“We have a guest coming,” she told him. “Now, you must go away. First, you want coffee?”
“I came to see Czernobog,” said Shadow. “It’s time.”
Zorya Utrennyaya shook her head violently. “No, no,” she said. “You don’t want to see him. Not a good idea.”
“I know,” said Shadow. “But you know, the only thing I’ve really learned about dealing with gods is that if you make a deal, you keep it. They get to break all the rules they want. We don’t. Even if I tried to walk out of here, my feet would just bring me back.”
She pushed up her bottom lip, then said, “Is true. But go today. Come back tomorrow. He will be gone then.”
“Who is it?” called a woman’s voice from farther down the corridor. “Zorya Utrennyaya, to who are you talking? This mattress, I cannot turn on my own, you know.”
Shadow walked down the corridor and said, “Good morning, Zorya Vechernyaya. Can I help?” which made the woman in the room squeak with surprise and drop her corner of the mattress.
The bedroom was thick with dust: it covered every surface, the wood and the glass, and motes of it floated and danced through the beams of sunshine coming through the open window, disturbed by occasional breezes and the lazy flapping of the yellowed lace curtains.
He remembered this room. This was the room they had given to Wednesday, that night. Bielebog’s room.
Zorya Vechernyaya eyed him uncertainly. “The mattress,” she said. “It needs to be turned.”
“Not a problem,” said Shadow. He reached out and took the mattress, lifted it with ease, and turned it over. It was an old wooden bed, and the feather mattress weighed almost as much as a man. Dust flew and swirled as the mattress went down.
“Why are you here?” asked Zorya Vechernyaya. It was not a friendly question, the way she asked it.
“I’m here,” said Shadow, “because back in December a young man played a game of checkers with an old god, and he lost.”
The old woman’s gray hair was up on the top of her head in a tight bun. She pursed her lips. “Come back tomorrow,” said Zorya Vechernyaya.
“I can’t,” he said, simply.
“Is your funeral. Now, you go and sit down. Zorya Utrennyaya will bring you coffee. Czernobog will be back soon.”
Shadow walked along the corridor to the sitting room. It was just as he remembered, although now the window was open. The gray cat slept on the arm of the sofa. It opened an eye as Shadow came in and then, unimpressed, it went back to sleep.
This was where he had played checkers with Czernobog; this was where he had wagered his life to get the old man to join them on Wednesday’s last doomed grift. The fresh air came in through the open window, blowing the stale air away.
Zorya Utrennyaya came in with a red wooden tray. A small enameled cup of steaming black coffee sat on the tray, beside a saucer filled with small chocolate-chip cookies. She put it down on the table in front of him.
“I saw Zorya Polunochnaya again,” he said. “She came to me under the world, and she gave me the moon to light my way. And she took something from me. But I don’t remember what.”
“She likes you,” said Zorya Utrennyaya. “She dreams so much. And she guards us all. She is so brave.”
“Where’s Czernobog?”
“He says the spring cleaning makes him uncomfortable. He goes out to buy newspaper, sit in the park. Buy cigarettes. Perhaps he will not come back today. You do not have to wait. Why don’t you go? Come back tomorrow.”
“I’ll wait,” said Shadow. There was no magic forcing him to wait, he knew that. This was him. It was one last thing that needed to happen, and if it was the last thing that happened, well, he was going there of his own volition. After this there would be no more obligations, no more mysteries, no more ghosts.
He sipped the hot coffee, as black and as sweet as he remembered.
He heard a deep male voice in the corridor, and he sat up straighter. He was pleased to see that his hand was not trembling. The door opened.
“Shadow?”
“Hi,” said Shadow. He stayed sitting down.
Czernobog walked into the room. He was carrying a folded copy of the Chicago Sun-Times, which he put down on the coffee table. He stared at Shadow, then he put his hand out, tentatively. The two men shook hands.
“I came,” said Shadow. “Our deal. You came through with your part of it. This is my part.”