenance such flouting of his own personal rules. The Perky Peacock opened at nine, not a minute before or after.

He began filling his pipe with fresh smoke weed and was about to bring a lit match to it when the door opened and he fell backwards into the café. Looking up he saw Carmine’s miserable expression staring back down at him. His short black hair fell in a pair of uneven curtains just at his eye line while a set of pork chop sideburns framed his chubby face. As usual, he was dressed in his Levellers band t-shirt, blue jeans and white apron. He gave Puck a nudge with his heavy work boot and grunted.

“Get off the step, you’re blocking real customers” he said retreating back inside with a heavy footfall. He scrambled to his feet and went inside.

Stepping into the Perky Peacock was like coming home, which was how it felt to all who frequented it. There was always a roaring fire in the hearth yet it was never overly warm, even in summer. The ceiling was held aloft by thick wood beams that were so common in York city buildings and varnished to an impeccable shine. A thick wooden counter, bedecked with a clear glass cabinet which displayed an assortment of cakes and biscuits, ran parallel to the fireplace. Mountains of cups, saucers, plates and other assorted dining ware were stacked all around the till, alongside dozens of heavy bags of coffee from around the world. Steamers and kettles and percolators stood to attention on the far end of the beautifully handcrafted counter waiting to be put to good use.

Puck found a table for himself and went to light his pipe once again.

“You know there’s no smoking in here Puck” said a stern voice that did not fail to retain a note of cheeriness. “It ruins the coffee’s taste and you know that.”

Puck looked up from his pipe and saw one of the only Humes he had ever truly found appealing. Her features were plain and there was absolutely nothing about her that was majestic or magical but there was a magic to her. She had a mischievous smile and a twinkle in her eye that never gave away quite what she was thinking yet told everything of who she was. She had soothing voice that had a way of simply taking pain, or at least the memory of pain, away. There was a childlike dance to her step, as though she were dancing to a tune only she could hear. She had a kind smile that was genuine and softening, she could laugh at anything and had an instinct of just how to say the right thing to bring someone back to an even keel no matter how bad they felt.

Dee came and seated herself across the table from Puck and leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms and gave him an angry pouting look. It was the kind of expression that reminded him of his sisters back in Elysium, they would often pull the same face, pretending to be mad before making fun of him.

“So that’s a no to the smoking then?” Puck asked. Dee shook her head with a sisterly smile then turned in her chair and called for Carmine to bring coffee. Dee’s cantankerous husband thudded his way over to the two of them, the wooden floor creaking its objections as he set down two cups of coffee on the table.

“Don’t forget, you’ve got lunches to prepare” he said as softly as he could muster. He was about to turn and head to the kitchen when Dee tugged at his t-shirt and pulled him down for a long kiss. She let him go and off he went.

“I still don’t understand why you married him? He’s such a miserable bastard” Puck said as he sipped at his coffee. To most people this kind of statement would seem insulting but to Dee, if she was insulted, never showed it.

“What sort of miserable bastard would you have me marry then? You?” she said with a chuckle while pilling sugar into her cup. Puck laughed to cover the disappointment he clearly felt. She stirred the coffee vigorously then tapped her spoon against the rim three times before taking a sip.

“You look a little worse for wear. What were you getting up to last night?” she asked.

Puck sipped silently at his own coffee and considered whether he should tell his friend about what he had tried to do. Dee was the caring sort, the motherly kind and was an overly sensitive empath who took on more than she really should. It never ceased to amaze him just how deep her reservoirs for peoples soul sickness ran. She could bear the heaviest load of the most hopeless of individuals and do it all with a smile. Dee could reinvigorate anyone, it was her gift to those she met.

“Nothing of note, just the usual mischief” he said. He raised a hand to his forehead and rubbed at his temple with his fingers. He noticed, with a little disturbance, that his fingernails had grown long enough so as to be officially classed as claws. How long had he been living like this and why did he not notice the subtle changes in what was going on in his body anymore? All Puck knew was that he was alive and that was of great inconvenience to him.

“I know your idea of mischief, someone usually ends of up hurt or missing a few teeth” Dee said.

He glanced at her over his coffee cup and kept his mouth shut. She had to have heard the news of his business dealings at Valhalla, practically everyone had and people were as free with their tongues in coffee shops nowadays as they were in pubs. Puck had expected much more fallout from that particular event than he got. According to friends of his within the circle at Valhalla, Lugh had gone into seclusion, some whispered he had booked passage back to Ireland so as to reinvigorate the rumored uprising to reclaim the four cities. Puck doubted it; the Tuathan king had an ego the size of York cathedral and disliked having his ass handed to him, if he knew one thing it was that Lugh was not done with him. Over the last few weeks the most that had happened was one or two veiled threats from passing Tuathan's, all of which he ignored. If they were going to do something to him they would have done and he would have welcomed it.

“You look hungry darling, bacon sandwich?” Dee asked. Puck checked his pockets and found he did not quite having the shillings to cover both coffee and breakfast. Dee smiled at him and placed a hand on top of his, causing Puck to blush with embarrassment. “It’s okay sweet, you don’t have to pay if you can’t afford it.”

