their gift. They'd spent much of the day under San Francisco's graveyards digging out the skulls (Orcus liked them decoffinated) and polishing off the dirt and detritus until they shone like bone china.
"We flew," said Nemain. She took a moment to admire the blue-black feather shapes on her surface. "Above," she added unnecessarily. "They are everywhere, like cherries waiting to be stolen."
"Not stolen," said Orcus. "You think like a crow. They are ours for the taking."
"Oh yeah, well, where were you? I got these." The shade held up William Creek's umbrella in one hand and the fur jacket she'd ripped away from Charlie Asher in the other. They still glowed red, but were rapidly dimming. "Because of these, I was Above. I flew." When no one reacted, Nemain added, "Above."
"I flew, too," said Babd timidly. "A little." She was a tad self-conscious that she'd manifested no feather patterns or dimension.
Orcus hung his great head. The Morrigan moved to his side and began stroking the long spikes that had once been wings. "We will all be Above, soon," said Macha. "This new one doesn't know what he is doing. He will make it so we can all be Above. Look how far we've come - and we are so close now. Two Above in such a short time. This New Meat, this ignorant one, he may be all we need."
Orcus lifted his bull-like head and grinned, revealing a sawmill of teeth. "They will be like fruit for the picking."
"See," said Nemain. "Like I said. Did you know that Above you can see really far? Miles. And the wonderful smells. I never realized how damp and musty it is down here. Is there any reason that we can't have a window?"
"Shut up!" growled Orcus.
"Jeez, bite my head off, why don't you."
"Don't tease," said the bullheaded Death. He rose and led the other Deaths, the Morrigan, down the pipe toward the financial district, to the buried Gold Rush ship where they made their home.
Chapter 10
PART TWO
SECONDHAND SOULS
Do not seek death. Death will find you.
But seek the road which makes death a fulfillment.
- Dag Hammarskjöld
10
DEATH TAKES A WALK
Mornings, Charlie walked. At six, after an early breakfast, he would turn the care of Sophie over to Mrs. Korjev or Mrs. Ling (whoever's turn it was) for the workday and walk - stroll really, pacing out the city with the sword-cane, which had become part of his daily regalia, wearing soft, black-leather walking shoes and an expensive, secondhand suit that had been retailored at his cleaner's in Chinatown. Although he pretended to have a purpose, Charlie walked to give himself time to think, to try on the size of being Death, and to look at all the people out and about in the morning. He wondered if the girl at the flower stand, from whom he often bought a carnation for his lapel, had a soul, or would give hers up while he watched her die. He watched the guy in North Beach make cappuccinos with faces and fern leaves drawn in the foam, and wondered if a guy like that could actually function without a soul, or was his soul collecting dust in Charlie's back room? There were a lot of people to see, and a lot of thinking to be done.
Being out among the people of the city, when they were just starting to move, greeting the day, making ready, he started to feel not just the responsibility of his new role, but the power, and finally, the specialness. It didn't matter that he had no idea what he was doing, or that he might have lost the love of his life for it to happen; he had been chosen. And realizing that, one day as he walked down California Street, down Nob Hill into the financial district, where he'd always felt inferior and out of touch with the world, as the brokers and bankers quickstepped around him, barking into their cell phones to Hong Kong or London or New York and never making eye contact, he started to not so much stroll, as strut. That day Charlie Asher climbed onto the California Street cable car for the first time since he was a kid, and hung off the bar, out over the street, holding out the sword-cane as if charging, with Hondas and Mercedes zooming along the street beside him, passing under his armpit just inches away. He got off at the end of the line, bought a Wall Street Journal from