Chapter 53
Madness
You know, on reflection, I should have better self control.
In my defence, the woman I loved more than anything had just died when I lost control and madness exploded from me, infecting every living—and dead—being on the island of Ford’s End.
If anyone had just cause, it was me. But uh, staring at the people down in the basin where the village sat, I considered that maybe, just once, I should try a little thing called restraint.
At one end of the high street, seven people were line dancing. That was fun. In the middle, a brawl had broken out and people glassed each other with broken bottles from the nearby pub. Less fun, but at least it was bloody, a creative work painted with vital fluid.
At the other end of the street, villagers had scaled the roof of the post office and threw roof slates at each other, some with their hair ripped out, others with their tits to the wind, nudist style.
One man had prised his eyeball out and it dangled by the wire-cord-things.
That was where I drew the line. I quickly looked away and tried not to throw up.
“Well,” Tor said, shaking his head at the carnage as we walked down the moor road, led by a ghost who got more and more insubstantial with every mile. “You’ve outdone yourself, Madde.”
I winced—and caught sight of a man framed in the window of a farmhouse a little down the road, helicopter-swinging his dick around. At his side, a woman was doing the macarena.
“What is it with your magic and nudity?” Miz huffed.
“Only a sane, boring person would be fully clothed,” I defended my magic. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, though.”
“The murder or the nakedness?” Death asked, his voice weaker than it had been in the woods. My stomach twisted into a pretzel. We couldn’t lose Death. He was Death. The big D. The main man. What were we supposed to do without our fearless leader?
I would miss him like crazy, I realised, and rubbed at a knot of pain in my chest.
Nope. No worrying. We were going to get this hook from the ground, ruin all Violence’s plans, save the day—and save Death before he could fade away forever. Easy peasy, ball sack squeezy.1
The ghost—Darya, she’d managed to communicate before the distance from Ford and the site of her death silenced her voice—pointed at a grassy hill deckled with sheep.
“She wants us to kill the sheep!” I cried. “I told you she was a malevolent spirit.”
Darya rolled her eyes and mouthed, hook.
“Ohhh. Apologies.”
“Stop pissing about,” Tor barked, already throwing his leg over the dry stone wall and dropping down on the other side, charging up the hill to where Darya floated.
One minute she was there, gliding over the grass without her feet touching it, and the next moment she was screaming, clutching her head, dropping to her knees.
“Uh,” I said, staring. “Spirits aren’t meant to do that, right?”
“No,” Death confirmed, rushing over the wall. Miz and I followed, and when I landed on the other side, I was in full death god glory. Instead of a face, a smooth surface of bone peeked from beneath my hood, no eyes or noses or mouths. Not even ears.2
“He’s started the process,” Miz snarled, changing forms between one word and the next.
I was right on the verge of asking if anyone knew where the hook might be, but there was no need. Hazy light blast from the ground, splitting grass and dirt and even a rock that had the bad fortune of being in the way. No! The sheepies!
I rushed across the Wake field as quickly as I could, ramming into sheep like an American footballer, scooping them up when they ran the wrong way, herding them all over the wall.
“I could be a pretty kickass farmer,” I reasoned.
“You do realise they’ll get hit by the first car that comes down the road,” Miz remarked, the two of us warily approaching the shard of light that came from the ground.
And there it was—Cruelty’s hook. Silver and dull and completely boring except for the fact it was a death god’s instrument and had killed a lot of people. Like a serious amount. More than me and my lioness put together.
“The sheep’ll be fine,” I said, concentrating on the power wafting off that hook, the stream of light not going straight into the sky but almost sideways—connecting to Violence’s hammer. “They’re smart.”
“They’re sheep.”
“Exactly.
“She’s gone,” Tor said tightly, his guilt palpable. “He ripped her right out of existence.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Death said, even quieter, softer than he’d been minutes ago. Not good. Very, very not good. He reached for Tor with an arm of magic, but like a ghost’s touch, it passed right through Tor’s shoulder.
Tor went unnaturally still for a moment, then erupted with shadows and death and magic. Before we could talk about our plan—and we really did need a plan, even I could see that—Tor stalked past us and plunged his rotting hand through the light until all the skin sloughed off.
I turned away. “Ew. Eugh. Yuck.”
“Got it,” Tor rumbled, his voice as gravelly and deep as a rock slide.
The moment he ripped the hook from the ground, smothering it in his own magic, the light cut off.
“Problem solved,” I said with relief, already turning back to the wall, the road, and my wife. My skin itched, and there was a tightness in my chest that would only ease when I set eyes on her again.3
“Not problem solved,” Tor growled. “How many spirits did he manage to drain before we cut him off?”
“Oh.” I chewed the inside of my lip. “Right. Definitely not problem solved.”