He nodded and watched her walk back to the kitchen. It always amazed him that even though people saw the length and pointedness of his ears that they still assumed he only had the hearing range of the average human (such was man’s arrogance). He could make out the voices of Dee and Carmine arguing at a low level so as to not disturb Puck but he caught every word. The discussion ended when Dee brought the matter to a close, finishing off his sandwich and exiting through the kitchen door which banged with added effect.

“There you go my dear, you want anything else?” she asked.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any post for me have you my love?” Puck asked about as sweetly as he could.

“Certainly, just give me a minute” she said before going behind the counter to retrieve his post.

Puck had no real permanent address as he had never desired to own one, even back in Elysium. Nowhere ever felt like home and he had, for the most part, lived a life on the move, never staying one place too long. York had been the closest he had come in a long time to finding a proper home and that was only out of exhaustion with life which dogged him no matter where he went. There was also the small matter of his soldiers pension, which he needed a permanent address to claim. There were only three people he considered close enough friends to ask for their help and Dee was one of them.

Dee returned with a medium sized plastic box, half full with letters for Puck’s attention. He lifted the lid and began to rifle through them, sorting them into two piles – Junk and Not Junk.

“Anything from anyone special? A lady perhaps, or a gentleman?” Dee asked.

“If there is I’ll make sure they have more manners than that husband of yours? He said still skim reading his mail. He could feel Dee getting sheepish at his statement, she did not like the way people disliked Carmine or his approach to anyone he considered an idiot, which was most people who weren’t Dee. His wife had always been quick to defend him, making those who did not understand the nature of their relationship aware of Carmines good and decent side, even if most did not believe her.

“He’s worried about the business” she explained, “We’ve defaulted on the last two payments to the bank in terms of debts and the mortgage on this place is dragging us down. If things don’t improve for us soon, we may have no choice but to sell up and move.”

“Perhaps he’ll win over the bank manager with his charming personality?” Puck said cynically as he bit into his sandwich. Dee sneered at him then snatched the plate with the other half of his breakfast straight from under his nose. Puck gave Dee a pleading and confused look.

“You should take more care with how you speak about my husband! I know most people don’t like him but that’s not for you to speak on…” she said walking toward the kitchen, plate in hand. “…You get this back when you understand!”

The kitchen door thudded heavily again and once more Puck was left on his own. For lack of anything better to do he resumed working through his post. Each letter was much like the last, either fan mail from a Psychotic Hume or Mythic who thought the hunt had not gone far enough in reclaiming the Earth or, and this was more common, paperwork regarding his finances. Puck was by no means short on funds, as a high ranking general in the Wild Hunt he was entitled to a hefty pension as well as an encompassing bonus scheme as a measure of his sacrifice in voluntarily disarming himself. Yet, he was always short on cash, a byproduct of his desperate and lonely need to drink himself to death.

He shuffled his way through both piles until finally something caught his eye. A black envelope with faultless gold handwriting. Puck got the feeling that whoever wrote the letter was a little more than a fan judging by how his palm tingled with pins and needles as it hovered over the letter. Someone had put magic into this note, nothing harmful or evil but definitely enough to get Puck’s attention.

“Tut, tut sir…” he said reciting the senior head of the Sorcerium after the last time he was arrested for unauthorised use of magic. “…there’s a finite amount of magic in the world, and there’s simply not enough to fuel your petty needs.”

He picked up the letter and opened it unceremoniously with a tear. Pulling out a jet black letter he read the contents from top to bottom. It was an invitation, for a meeting, at the regency Hyatt in Birmingham at Puck’s earliest convenience. It was known as a wisp and Puck had not seen one for decades. Mostly they had been outlawed but Puck knew that with enough money anything was for sale so whoever wanted the meeting with him clearly had money.

“Well then…” he said taking a match from his pocket, striking it to life then setting it to a corner. “…Let’s see who’s so interested in meeting little old me.”

The fire began to engulf the letter quickly, turning blue at first then green, it slid down Puck’s arm at an alarming rate. He knew exactly what was happening, he had done it a thousand and one times before. Wisps were magical constructs used in teleportation and burning them activated the home bird location of where the sender wanted you to go.

“Saves me the train fare at least” he said as the fires burned over his face and seared into his eyes and mouth. The taste was rancorous and filled with ash and bile and Puck thought he would throw it all up but forced himself to keep it down. It was all part of the process; essentially, he had to be destroyed in one location so as to rise from the ashes in another. He thought, and not for the first time, that whoever had invented this particular mode of transportation was an obvious sadist.

“Well then Mr Mysterious, time to reveal your identity” he said as he felt his body fall to ash.

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He felt the pain first, it was only natural. It was the pain of being reborn or, in this case, reassembled. His whole body was on fire with white hot agony as it stitched itself back together, molecule by molecule. He could not quite make out his surroundings just yet, only a blurry white light along with a silhouette of a figure he could not discern in anyway at all. He could feel the ash in the back of his throat as he struggled for breath. He could feel flakes of flesh scratching and clawing at the back of his throat as it reattached itself to his tongue.

The whole process of his assimilation took only a few minutes but it felt like a lifetime in terms of agony. He slumped forward onto a soft carpeted floor, his fingers grasping onto the white flooring for dear life. He could hear voices speaking softly nearby in a language he did not understand; it was no Mythic language, he knew them all, and it was not any of the thousands of Hume speech he recognised, not that he could tell the difference between most of them. Feeling a little braver, he opened his eyes and tried to see his surroundings once again.

