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I shrug. “It beats bleeding in a truck. Do you have anything to drink around here?”
The Magistrate turns around, takes a glass off a small table, and sets it in front of me.
“I had a feeling you might be thirsty.”
I sniff it. No smell.
“Water?” I say.
He nods.
I squint at him.
“You wouldn’t try to roofie a guest, would you?”
“Do I strike you as that sort of man?” says the Magistrate.
“No. But I’ve been wrong before. And we are in Hell.”
Back in the world, I can usually tell when someone is lying. I can hear their heart, watch the pupils of their eyes and micro-expressions on their face. But most of that doesn’t work on the dead. No heartbeat. Micro-expressions dulled by death. And it’s too dark in here to see the Magistrate’s eyes.
I down whatever’s in the glass, though, because at this point I’d drink paint thinner out of a hobo’s galoshes.
What I swallow seems like water. There’s no weird aftertaste and my eyes don’t start spinning. So far so good.
“Feeling better?” he says.
“Okay. But I’d feel great if you had something stronger.”
The Magistrate moves his head from side to side. “We shall see,” he says. “Now that you’re feeling better, are you still Mr. Pitts in here or can we start off on a friendlier footing?”
“Are you still the Magistrate in here?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’m still Mr. Pitts.”
Traven gives me a look, but I give him one right back.
“As you wish,” says the Magistrate. “What were you doing on the mountain?”
His speech is clipped, like English isn’t his first language. But I can’t identify his accent.
I say, “I have no idea.”
He cocks his head.
“You weren’t spying on us?”
“Until you stopped I thought you were a dust devil come to pick my bones clean.”
“Who else is on the mountain?”
“No one that I know of. I told you that when I fried your friend.”
I hear Daja move behind me, but she stops when the Magistrate holds up his hand.
“How did you get onto the mountain? Where did you come from?” he says.
“I was busy getting murdered on Earth.”
“You’re dead?” blurts Traven.
I hold up my left arm to show him that it’s my old human arm again and not a biomechanical Kissi prosthetic.
The Magistrate looks to him, then me, then back to Traven and his big goddamn mouth.
“Why would Mr. Pitts being dead surprise you, Father?” he says. “Hell is a place of the dead.”
Traven mumbles, “It’s just that …”
“This isn’t my first time in Hell,” I say.
The Magistrate leans back.
“I see. Another mortal foolish enough to make a deal with the Devil. Did he send you back with promises of immortality? How did it feel when you realized you’d been tricked?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I say. “In fact, Lucifer and me are pretty simpatico these days. The old Lucifer. The retired one. He’s the one who thought it would be funny to leave me on the fucking mountain.”
The Magistrate continues to lean back, but he doesn’t look so smug anymore.
“You mean the Lucifer who has become Death?” he says.
I upend the glass and get a few more drops of water.
“Do you know a bunch of other Lucifers?”
He leans forward and rests his arms on the table.
“You are friends with Death. My, how special you must be.”
“We don’t go to karaoke or anything, but we’ve had a cocktail or two.”
“I find it hard to believe you, Mr. Pitts.”
I push the glass back to his side of the table.
“I don’t give a single fuck what you believe. Unless it means I don’t get a drink later. Then I care a lot.”
The Magistrate takes the glass and puts it back on the small table.
“Why would your ‘friend’ Death leave you here in the middle of nowhere?” he says.
“Isn’t it obvious?” says Traven.
“No. It is not. Why do you think he was there?”
Traven opens a hand to the Magistrate and then to me. “For this. This moment. This meeting. This is why Mr. Pitts was on the mountain. Death wanted us all to meet.”
“To what end?” says the Magistrate.
“To help with the work, of course.”
“You’re so sure?”
Traven leans forward, speaking quietly, but intensely.
“Death could have left him in Pandemonium or at the gates of Heaven with the other refugees. He could have left him in the wilderness where no one would ever find him. But no. He left him right here in the Tenebrae, directly in our path.”
“Perhaps Death left him so that we could dispatch him to Tartarus,” says the Magistrate.
“Perhaps he has something we need.”
“Or perhaps Death was having a joke on all of us.”
“I vote for that,” I say. “Death loves a joke. Pull my finger he says and poof, you’re gone.”
Traven lays his hand on the table.
“I’m telling you. Death has sent us a gift. This man is useful to the cause. I don’t know exactly how, but it will reveal itself.”
“How do you know that he isn’t lying about everything?” the Magistrate says. “From where he came from to his alleged friendship with Death?”
“Because I knew him.”
“When you were alive.”
“Yes.”
“How do you know he is the same man you knew then? Perhaps he’s gone mad. Perhaps he’s a spy.”
“Excuse me,” I say. “What time does the buffet start? The service here it terrible.”
“Stop it, Pitts,” snaps Traven.
The Magistrate shakes his head.
“Yes. Stop it, Mr. Pitts. We will know everything when Mimir gets here,” he says.
Fuck. The oracle. I’d forgotten about her.
“But for my own curiosity,” the Magistrate says, “what is the new Death like?”
“Is this part of the interrogation or are we just dishing?”
“It is simply a question.”
I look at him for a minute. He didn’t poison me and he could have. He also hasn’t let Daja shoot me and I know she’d love to.
I say, “Death is pretty much like he was when he was Lucifer. He didn’t much like that job either, but he was good at it. Truth is, I haven’t seen him much since he’s become Death. It’s like being a cabby. Long hours.”
“You were friends, then?” says the Magistrate. “Confidants?”
“Why not? I’m a people person.”
The Magistrate aims a finger at me.
“The Devil had many secrets. What was his greatest?”
“Now it’s twenty questions? Fuck you,” I say. “That’s his secret and mine.”
Daja moves again. I’m getting really tired of this.
“Please answer the question,” says the Magistrate.
“Please answer,” says Traven. There’s something in the bastard’s eyes. It takes me a while, but then I recognize it: now that he’s seen a familiar face, he doesn’t want to be alone again. I can’t blame him.
“There are a couple of things it could be,” I say. “But what I think you mean is the wound. The one Dad gave him during the war in Heaven. The one that never healed. Until recently, at least.”
“You are saying the wound is healing?” says the Magistrate.
“Healed. It started getting better when he went home.”
The Magistrate stays silent for a minute. Then he whispers, “Interesting,” and looks at Daja.
When no one else says anything, I say, “Now I have some questions for you.”
“I am sure you do. Father, would you bring in Mimir?” the Magistrate says.
“Of course.”
He gets up and goes outside. I lean my head back and look up at Daja. She doesn’t look any better upside down. Her dark, dusty hair is long and she wears it tied back. Her leathers are light and worn. She’s strong. She could wear heavier leathers, but she likes the light ones because they let her move faster, so she’s down for a gunfight, a knife fight, or fists. I smile up at her wondering which one she’d like to start with on me. She scowls back.
Traven comes back in with Mimir in tow. She’s still in her ratty fur coat, but she’s taken the bandanna off her face. Turns out it was hiding a respirator attached to a small oxygen tank under her coat. She sits across the table, next to the Magistrate. I can hear her labored breathing all the way over on my side.
The Magistrate gently takes her hand.
“Thank you for coming, Mimir.”
