In his memorya*and he was sure this was a correct onea*he squeezed himself between Rodney and Constance. Constance smiled at him, her mouth red with stage lipstick, her eyelids painted gold. He heard Rodney make a disgusted noise and move away.

Bill kissed her, disregarding her protests about the smearing of her lipstick. Her small white hand pressed the small of his back, as if pulling her spine closer to hers.

She had brought his ear close to her lips, and whispered something that he couldn't quite hear. Then she had disengaged herself and ran into the cafeteria to a gaggle of her stupid theater friends, all of them dressed in either red tunics or white dresses, like they were characters out of Alice in Wonderland or something.

Bill had only watched Constance as all the other people faded into the background. For a moment he engaged in some unmanly speculation, and imagined that the white dress was a wedding dress. She was walking down the aisle, with her white hair over her white shoulders, dancing across the carpet laid down between the pewsa*

a*then Bill blinked, rubbed his eyes. The memory vanished. The remains of a sentence came from his wife's mouth: "...or me?"

She stood with her knife held to her side, its point against the ground like a cane.

"You or me?" she asked again. Blood covered her face. It didn't touch her lips. "It's now that question, Bill. You or me?"

Bill felt the truck behind him. He grabbed at the metal hull to steady himself.

"Feeling all right, darling?" asked Constance.

Bill shook his head, trying to dispel the dizziness he felt. He grabbed a soft handful of fabric, and turned to see that it was Terris Smith's pant-leg, wrinkled into a ball in his hands. The fabric was soft. The man's feet were bare. Had he even been wearing shoes when he'd previously seen him? And where were his toes?

Bill released the pant leg and pushed himself away.

"You and me. Or you or me," said Constance.

Sometime in the last few minutes, Bill knew he'd been a victim of one of his wife's new abilities. He knew it. The memory had been too vivid; no way it was anything natural. What had she done to him? Touched a sensitive part of his brain? And why had she done it?

But while he'd been away, dreaming the past, something horrible had happened to Septimus.

"Oh, shit," said Bill.

The huge body lay prostrate at his wife's feet. Part of his shirt hitched up around his belly, showing flesh that was even paler than his face and criss-crossed with scars.

And his head, severed from the body, lay at Constance's side. Its mouth was wide open, tongue still twitching on his blue lips.

"I'm all that's left, darling," she said. "Have to go back to Mr. Logic."

As he watched, Constance stepped onto the body. Septimus' ribs cracked under Constance's weight, and a fresh spurt of blood pulsed from the bare arteries of his ruined neck, adding to the pool flowing down to feed the flowers.

"You'll want to sleep for this, William," said Constance. "When it's over, you'll be able to travel much better in your mind. Okay?"

Bill backed away. The additional height Constance gained from standing on Septimus was imposing. She glared down on him like an insane Valkyrie, holding the blue knife at her side like a talisman.

"No," said Bill. "Whatever it is, no."

"No choice. It's the rules," said Constance.

And Bill saw the tip of the blade flashing toward his neck.

He gasped.

Then nothing.

Twenty-Nine.

White stairs.

Red carpet.

Lights above him. Some pink, some yellow; most were lavender.

Smells of eucalyptus or other astringents in the air, stinging his nostrils. Underneath that smell another odor, something metallic and meaty.

And he looked to his feet. The red carpet was a flowing stream of blood, leading down the staircase.

Bill stood still for several moments. He stared off past the lights above him, into the ceiling of the cathedral.

"Churches," he said. His voice fell flat, not even a whisper of an echo stirring around him. The lights drifting in the darkness had grown stronger, gaining a lurid tinge to their already-saturated colors. The sight of them made his eyes ache.

In the murk at the end of the staircase stood a figure. Bill felt familiar with the white face, the black clothing, the bare feet with long toes.

"Septimus," he said.

The figure took a few steps forward. "No," it said.

"Oh." Then Bill saw the long hair tied to one side of the white face. Braids coming down across his shoulders. "They called you Mr. Logic."

"Come downstairs, Bill," said the man, turning slightly. "Your...wife, is it?...is here. What a terrible ruse."

"Constance. Taught her too much. Turned her into a demon," mumbled Bill.

"Enough of that," said Mr. Logic. "Come. Much to do."

"No."

Mr. Logic gave him an exasperated look.