Everything was still a blur but he could make out a few things. Wherever he was cost money. It was a hotel suite of some kind, most likely the Hyatt Regency in Birmingham, but whoever they were had rented out the most expensive room they could find. Its square footage alone was bigger than the Perky Peacock and one third of its contents could have paid for the Peacocks upkeep for a year. Money was in the air and Puck knew that meant trouble.

“Ah, you’re here at last. My client was beginning to fear you would refuse his offer” said a cheery voice, lightly accented with a foreign note. Puck felt a strong but soft pair of hands take him by the arms and lead to the soft and large sofa nearby. Puck lay down for a moment to rest his head then remembered that he was in stranger’s room in another city.

“It’s quite alright sir, you’ve nothing to fear from me or my client. It was, after all, us who contacted you. There would be nothing to be gained by doing you harm” he said. Puck was beginning to see him now. As suspected and like everything else around him, he was money. An expensive pin stripe suit matching a sharp pair of black shiny shoes, shirt and tie all clothed a strong and well-built man with a fading tan line. He had soft eyes but a strong jaw which jutted out at Puck like an accusing finger.

“Are you well sir, perhaps I could interest you in some refreshment?” he said gesturing towards the table where a buffet of selected food and drink had been laid out for consumption. There was enough there to feed a whole seminar let alone one scrawny Fae who only had half a bacon sandwich in his guts to shield his digestion from what alcohol still resided in there. Puck shook his head and gave a polite gesture of decline.

“Maybe in a little bit” he said flexing his fingers, feeling them out once again so as to make sure he had not lost any kind of motor function. “Perhaps first you can tell me who you are and why you want me here?”

“Of course sir, my name is Ducard and I represent one Mr Arkady Petrov” he said. “I regret to inform you that Mr Petrov is not here but he has authorised me to act in his stead.”

Puck felt his right eye begin to twitch at the name. All Mythic’s knew that name, it was a name universally hated by Mythic’s worldwide. Arkady Petrov was one of the chief generals of the human coalition during the war, it could even have been said that Petrov could be considered Puck’s opposite number but that was not why he hated the man. Petrov’s talent for slaughter was in a league of its own. During a time when both sides were noted for committing acts of atrocity, Petrov’s actions went a step too far even for humans.

It was under his orders that Mythic prisoners were violently impaled and staked into the ground along the Romanian border as a warning for the Hunt to go no further. When the hunts navy escorted ships of passenger boats carrying refugees, both human and Mythic along the African coastline, Petrov ordered all ships to be bombarded. When his methods were deemed too unsound he was given command of the Irish outposts. At first it was considered a safe place to keep the General, which is until he began to organise Pogroms against Mythics who had begun to integrate in their homeland. His name was steeped in blood, mainly Mythic blood and that made him someone Puck was not willing to deal with.

“Why does Petrov want me to help him?” Puck asked. Ducard regarded him slightly, as if the very notion of Puck simply asking a question instead of readily agreeing to help was somehow impertinent.

“Mr Petrov has a singular request, a specific task for which he believes you’re adequately suited” Ducard explained.

“But why does he think that I would help him? Surely he must know that my kind think of him as the lowest form of vermin. Hell, there isn’t a Mythic walking the planet who would not cheerfully see his head on a spike and that’s not even a creative ending” Puck explained.

“It is for that very reason that Mr Petrov wishes to engage your service” Ducard said, his voice returning to its platonic courtesy. Puck looked back up at Ducard with a certain amount of confusion. What was the truth here, a game was clearly being played and he did not like it one bit. The time for metaphors was over, he was too tired and in too much pain, he wanted answers.

“Speak plainly Ducard, what does the son of a bitch want from me?” he asked. Puck rose to his feet and went to the buffet table and began to help himself. He grabbed half a cheese sandwich and finished it in three bites then stuffed another one into his mouth straight after.

“Have you ever heard the Russian fable of the Soldier and Death?” Ducard asked.

“What Mythic child hasn’t? Most of us grew up on it. It’s one the most terrifying tales ever told to my kind” Puck said as he helped himself to a large bottle of expensive looking beer.

It was an old story, a fable that dated back thousands of years to when there were still a few Mythic’s roaming the land even after the great migration. It ran along the lines that a soldier returning home after twenty five years of service to the Tsar comes across a beggar playing cards. Seeing the old fellow is starving he shares with him his very last biscuit and in return gives him a magical deck of cards that never lose for him and a sack which can capture any beast simply by being ordered to.

After several remarkable adventures, wherein he plays cards with devils and frees the Tsar’s palace from their grip while taking one for a slave, the soldier becomes a wealthy gentleman. But wealth could not save his son from a fever which threatened to consume him. Consulting with his devilish servant, he is granted a magic glass that allows him to see Death standing at his son’s bedside. He is told that if he stands at the foot of the bed then the invalid will recover but if Death stands at the head of the bed then it is too late. Sprinkling his child with water from the glass, the boy makes a full recovery and the soldier takes the glass and becomes a miracle worker.

