"...and he knows," said Septimus.

Bill gasped. He sucked in the odor of dirt and gravel and dust. A pressure on his face deformed his right cheek and squashed his nostril. He felt drool on his lips, dripping from his tongue and onto the soil.

Awake.

He groaned.

"That was quick," came another voice. A vague memory connected a name to the voice: Terris.

"You can get up now, Bill," said Septimus. "Say a quick goodbye."

Bill forced his eyes open, then snapped them shut. Pain lanced his eyeballs, and spread through his body. It struck his neck and his spinal cord like a venomous snake. He shuddered and clenched his fists.

"Come on," said Septimus. "All done. Open your eyes."

Bill obeyed. The pain subsided somewhat. He blinked them to clear the blurriness, and found himself staring at the dark ground.

Taking his time, Bill flexed his limbs, which felt like they'd been beaten with hammers. And he was facedown, his arms spread above his head.

"Shit," he muttered.

Bill clenched his fists, drew in his arms. Orange and yellow light polluted his vision, flickering and swirling in smeary blobs and balls. He rubbed his eyes to clear them.

"Darling," said Septimus. "I would offer you something to eat, but I seem to be short. Maybe one of them could give you something."

Both Terris and Septimus laughed.

Bill scrabbled onto his hands and knees, and then forced himself to his feet. He wobbled violently, and reached out to the tree behind him for support.

"Shit," he said. "What...?"

"Just went to class," said Septimus. Bill's saw the tall man standing less than ten feet from him, his feet planted between two bodies.

And Terris, with his flesh pulled up around his mouth in the semblance of a smile.

And Constance.

Her pink jacket and white hair glowed in the firelight. One of her hands clamped her mouth and her eyes bugged.

And Bill heard himself talking.

"This is ritual combat," he said. "You two...you are fighting for position. You have a boss...he lets you do this..."

"He's learned a lot," said Terris. His hand was on Constance's shoulder. "Mr. Logic is the best tutor you can ask for, boy. Be lucky he agreed to this."

"You were alive," said Bill, leaning against the tree. He kept his eyes on his wife. Her hair seemed to float around her face, as if she was suspended underwater. He wondered if he was hallucinating. "But now you're...lords or dukes or..."

"I like the term 'preferred beings', myself," said Septimus.

"...and you're both completely fucked-up insane," said Bill. "What the fuck are you, anyway?"

"Mr. Logic should have showed you," said Terris. "You know. In your heart, you know."

"You want me to fight with my wife, because you think it's funny," said Bill.

He looked to Constance. She had closed her eyes.

"And you do entertain us, Bill," said Terris. He was stroking his wife's floating hair, his fingers weaving through the floating strands. "But rest assured this is a serious business."

"You put her through this, too," said Bill. "What did you do to us?"

"Gave you just enough," said Septimus. "Just enough toa""

But Bill had ceased to listen. The anger swelled up within him, blocking all pathways to rational thought in his overheated brain.

And something took over.

He walked to the nearest body, taking shuffling steps. His mouth moved, and he heard himself chanting.

The corpse was a long-haired guy in a filthy tie-dye t-shirt and stonewashed jeans that were nearly slashed to bits. His skinny fingers were folded across his abdomen, as if he were performing a bizarre post-mortem yoga pose.

Then Bill felt himself kneel down, and put his hand on the man's forehead. This action felt correct, as if his muscles remembered a long-practiced activity.

And when he touched the man's forehead, he knew.

He knew everything.

The guy's name was Saul Zweiker. He had lived in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, all of his life. Saul was a mechanic. In life he had been a heroin addict since he was eighteen. Bill felt the punctures in his veins; each one of them a dot of scar tissue holding in the rushing blue blood. He knew that Saul's favorite gift had been a Schwinn bikea"screaming yellow, with a banana seat. Got it from his father for his eighth birthday. Saul's piece-of-shit little friends had taunted the bike, saying it was for girls. A girl's bike. Saul had never ridden in in front of them again. He had taken to riding at night, in fact, when the streets were dark in Gettysburg. He rode without a headlight or reflectors on his bike, because he didn't want his friends to accidentally see him. This had resulted in getting run down by a police car (the officer was drinking on the job) and three months of physical therapy for a broken leg. The cop lost his job, and Saul's father stole all of the settlement money and ran off to somewhere in South America. Soon afterward Saul's mother had taken to heroin, which was where he had his first hit. And Saul had gotten no better grade than a B in anything in his entire life. He hadn't even tried to go to college.

Septimus had killed him outside of the Dobbin House tavern in downtown Gettysburg, by snapping the place where his brain connected with his spine. His last thoughts had been of his mother, and what she was going to do now that nobody would bring her groceries.

Bill knew all of this and everything as soon as he touched Saul's forehead. Knew it as clearly as if he'd lived it himself.

"Good," said Septimus. "And that's what gives you authority."

Bill withdrew his hand. His palm burned. He felt the moisture from Saul's forehead oozing into his pores, flowing into his bloodstream, spreading through his body like an drug.

"Holy shit," said Bill.

And Saul opened his eyes.

"Great!" said Septimus.

And Saul gasped.