"No? William Wilfong, you have no choice."

"Yes I do."

"Come down."

Bill clenched his fists in defiance. But he knew the demon was right.

No choice. What good could he do here, even if he wanted to?

"Come down," said Mr. Logic. "She's waiting." He turned and marched into the gloom, trailing his white hair behind him like a tail.

Bill stared into the distance, breathing deeply, clenching and unclenching his fists. Delaying the inevitable.

"Shit," he said.

He took a step onto the first stair. The warm blood rushed around his foot as it had before, caressing his skin like bathwater. Bill bore his disgust bravely, not even hastening his steps as he walked down the staircase. The lights above him had dimmed, their colors like Christmas lights submerged in murky seawater.

"All right," he muttered as he reached the bottom stair. Blood now soaked his feet and most of his trouser legs. The smell of eucalyptus drilled through his sinuses, eradicating the smell of corruption around him. Bill wondered if they had little air-freshening units like the kind his Mom used.

Turning right, Bill found himself in a familiar hallway.

"Here," said Mr. Logic.

Bill startled, and saw the demon next to him. Mr. Logic's dark eyes caught reflections from the dancing lights.

"What's here?" said Bill.

"Septimus. Terris. Would you like to see them?"

"Are they dead?"

Mr. Logic smiled.

"One of them," he said. "I will show you at least one of them."

"Where?"

"Down here," said the demon, and walked toward the wall.

Despite his reluctance, Bill felt himself following the man. The blood around his ankles sloshed gently. A warm drop landed on his palm, flowed down around his fingers. He wiped it against his jeans.

They reached a wall.

Mr. Logic turned to Bill. Next to the demon was a pair of hands, torn from their owner. Their fingers curled around a black metal bar.

"What is that about?" asked Bill, pointing to the hands. "Torturing people here in Hell?"

"You are an unsophisticated intelligence, William. No worries. You will soon become very sophisticated, indeed."

Mr. Logic pointed to the wall on the other side of the hands.

Beneath a layer of brown grime and green dust, Bill saw a glint of glass.

"Look in and see him," said Septimus. "He won't know that you're there."

"See who?"

"Do as I say, please."

Bill walked through the blood, which seemed to thin around his ankles, as if it was trying to let him through. He stood next to the window, looking at the shard of visible glass. He pushed his sleeve up over his hand and wiped away some of the filth, which bloomed up into his face as if it were pollen from a noxious plant.

When he had cleared a spot, he squinted through the glass. He felt a familiar itch between his shoulder blades, and knew immediately that Mr. Logic was staring at him. So be it. Had nothing to hide at this point. At least the demon wasn't sneaking around in the woods, staring at them from the tops of wooded hills.

Bill moved his face closer to the glass.

Beyond was a room.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Look," said Mr. Logic.

"Whata*"

"Just look, Bill."

The room was about the size of a large bedroom, with another window on the opposite wall. Through the other window, Bill saw pine trees, lit yellow by a security light. A pine cone sat on the windowsill, its spikes and shingles shadowed on a surface of flaking white paint.

Panelling covered the wallsa*pine boards that looked like they belonged on the set of a 70's porno movie. A picture of a woman in her early fifties, curly black hair in a bad perm, blue turtleneck with a crucifix dangling around her neck. The picture was huge, taking up more than half of one of the walls.

In the middle of the room was a crappy old couch, yellowed and with the corners chewed. It would probably smell like cat pissa*couches like that always did. Underneath it was a cheap woven gray and blue rug.

On the couch sat a man, his head turned away from them. He was bald and deeply tanned. The turned-up collar of his camouflage shirt scraped his earlobes.

Bill recognized him immediately.

"Septimus," he said.

Mr. Logic grunted an affirmative.

Bill frowned. "But...how do I know? Doesn't look like him."

"It's him. From before."

"What's he doing back here?"

Mr. Logic bent over, peered into the window beside Bill. A strand of his hair tickled Bill's neck.

"He has to start over again," said the demon. "He lost."

"Lost what?"

Bill retreated from the window. Mr. Logic stayed where he was, peering into the window like a voyeur. Then the demon stood straight, a small smile playing about his face. He idly poked one of the hanging hands, sending it swaying on its iron bar.

"You'll learn," he said. "Come now, William. I have to bring you to the person calling herself your wife."