While he is working miracles in the furthest part of the empire, he receives a summons saying that the Tsar is dying and that he is to return immediately. Upon his return, he finds Death standing at the head of the bed and there is nothing he can do to save his monarch. In his desperation he begs for the reaper to take him in the Tsars place to which Death agrees and gives him the rest of the day to say his farewells. As he lies dying, he looks into the glass and commands Death into the sack, which he is compelled to do.

The soldier rejoices at the fact that he has captured death, he outwitted the reaper himself and now he will never die. But then, neither will anyone else. He could not see the consequences of his actions or what they might bring about. Millions of souls hung in the most retarded of limbos, still dying from affliction or injury yet unable to shuffle off into the next world, stuck in a never ending torment and agony.

Upon seeing the consequences of his actions he resolves himself to free death and to take his place in the afterlife. As he opens the sack, he tells the reaper he is ready to go but Death promptly flees from the soldier, vowing never to return for him.

“Did you ever wonder what happened to the soldier?” Ducard asked. Puck shrugged his shoulders and continued to eat, growing ever more bored with the developing conversation.

“Who cares, it’s just a story, even among my people who take all legends seriously, we don’t treat this one the same as any of the others. It’s a fucking fable…” Puck said. He took a huge swig from his beer and belched loudly.

“It’s not just a story, there is truth to it” Ducard said flatly. Puck had to laugh at the absurdity of what he was suggesting. Even by the strictly regulated laws of magic, power over death was considered impossible even for the most powerful of Mythic sorcerers; so the idea that a Hume had had captured the reaper himself was beyond ridiculous.

“The fact that we’re here talking about it is all the truth of a wasted encounter” Puck said finishing his mouthful with a last pull on his beer. “Thank you for the food and the bloody awful trip here but I’m no idiot and I don’t plan on wasting anymore of my time on fucking ridiculous stories.”

Puck turned to head for the door but instead he found Ducard blocking his way, an old leather sack had appeared as if out of nowhere in his hand. At first, Puck felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, as if his food had just fallen straight through him and onto the floor, then his face began to feel the prickles of cold pins and needles across his skin. Ducard was bluffing, he must have been.

“Do you know what this is” he asked. 

Puck felt his body turn to lead. He could not take his eyes from the sack, something compelled him to stare at it and something inside of him was compelled to answer Ducard’s question even if he did not want to.

“A sack…” Puck answered shakily.

“Well, if this is a sack… then…” Ducard said. He hesitated, waiting just long enough to see if Puck was going to back down. Puck could read his expressions as clearly as if he was looking at his own reflection. He was doing more than proving a point about the truth of his story; he was proving a point to Puck. The Fae would know that if such an item did exist then there would be no way that anyone should ever have access to it. This was the hook Ducard needed in order to rope Puck into his service.

“Please…” he said holding up a hand pleadingly, “Please don’t finish that sentence.”

Ducard laid the sack on the floor between them then stepped to the window and began to stare out at the tower blocks that surrounded their location with casual nonchalance. Puck knelt on the floor and felt a wave of relief course through him as whatever power the sack held began to dissipate. Looking over at the sack he thought of reaching out and taking it, seeing if it truly was what Ducard claimed to be. It certainly had the potential, but powerful magics like that had to felt with one’s own hand before an absolute certainty could be made.

“Go ahead, take it. See for yourself” Ducard said without turning.

“You’re not worried…”

“That you’ll use it on me? Oh, Mr Puck, I’m afraid you really have no idea as to your role in this little one act play of ours. I tried to be nice and I tried to be professional but I’m afraid you’ve rather exhausted my patience” he said calmly. “By all means, take the sack, inspect it for yourself, you’ll be needing it where you’re going.”

“And where’s that?” Puck asked.

“The job, which Mr Petrov has so wonderfully laid out for you, is to find Death”

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Coventry was cold by the time Puck arrived. He did not realise just how much time had passed in his travel cross country via the Wisp. Wisp travel always seemed instantaneous to the travellers but in truth there was always a time delay. What had appeared to be mere moments was a full day by the time he arrived at the Hyatt. Puck was still a day behind but he compensated for this by understanding the necessity of the task before him.

There were few, if any, options before him, Petrov had made sure of that. The crafty Russian bastard had been shrewd enough to be the one to buy up Dee and Carmine’s debt. He was well informed, Puck had to give him that much, and as such he knew of his friendship with Dee. It was this that he was holding over Puck and in that manner he was using it to get him to do the impossible. To find Death.

Even as the thought crossed his mind it sounded absurd. If what Ducard had told him was true then there was no chance that the Reaper was going to take Petrov even if Puck wanted him to. Hell, finding the reaper was going to be hard enough as it was and right now he was simply acting on rumour, suspicion and hearsay.

Petrov’s limo pulled down past the university and headed through the main drag of bars and café’s until it reached its destination, the Cathedral. . He told the driver to wait for him at the nearest café as he could not be sure if he would return, let alone return any time soon then exited the car.

Puck could feel the pull of magical energy tugging at his skin as soon as he stepped out into the world. Places of great death always had a vein of strong power running through, it was the reason amateurs and fools who played at being wizards liked to use them for their idiotic rituals, it was the only part of spell casting they ever got right. The feeling was like a thousand and one tiny pin pricks across the skin, not enough to cause any serious discomfort but certainly enough to let you know where you were standing.

