"All right," said Septimus.

He pointed again to Constance.

"I gave her a class," said Terris. "Right now. You should probably give one to him, too."

"This is fun, fun, fun!" shouted Septimus.

He turned to Bill. In two strides, he had hopped over the bodies. His boot struck a woman in the face, jerking her head violently to one side.

Then he stood in front of Bill, staring down, smiling.

"I know you would like to do me violence," said Septimus, all traces of humor gone from his voice. "I do not blame you. But you must save your energies for your real enemies."

"Come now," said Terris. "Don't lecture him."

But Septimus didn't listen.

"This is going to be so much fun," he said, his voice quiet. Every hair on Bill's body stood on end, as if he was hooked up to an electrical current. He blinked the remaining tears from his eyes, and Septimus' white face became a blur.

"Lover's spat," said Septimus, and touched Bill's forehead.

"Have fun in class. Gonna put you to sleep for a bit. You will know a lot before the time is out."

Septimus snapped his fingers.

"Fucker," said Bill. Then his limbs relaxed and he slumped against the tree.

"When you wake up you'll know some things," said Septimus. "Many things. I feel almost jealous."

"Let him go," said Terris.

Bill looked to Constance. Her eyes, though unfocused, aimed right at him. The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was Terris putting his hand around her shoulders, grinning. And her eyes widening in recognition as she saw him, and her mouth opening into a scream.

Fourteen.

Then nothingness.

And from nothingness, blackness. And then forms in the black.

Stairs.

A flight of them. White marble, lined with a blood-red carpet.

He stood at the top.

"What," he heard himself say. His voice echoed.

Above him curved a vaulted ceiling, its upper reaches obscured by shadow. Bits of luminescence swam in the darkness. Bill thought of moving galaxies, and camping out in the middle of the night, watching galaxies glow in the black sky.

His first impression: a cathedral.

But he knew it was nothing of the sort.

He glanced around for Septimus or Terris, or his wife.

But he was alone.

And he knew he was dreaming.

"Should go downstairs," he heard himself say. "Downstairs."

Usually in dreams, he had utterly no control over what was happening: his subconscious kidnapped his ego and ran through its own bizarre programs. But he knew that this was nothing out of his minda"it was planted there by Septimus. Whether what he was experiencing was a real place, or an elaborate fabrication, he had no idea.

It smelled here, too. The air was cool in his nostrils. And...astringent. That was the word that came to mind. Like alcohol or Vicks Vapo-rub.

"Lots to learn," he said. His voice echoed.

He felt his foot on the first step. The carpet was warm and plush, like velvet on his bare foot. He wondered where his shoes were. Then a wetness around his toes, and a squishing noise as he put more weight on his foot.

He was walking through blood.

Bill accepted this calmly. Just a fact of life in this place. No need to be upset.

"Where?" he asked the echoing darkness.

He knew the place was real. The smell, the sensation of blood, the echoesa"everything added up. No simulation or dream, no matter how well-planned, could manufacture sensation like this. The cathedrala"which his mind still insisted on calling ita"was a place as solid and tangible as his own house, or his bedroom, or the cabin in the woods where he'd left his wife.

The thought of Constance caused a ripple in his concentration. Where was she? Back in the clearing with Septimus and Terrisa"who were they? Were they going to harm her?

"No," he said. "Never. No."

Bill forced these thoughts from his mind. There were things to learn. here Couldn't let his concentration slip.

Bill took another step.

Warm blood massaged his feet.

As he descended the stairs, the lights in the gloom above him grew brighter, and more agitated. They hovered together in clusters, before dispersing again gently through the darkness. Some of them shone bright white, others were yellow. The vast majority, though, were a pale lavender, like the petals of a fluorescent flower.

Bill paid them scant heed.

Stair after stair went underneath his feet. He lost count of how long he descended, before he came to the bottom of the staircase.

He stood there for a moment. His dream-self's eyes closed for a moment, and when he opened them again, he saw a man standing in front of him.