His fingers skittered up his chest, clenched his beard, clawed at his face. The man kicked, striking the heads of the bodies underneath him. A tremor shook his body. He started running his right hand through his hair, while the other one balled his shirt in a weak fist.

"Oh," said Saul. "Oh oh oh oh..."

Again, Bill acted without thinking.

He stepped forward, and touched Saul lightly on the arm. Saul stopped moving instantly, falling as still as if he'd had his spinal cord severed.

But his eyes were on Bill.

Before he could stop himself, Bill issued an order. "Kill him," he told Saul, and pointed at Septimus.

"Okay," said Saul, as casually as if he'd just been offered a beer, or something.

Bill retreated toward the trees as another shudder passed through Saul. Then the bearded man was standing and running across the field of bodies, ratty jeans flapping. His decaying sneakers thudded against torsos, heads, limbs. Saul was growlinga"a sound that didn't belong to a human being. His arms flailed over his head, casting wild shadows in the firelight.

And Septimus remained in place, smiling slightly. His only movement was to raise his white hand, palm facing Saul.

"Stop," said Septimus.

Saul froze.

"Go!" shouted Bill. "Go, go. Kill him!"

Then Septimus clenched his fist, and made a small punching movement toward Saul.

Saul's chest exploded.

Bill pushed himself back against the tree and threw his hands above his head. Blood, flesh, and bits of bone pelted him.

"Sorry," said Septimus. "Had to."

Bill gagged at the smell. He coughed, tasting vomit at the back of his throat. He brought his arms down, and saw that they were drenched in gore. He whimpered and swiped at his forearms, fighting the utter revulsion that made him want to run howling through the forest.

He glanced up, and saw Saul still standing, somehow. Firelight poured through the hole in his chest, accentuating the ragged cavity. Scraps of skin clung to the flesh like moldering leaves, and blood soaked Saul's shirt and was wicking into his pants.

"Don't be like that, Bill," said Septimus. "A foolish waste."

Then the magician raised his hand, and Saul's body was lifted off the pile of bodies. For an absurd moment, the scene brought a Salvador Dali painting into Bill's minda*a picture of Jesus floating in an open space full of geometric shapes, His arms outstretched, hanging onto nothing. Where had he seen the painting? Art class?

Saul's body moved through the air, his feet pointed down, drizzling blood on the bodies underneath him.

"Wasteful, Bill, so wasteful," said Septimus. "You're going to have to fetch another one."

Then Septimus flicked his wrist. Saul's body twitched, and then collapsed into the fire, which hissed and burst with a shower of sparks that spiraled up to the invisible tops of the trees.

"Very wasteful," agreed Terris. He had taken his hand off of Constance's shoulder, and now rubbed his face. "But good. Excellent control."

Bill sat against the tree. He held trembling gore-soaked hands up in front of him. Through his outstretched fingers, he saw Constance staring at him. Her hand was still over her mouth. Her eyes shone with tears. She looked like a little kid, terrified of the dark.

"Well, now," said Septimus. He clapped his hands together and looked from Terris to Bill to Constance, like a jovial party host ready to kick everyone out for the evening. "But now, time for farewells. Terris, I wish you the best of luck tomorrow."

Terris gave Septimus a deformed smile. "And you as well, sir. I hope that your newa*what do we call him? Lieutenant?a*works out well. You will need all the help you can get."

Septimus laughed, as if he was being mildly teased by an old friend. "I wish you the same with your new...queen, I suppose. Am I right? Is this amusing?"

"Indeed. Now good night."

"Good night, sir."

As Bill watched, afraid to move, Terris put his arm around Constance. The short man guided her toward the forest, where many sets of eyes caught the firelight.

"Constance," Bill called, his voice scratching through his throat.

His wife, before she disappeared into the forest, turned her head. Her eyes were still wide and terrified, even though the rest of her face had gone slack. Her white hair still floated about her head. What had she seen, when she had been dreaming?

Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. Had her voice been damaged by Terris? If it was, it was one more reason for Bill to murder both of the madmen. If they touched his wife again...if anything happened to her....

I love you, Constance mouthed.

And she vanished into the forest.

Sixteen.

Bill wiped his face, disregarding the blood coating his hands. The tears came on their own accord, and his lower lip vibrated as if there were electricity passing through it.

He slumped to the ground.

Septimus was next to him.

"Tears, lover's tears," he said. "I have brought you something."

He placed something at Bill's his feet.

"Wash yourself off," said Septimus. "That's the best water. I got it off the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. Purest water in the world. Do you know that alien visit Kilimanjaro? All the time. They like the thin atmosphere."

Bill blinked, letting the tears course down his face. As his vision cleared, he saw what Septimus had plunked down in front of him.

A sink.

"What the fuck," said Bill.

"Some soap there, too," said Septimus. "My favorite. Dr. Bronner's peppermint. Did you know that I knew Emmanuel Bronner? Special man, for sure."

Bill wiped his eyes again. The sink looked like it had been ripped out of a high-end home improvement store, with its basin of blue glass and stainless-steel minimalist faucet. Next to the faucet was a small bottle of soap.

"Go ahead," said Septimus. "Clean yourself up."