He climbed the steps of Coventry’s famously ruined cathedral and ignored the disgusted gazes from Hume onlookers, most of whom were tourists seeking to gawp at the place of mass genocide. He had never understood mankind’s obsession with seeking out historical graveyards. To Mythic’s, places like this were to be avoided, particularly by those sensitive to the Great River, as the imprint of those who died there never truly left. It was for this reason that Puck had told Petrov that if he were to begin his search anywhere it had to be in Coventry.

The onlookers gasped and spoke quietly in tones he could tell were offended by his presence. A Mythic, here, in a Hume’s historical building, how offensive. He did not care and neither would they if they knew who he had come to find.

There was little of the Cathedral left. Puck never had the pleasure of meeting these Nazi’s of which Hume’s had often spoken but he could at least respect their efficiency for bombing their enemies, even if they were truly repugnant. Most of what remained standing after the barrage of bombs had finished with it was three main walls. The largest one was at the very far end of the site and, Puck suspected, it once contained some kind religious stained glass window. There was no roof left, only open sky, bare to the cold grey clouds and the rain that was threatening to pour down on them. Two walls ran parallel to each other, the fine arches and murals that had once been so lovingly hand carved into the stone remained but dulled by the ravishes of time. The ones on the left seemed to lead into the new cathedral being built next door while the ones to the right simply looked out on a pleasant path with some beautiful greenery growing in its way.

The further along the giant stone slabs which made up the ground beneath him the more the Hume’s began to ignore his presence. He could feel the eyes beginning to recede from his back as their British sensibilities gave way to a quiet tolerance to which he was more accustomed to.

He paused as he reached the furthest part. Standing in the shadow of the great arch he could feel the pin pricks growing sharper across his skin. It was like icy cold air had been painted across his face, pinching and twisting it and making it feel raw. A shiver ran up his spine and he did his best not to pay attention to it.

“Right, best get to it I suppose” he said to the air.

He seated himself on the remains of a stone altar, which he supposed must have been for the worship of some primitive human god. There were so many Hume religions that he did not make it a point to note each one he came across. Crossing his legs, he rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and ran a finger across the scar tissue at his wrist. It looked fresh healed and a part of him regretted what he was about to do as the healer was an exceptional one and he hated to ruin such fine work. Pinching down into the scar with the claw on his right thumb, he drew it downward until it nearly reached his elbow.  The blood felt hot yet he felt no pain from the act only a slight sense of relief that the mysterious healer who had helped him would not be there to see their work so horribly defiled.

The blood ran down his hand and onto the cold stone beneath him. Drip, drip, drip it went, staining the brown rock black and making a small pool just under his hand.

“Come on, where are you” he said.

He could feel his heart beating a little faster now and everything began to feel just as it had last time. He was sober now so everything felt less numb and more instantaneous; the rush of sensation was overpowering as every perception he had in his possession was maximised by the possibility of ever impending death. Everything was brighter, louder and more colourful, an overwhelming tidal wave of one feeling or another. His instincts were crying out to him to find help, to not sit down, to grab the nearest person he could and demand the finest medical attention that Hume’s could manage. Yet his focus remained as determined as it had been when he made the decision two days ago, there was only one difference: Robin Goodfellow would not die today.

“Hello” said a sweet voice next to him.

The girl sitting to his left appeared young to him but that was only because he had lived so long that everyone was young in his eyes. In truth she was probably in her early to mid-twenties, with long dark hair which fell well below her shoulders. She wore a dark flowing dress which seemed more like a velvet curtain than anything resembling a dress. He could not help but feel his eyes being drawn toward the thinly laced Basque that covered her chest and instantly felt like a letch perving on someone far too young for him even if he knew the opposite to be true. However thinly her attributes may have been covered it did not distract from the day of the dead face mask she had intimately painted on her beautiful face.

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“The face paint’s a bit much isn’t it?” he said. The woman smiled and Puck could not help but feel reassured by her, even if he did not feel as if he deserved it.

“People expect something a little more in keeping with what they’re supposed to see when I arrive. Most folks want the old bright light and dead relative’s routine. I keep telling them that part comes next” she explained.

She looked down at his bleeding arm and took his hand in hers, his blood still running down his arm and pooling in the palm of her silky glove. He had not noticed the elbow length gloves but he was not surprised, she was dressing for a theme after all.

“Not your first time?” she asked.

“First successful time and that’s only because this lot don’t care to notice” he said gesturing to the crowd milling about the cathedral. Their motions had grown slow now, as if time itself had slowed to a fraction of what it truly should have been. Puck assumed it was her doing, a pre-ritual before passing on, a last look as it were.

“You did seem determined the other night. Luckily, you had someone looking out for you” she said.

“Any chance you might tell me who my mysterious saviour was?” he asked. She smiled at him again and shook her head, almost, innocently.

“I could but then what good would it do?” she asked. Puck shrugged and pulled his pipe from his pocket and struck it to life. He took a good few lungful’s of good Elysium tobacco and blew a few smoke rings.

“None, I suppose, but then, what harm could it do?” he suggested with a lusty wink and a waggle of his eyebrows.

“You’re more than a little bit mischievous, has anyone ever told you that?” she said with her own twinkle shining out from her dark brown eyes. 

