Fuck. The oracle. I’d forgotten about her.
“But for my own curiosity,” the Magistrate says, “what is the new Death like?”
“Is this part of the interrogation or are we just dishing?”
“It is simply a question.”
I look at him for a minute. He didn’t poison me and he could have. He also hasn’t let Daja shoot me and I know she’d love to.
I say, “Death is pretty much like he was when he was Lucifer. He didn’t much like that job either, but he was good at it. Truth is, I haven’t seen him much since he’s become Death. It’s like being a cabby. Long hours.”
“You were friends, then?” says the Magistrate. “Confidants?”
“Why not? I’m a people person.”
The Magistrate aims a finger at me.
“The Devil had many secrets. What was his greatest?”
“Now it’s twenty questions? Fuck you,” I say. “That’s his secret and mine.”
Daja moves again. I’m getting really tired of this.
“Please answer the question,” says the Magistrate.
“Please answer,” says Traven. There’s something in the bastard’s eyes. It takes me a while, but then I recognize it: now that he’s seen a familiar face, he doesn’t want to be alone again. I can’t blame him.
“There are a couple of things it could be,” I say. “But what I think you mean is the wound. The one Dad gave him during the war in Heaven. The one that never healed. Until recently, at least.”
“You are saying the wound is healing?” says the Magistrate.
“Healed. It started getting better when he went home.”
The Magistrate stays silent for a minute. Then he whispers, “Interesting,” and looks at Daja.
When no one else says anything, I say, “Now I have some questions for you.”
“I am sure you do. Father, would you bring in Mimir?” the Magistrate says.
“Of course.”
He gets up and goes outside. I lean my head back and look up at Daja. She doesn’t look any better upside down. Her dark, dusty hair is long and she wears it tied back. Her leathers are light and worn. She’s strong. She could wear heavier leathers, but she likes the light ones because they let her move faster, so she’s down for a gunfight, a knife fight, or fists. I smile up at her wondering which one she’d like to start with on me. She scowls back.
Trav
en comes back in with Mimir in tow. She’s still in her ratty fur coat, but she’s taken the bandanna off her face. Turns out it was hiding a respirator attached to a small oxygen tank under her coat. She sits across the table, next to the Magistrate. I can hear her labored breathing all the way over on my side.
The Magistrate gently takes her hand.
“Thank you for coming, Mimir.”
“Of course,” she says, her voice muffled by the oxygen mask. “How can I help?”
The Magistrate looks at me.
“Mimir, I am concerned that Mr. Pitts here might be a spy or intend to harm us in some other way. He says that he found himself on the mountain and that he was placed there by Death himself. Is he telling the truth?”
“Do you mean, did Death leave him or that he believes Death left him?”