"Hello," said the man.

Bill frowned.

He wasn't frightened by the appearancea"like the blood, it was just a part of this place. The man was bone-white, like Septimus, but he wore a black short-sleeved shirt and black pants. His bare white feet were like paddles. And he had no ears; just stumps on either side of his head.

"You are fortunate, indeed," said the man, and he smiled. Every tooth was pointed. "You got into the barricades." Bill saw that he was holding a book at his side, something bound in leather as black as his clothes.

"They weren't activated yet," said Bill, thinking of the devil faces. "Septimus told me."

"Did he?" asked the man, raising a white eyebrow. "I think he was lying to you. He wants you there."

"I am confused," said Bill.

"Come."

Then the man turned around, took a few steps into the darkness, and disappeared.

"Wait," said Bill, feeling no real urgency. But he did have a feeling that he didn't want to disappoint the man, or disobey in any way. So there was nothing to do but follow.

Bill stepped into the gloom. He felt the same blood underneath his feet, though he couldn't see it. Did it flow down the stairs like a waterfall, creating a pool at the bottom?

Bill saw the man's shape dimly before him. The back of his head hovered through the darkness like a ghost.

"I can barely see you," said Bill. "Please."

"All right," said the man. He raised a pale hand above his shoulder, and snapped his fingers.

Bill felt the light on his face before he saw it. Then coming to his side like a firefly was one of the lights that had been swirling in constellations near the ceiling.

The light was self-contained, pure and bright. And it revealed that he was indeed walking through blood.

Bill watched it with fascination. He didn't slow his steps or falter. The blood was maybe a quarter of an inch deep, just enough to let him know that he was walking through fluid. His feet created lazy circles as he passed through it, which rippled out into the infinity of blackness around him.

"Where are we?" asked Bill.

"Look," the man said. "Right and left."

"What?"

"Right and left. Churches have ideas about this place."

"What?"

"Look, Bill. Look around you."

"Why?"

"Are you ever this contrary?"

Bill looked to his right.

They were walking in a corridor, apparently. The wall he saw was about three meters to the right. The light of his floating bulb fell on the scene only dimly, but uit was more than enough.

The body against the wall had been skinned. Bright pieces of glass pinned it to the wall.

Its mouth moved, as if the poor soul was chanting a prayer.

"Jesus Christ," said Bill.

"Came here willingly," said the man. "Many do."

Bill stared at the skinned body. Flesh still remained on its lips and nose and eyelids. And he heard its croaking voice, which revealed it as male. Bill couldn't make out any words.

And the skinned man was not alone.

Bill only saw a glimpse of the othersa"was that a woman with no legs on the floor, or a man without a lower jaw with his head in his hand?a"before he turned his attention away from the scene.

The blood sloshed around his feet as he quickened his step.

"What..." stammered Bill as he caught up with the white-faced man. "Where..."

"Some come willingly, and some are forced," said the man. He wore a slight smile that cut deep black lines into his face. "Septimus, Terris. They lived down the hallway for a couple of hundred years. Nicer places than this. Septimus would remind us of women, and food. Terris would read to us from T.S. Eliot. You should hear his rendition of *The Waste Land' sometimes." The white-faced man scratched his chin. "But you have not been sent here to listen to that."

He found himself standing on one leg, to get it out of the river of blood on the floor. "What the hell?" he murmured, a general question for anyone to answer.

The man put a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe," he said. "Without getting into metaphysics. William, we have some work to do. I need to help you raise the dead, darling."

Bill heard speech, thick and garbled, coming from behind him. Did one of the tortured beings speak?

"You learn faster here, darling William," said the man with the white face. "I can put this directly into your soul."

"What?"

The man tapped the book and turned around. They were at the end of the passageway. A white marble door reared up out of the darkness.

"Living halls," said the man. "Puts things into your soul. Come with me."

He opened the door.

Fifteen.