“More than once, but then again, it’s not like it’s without cause” he said. He looked down at her hand in his, contemplating the possibility of letting go, of just falling away and not looking back. His curiosity at the very least was piqued if not his desire for it all to be over. He was tired, so heavy and tired and he wanted there to be an end. It was only the thought of the potential consequences that kept him on point and moving in the direction he knew he should be moving in.

He pulled his hand away from hers and reached into the folds of his coat and pulled out the sack. He had folded it meticulously so it was easily reachable at a moment’s notice. He had no idea what death might do or how this whole situation would unfold and had to be prepared for anything. This was his one ace in the hole, the thing that would get him to where he needed to go.

“I’m sorry Mortiana, but it’s not you I need to speak with” he said with genuine regret.

Mortiana looked down at the sack and recoiled in horror at the mere sight of it. She jumped down from the stone altar and backed away from Puck. It was surreal experience for him. The thought of Death being afraid of anything was disconcerting and unusual in a way he had never experienced. If there was nothing else to be said at the very least it proved the truth of Ducard’s claim about the sack, this truly was the very thing which caught death.

“You should know better than to toy with the reaper, Robin Goodfellow” she said shakily.

“I don’t wish to toy with you Mortiana, I have nothing but the utmost respect for you and what you do and I truly wish I could be here to let you do what you are supposed to. But I’m afraid I come with strange and curious purpose, a purpose for which I cannot die just yet” he explained. “A bargain must be struck and the only one who can make it is Old Reaper.”

Mortiana looked at him with a childlike curiosity that had not been there before. Puck did not like it. He felt like an ant looking up at the boot that was coming down to crush him. There was coldness in her gaze, not unlike how a shark looks at its prey moments before it eats them alive. Puck had known going into this that he would have to be respectful but he also knew he had to cross a line, he just hoped he had not gone too far over it.

“How do you know about him?” she asked.

Her curiosity was rightly justified. There were few in the world, both human and Mythic, who knew of the true nature of Death and those who served as its avatar. The mantle of Reaper was one that had been passed down through the millennia but that position was broken into three. The New Reaper, Mortiana, was the youngest of the three. Her purpose was that of gentle sweet lullaby’s, to kindly guide those poor and tragic souls lost to despair or those unfortunate innocents who had no chance of life into the next one. She was the kind face of death, the blessed relief that came for all who needed to be taken with a kind and loving hand.

Old Reaper was a different animal altogether. The Old Reaper dealt with violence, bloodshed, murders, executions, genocide and warfare. He was present at all the major conflicts worldwide. His touch was felt in every bullet to the head, every knife to the heart, every flick of the electric chair switch. Each time a man killed his wife in anger, Old Reaper was there. Every soldier who blew apart an innocent civilian, he was there. Every victim who felt the touch of a cold razor from the hand of a killer wanting to see the life fall from their eyes, Old Reaper was there. None of the Reapers were beings by which to be taunted or toyed with, least of all Old Reaper, but even his powers were miniscule when compared to the third: Grim Reaper.

“I’m sure you must know who I am, who I'm friends with?” he asked. Realisation dawned and she gave a smile followed by a knowing wag of her finger.

“I should have known that Jeff might have said something” she said, laughing in a friendly way.

Over the course of their friendship the Green Man had made the nature of life and death quite readily apparent to Puck, more often over drinks and blurred nights out. Puck had been surprised when Jeff had told him there was more than one death and after he explained the nature of Grim Reaper, and the reasons why he should be feared, Puck never asked again. The one curiosity he did retain though was the strange fact of the New Reaper and her habit of hanging out at Coventry cathedral’s ruins. Jeff had told him that it was something to do with losing a loved one in the ruins, of having Reap him herself but Puck did not believe it. It did however give him the start he had needed in his search which had led him to Mortiana.

“I need to speak to Old Reaper and you’re the only one who can get me to meet him” he said, “I have nothing but respect and reverence for all of you and I’m definitely not here by choice, so please, will you help me?”

Mortiana looked at him with shaded eyes, her gaze shielded by a length of shadow across her eyes that disguised her intentions. Not that the intentions of a reaper could ever possibly be guessed at. She turned her head to look past the world around them. At first, Puck thought she had cast her gaze to the horizon, looking out to some vision of a future only she could see; then it happened. Holding up the flat, sideways palm of her left hand, she forced her fingers into an invisible curtain in reality and pulled.

The whirling shape of the reality that surrounded her hand shook and slung out against her touch like a curtain blowing in the wind. Forming her hand into a fist she pulled the veil of reality to one side and revealed a dark shadowy other world beyond the veil of perception. She gestured for Puck to come forward with her other hand almost seductively.

Puck looked down at his wrist. The blood had stopped for the moment but had not healed. He raised his wrist to her as he walked forward.

“Not appropriate for a conversation with the Old Man, right?” he said with a wink. She shrugged and smiled flatly.

 “Actually, probably more appropriate than you think, he loves a little bloodshed. However…” she said. She raised her hand and ran it down across his skin. He could feel the sinew and muscle knitting itself back together one atom at a time. It was sore and painful but still better than the alternative, which had still not been taken entirely off the table.

“…Perhaps not quite appropriate for his table” she said holding the veil back for him.

He glanced down into the nothingness and saw not even the smallest fraction of light or form. There was an absence of all within, a void which was separate from everything. There was an oblivion there which Puck could smell. A distinct odour of nothingness wafted up from the fall, an odour so subtle that only Mythic’s could sense it but one whose memory never left them.

“Is there anything down there? Anything at all?” he asked as he peaked over the edge.

“That all depends on you” she said, tilting her head in the direction of the fall. He glanced back up at her, shrugged, then dived head first into the void.

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He had expected his landing to be far more dramatic than it was. Puck thought on his way down into the void that his landing would either have been incredibly hard and would have taken some time for him to recover or he would have been caught at the last minute but magical hands and placed down gently. As it happened he simply found himself standing somewhere he was not before and yet instantly recognised.

Puck wanted to break down and weep at the sight of the river Iialoc, the great river serpent of his home back in Elysium. The great rushing waters ran with raucous energy. It was a place of indeterminate power as it was one of the few old gods to have survived the creation of Elysium and as such is retained much of its former potency. In such a way that Puck had not seen for many years, the waters would occasionally arch, forming a kind of dry stone pathway beneath it before slamming back down again, resuming the rivers former run. Puck laughed at the sight of it, Iialoc was a sleeping beast, despite how its waters ran and this was simply his way of stretching out while slumbering. He watched as the river gods colours changed from clear to red, then from red to green, then from green back to clear. Iialoc was dreaming and dreaming pleasantly.

Beyond where the water god slumbered was rolling hills of great grass plains that led onto a hilly mountain range. The snow-capped peaks could be seen even this far down and more memories of hiking through snowy passes and sharing bowls of soup with Yeti’s in those mountains came trickling back. This was a place he truly missed, this was home.

“I hear you’ve been looking for me?” someone said to Puck’s left.

Looking downstream to where the river flowed far off into the distance he saw a lithe and altogether interesting figure crouched down by the water. He was looking down at the water and running his hand in the shallow end, moving it gently through the running water as if trying to stroke the river god and soothe it as it moved. His face was obscured by a length of black hair which fell either side of his face. He wore a simple brown leather jacket and black jeans that ended just above his feet, showing off a pair of custom made cowboy boots.

“Are we…” Puck began.

“Nope. We aint” he said without turning. His voice was as smooth as silk and aged like a fine brandy. He spoke with an American accent Puck could not quite place as it sounded like something he heard during the war, southern but not raw and rough.

“Morty just opened the door, you chose the stage and, as it turns out, your soul wants to be here, so here we are” he explained further.

“So this isn’t Elysium?” Puck asked, feeling a little stupid simply by asking such a self-evident question.

The figure turned his head, ever so slightly, and looked straight at him. He had the same predatory gaze Mortiana had, except his was more like a reptile. A stone cold killer who would cut him down in a moment’s notice with a callous disregard for any plea he might make. He stood slowly, taking his time as if he had not a care in the world and turned. It was only as the figure stood facing Puck dead on did he notice the samurai sword hanging loosely in the man’s hand, its black wooden scabbard polished to a high reflective sheen.

“No” he said simply, “It’s not.”

“So, we’re in my soul?” Puck asked, again feeling like an idiot. The figure smiled a snakelike grin and placed his hands on his hips.

“Wow, you really aint as fast as fast as most people give you credit for are you?” he said.

Puck shuffled the pebbles on the riverbank with his feet and stood feeling awkward and extremely nervous. What could he possibly say to someone like this? Old Reaper was a different creature altogether wholly and completely different from Mortiana. What little Jeff had shared with Puck about him he had spoken with nothing but a sense of caution. Even the Green Man’s meeting’s with him had been few and fleeting; they were usually only a cup of coffee here and there, once they had shared a lunch and Jeff had only said that he was polite and respectful, if a trifle arrogant.

“Morty says that you wanted to talk to me about something. She even said you slit your wrist to get here” he asked.

“She didn’t lie” Puck said.

“She wouldn’t lie to me and even if she did, I’d know it right away” he said. He took a step forward and Puck instinctively backed away. This drew a tired smile from Old Reaper who looked as if he had been through this more than once.

“Look, you went through quite a lot to be here and judging by the absence of blood and the presence of a heartbeat, quite a strong one I might add, that you’re here for something important?” he asked. Suddenly, he slapped his palm to his forehead as if just remembering something he had clearly forgotten.

“I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. The name’s Shin” he said holding out a hand and taking another step towards Puck. He looked at the hand cautiously and backed away again. Shin laughed this time but did not rescind the invitation to shake hands.

“Different Death, different rules, what do you think this is for?” he said brandishing his sword enthusiastically. He approached Puck slowly, allowing him time to make up his mind whether he trusted him or not. The fae decided to show a little faith and, warily, took his hand and gave it a light shake.

“Now, since all formalities have been observed, perhaps you could tell me what this is all about?” shin asked.

Puck backed up a step or two, unsure just how Shin would take the news that he was here at Petrov’s request. He hooked his thumbs into his belt, making sure to keep the sack  as close as possible just in case things went the way of the uncivilised.

“Does the name Arkady Petrov mean anything to you sir?” Puck asked.

There are few moments in a life as long as Puck’s where things can be unpredictable. After the better part of three hundred years, two major wars and a mass migration, he had been fairly certain he had seen most things. He had woken to a dawn and witnessed the very last of the great Dragon Flights across the Grinarge, he had spoken with the great mages of the City of Worms and had seen the final sunset of Elysium. He had seen it all but he never thought he would ever look death in the eye and see something resembling fear.

The change was a subtle one. Ever so slightly, Shin’s eyes turned from a dull grey to pitch black. His left eye twitched so quickly that a less, well trained, eye would not have caught it. The right side of Shin’s mouth pulled downward, his lip quivering for only a second but that was all it took for Puck to see it.

“You’re here about that?” he said. The tone in his voice had changed from light courtesy to a deeply predatory baritone. If Puck had intended to irritate or even anger a Reaper then he was going about it the right way. He only prayed he could dial the situation back far enough to get out it alive.

“He wants it to end” Puck explained, “And you’re the only one who can make it happen.”

“That’s right” Shin said. Puck saw his samurai sword begin to twitch in his grip, as if he were itching to have a reason to draw it. “But I’m not going to. He deserves what he is getting and far worse besides.”

“You’d be hard pressed to find someone who would disagree with you, even amongst the Humes, but I need you to make an exception” Puck said. “There is more at stake here, more lives that will be ruined if it doesn’t happen.”

“You think I care?” shin snapped. “There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

Puck was not too familiar with human writing but he knew that one. Most Mythic’s were familiar with Shakespeare, some of the more devoted Mythic fans even believed him to have been a Mythic changeling in disguise, how else could a simple Hume write such amazing works. Whatever it was that Shin was getting at he clearly believed Puck could not see the larger picture.

“I am a Reaper, Mr Goodfellow and my purpose, in this world at least, is to take those souls who died violently. I have reaped those torn apart by war, those who died cold and alone for another’s pleasure, those lined up and executed and those who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. The enormity of what I have to do is so far beyond the thinking of one simple Fae that it would be impossible for you to imagine what could happen were I not able to do what I have to”

He could not be sure but Puck certainly detected a note of awful bitterness in the way Shin spoke, as if he truly hated being a reaper. The thought that Death could possibly not like his job or indeed have any strong feeling towards what they did was not an idea that sprang to mind.

“Is that truly the reason for your refusal to reap Petrov? Punishment for stopping a few deaths millennia ago?” Puck asked. Shin’s eye twitched at his flippancy and again Puck found himself questioning if making a reaper angry was a good idea. Iialoc moved and twisted, the colour of its waters changing to a bright sunshine yellow and forming another arch before settling down once again.

“It was more than a few” Shin said plainly. “Imagine, if you can, a world where no-one died for a day, just one day. How many stories would be different, how many courses of history would have been irrevocably changed, how many future lives would have been different? There was more at stake than simply a few deaths. It was Petrov’s time and a bargain had been struck. I gave the Tsar more time in exchange for Petrov’s life, that was the balance, the account that had to be measured. Petrov did not understand what he was doing, he simply thought he was cheating death but his repercussions echoed through the centuries.”

“So what is it that you want to show in his never-ending existence? That you should never cross the Reaper?” he asked.

“That should have been a known fact burned into every living species on every possible earth. Yet, Petorv felt the need to test that fact and as such his punishment is entirely fitting”

“So he’s supposed to be a warning, a cautionary tale to all and sundry who would dare presume to look death in the eye and tell him to leave” Puck said, his own voice raising higher than he had expected it to. Shin gave him a serious glare from behind his long black hair then turned to the horizon. Puck could see the samurai sword still twitching in his hand and began to wonder just how fast death could move.

“You couldn’t possibly understand the enormity of it. If you had ever walked in the shoes of a Reaper you would and that is why Petrov must live forever. His story, although forgotten by most, had far greater impact on the sentient beings of your world then anything dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“Something tells me that I’m smelling bullshit here” Puck said, surprising himself as much as he did Old Reaper. The glare this time would have stopped a person heart and Puck suspected that it was only out of some strange sense of curiosity that Shin had not done exactly that.

“You’re afraid” Puck said accusingly. Shin looked at him, silently judging him with quiet bemusement at the ludicrous accusation he had just levelled at him. He turned and crossed his arms, the sound of rushing water being the only noise that passed between them as he waited expectantly for an explanation.

“All of this talk about a lesson that needs to be learned and fate and repercussions is horseshit. It’s plain old fear that’s keeping you from reaping Petrov and I think I know why” Puck said as he reached into his coat.

The look that appeared on Shin’s face would stay with Puck for the rest of his life. If the Fae had lived until the end of time he would still remember the expressions. Even on his own deathbed, as he glanced into those same eyes for the second time in his life, he would never forget how they looked right here and now in this moment.

He withdrew the sack from his coat, moving ever so slowly so as to not startle Shin too much. The motion was in vain as his face fell along with his legs from under him as he saw the sack. He dropped the sword and crawled backwards across the pebble, the dirt beneath scuffing his boots and staining his trousers. Old Reaper was shaking, his hands barely able to sit still as they scratched and clawed at the pebbles, splitting his skin and making him bleed.

What happened next would come as an unexpected shock to Shin. So much so that he held up his arms against his face so as to not see. Puck threw the sack at his feet. Shin lowered his arms and looked at Puck in confusion.

“Take it, it’s yours” Puck said. “We’re going to make a deal you and I”

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