Queen of Nothing (Marla Mason Book 9)

by T. A. Pratt

“So anyway,” Marla finished, “I think Elsie wanted to bring you with us as a sort of living bomb, but I won’t ask you to do that.”

  Genevieve stood up and looked at the golden cube. A small, square opening appeared in the top. “Did you have something to say?”

  “Yes!” Elsie’s voice was tinny and faraway, like she was shouting from the bottom of a well. “You can change reality in the real world, so imagine what you could do in the underworld, a place composed of primal chaos, material that only exists to be shaped! You could go with us, fight the New Death with us, and even if you accidentally turned everything down there into applesauce, that would be fine, because once Marla takes back her throne, she can put it all back together again with a twitch of her nose!”

  “I... huh.” Marla nodded. “That’s a fair point, actually. Everyone in the underworld is already dead, so it’s not like you’d accidentally kill anyone. Your gifts might translate into even greater power in that setting.” She shook her head. “But I’ve got no right to drag you into my problems.”

  Genevieve shrugged head. “That is arguable. You saved my life. You saved my sanity. Even though my madness threatened the city you loved, you treated me with kindness instead of simply snapping my neck, though that would have been far and away the simpler option. Even if I didn’t owe you, there are people I care about in the underworld. My mentor, St. John. Our mutual friend Mr. Zealand. I do not like the idea of them suffering at the hands of this New Death. I would like to go with you, Marla. I will help in any way I can.”

  “Genevieve... even with your power, it’s going to be dangerous there. I can’t guarantee you’ll survive, and if we fail, the consequences will be horrible.”

  “I have lived through horror before,” she said calmly. “If it can be overcome, it will be; and if it cannot be overcome, it will be borne.” She took Marla’s hands in her own, then kissed her on both cheeks. “Call me when you’re ready to depart.” Genevieve walked toward a gauzy curtain, and behind it, and away.

  Marla blinked and they were back in the grocery store, except Elsie was nowhere to be seen. Then the immense display of lemons began to move, fruit falling and rolling on the floor, and Elsie sat up from the middle of the heaped fruit. Other customers gaped, and an employee shouted, but Elsie ignored them. Marla offered her a hand to help her down. “I like that girl,” Elsie said. “She’s a firecracker. A whole bunch of firecrackers. Stuffed in a garbage can. Thrown into a pond. Full of ducks.”

  “That metaphor did get away from you,” Marla said.

  “As I said, they sometimes do. Well, my work is done. Now where are we going?”

  “Not we, just me.”

  “Ha. Wanna bet?”

  Marla sighed. “Fine, but you can only come partway, all right? The place I’m going... it’s not safe, even for you. It’s not safe for me, either, but I’m doing it anyway.”

  “Ooh, danger, spicy. Let’s go.”

  •

  “Felport?” Elsie frowned. “What’s worth having in Felport?” They’d folded the Earth and landed on the observation deck at the top of the Whitcroft-Ivory building, with a view of the whole messy beautiful night-time city below them.

  “Nothing. Just hang out here. I need to visit a friend, maybe go to the park.”

  “Why? What’s in the park? Is it pine cones? I love pine cones.” She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Tell tell tell.”

  “Elsie. Isn’t it more fun when you don’t know everything?”

  The chaos god sighed. “Hoist by my own canard. Fine, go, have your little secret, I know how much they mean to you. I’ll go, I don’t know, frighten the new chief sorcerer or something. See you back in Vegas.” Elsie flickered away before Marla could tell her to behave. Not that Elsie would ever listen anyway.

  Marla looked down at the city that had once been her home, and now held her greatest hope for defeating the New Death... though it was also the greatest risk for getting herself killed. She would have to handle things delicately. Delicacy had never been her strong suit, but when the fate of countless souls were on the line, she’d give it a try.

  Reconvened

  Marla paced in Rondeau’s suite. Outside the windows, Las Vegas partied on while more sensible parts of the nation slept. “Why haven’t they called yet?”

  “They’re fine.” Elsie lolled on one of the oversized couches, with a washcloth draped over her eyes. Being trapped in Genevieve’s golden cube of order had given her a headache, she said. “Your boys tripped two of my sensors, so they made it where they were going. I’m sure they’re taking care of business and fighting the good fight. Would you try to get some sleep? I bet they’ll be back by morning.”

  “I don’t need to sleep.”

  “You don’t need to, but it’s pleasant. Besides, you’re a goddess now, which means you get to have prophetic dreams sometimes.”

  “I don’t believe in prophecy.”

  “Dreams that hint at probable futures, then, based on your psychic extrapolation from ongoing events, if you want to be unpoetically accurate. Give it a try.”

  Marla went into the bedroom Rondeau had set aside for her, sank back into the impossibly comfortable mattress, found it too comfortable to be endured, and dragged a blanket onto the floor instead. The carpet was so deep-pile luxurious it felt softer than actual beds she’d owned in the past, but it was firm enough that she could actually get some rest without feeling like she’d been smothered in the process.

  In her dream, she rode an immense white raven through a battlefield of fluffy white clouds, leading a heavenly host, her soldiers mounted on horses with tails of flame, and old-timey pennyfarthing bikes, and Vincent White Shadow motorcycles. Far away, black storm clouds boiled, overtaking the white, and a host rushed forward to meet her own: the New Death, now with the skull of an alligator in place of a head, riding a huge, skeletal bird. His army was made up of all her friends and relatives and acquaintances in full zombie form, all missing jaws and flaps of skin and teeth gaping through torn-open cheeks. When the hosts collided, lightning and thunder obliterated everything, and the clouds became a fuzzy, all-obscuring gray.

  She opened her eyes. Sunlight leaked in around the edges of the curtains. “Dreams are stupid,” she said aloud. But the night had passed, and she heard voices outside. She threw on clothes and stepped out.

  “Marla!” Bradley said. He and Pelham and Rondeau were sitting on couches, looking travel-weary and disheveled. “Sorry we didn’t call. It got late, and we didn’t want to wake you. If the past day was as weird for you as it was for us, you probably needed your rest.”

  Elsie wandered in, wearing a red towel wrapped around her body and another wrapped around her hair. “Boys! You made it back. How did things go?”

  “We got your sword.” Rondeau tossed a bundled blanket onto the coffee table. “Though we had to go the long way to get it, and by the long way, I mean to the edge of the goddamn solar system.” He pointed a finger at Elsie. “We’re supposed to be your allies here, you know. I realize it’s probably stupid to yell at a god, but I am pissed. What were you thinking? Can’t you tone down your basic craziness a little bit, at least until we’ve saved the underworld?”

  “You’re angry?” Elsie put a hand to her chest in mock surprise. “I thought you’d be pleased!”

  “Pleased?” Rondeau made a show of twiddling his finger in his ear. “Am I hearing you right? You thought we’d like taking that little trip?”

  “You know, I invented a spell once.” Elsie smiled sweetly. “It manifests a large cork, an oversized version of the sort of thing you’d use to plug a jug, in the subject’s mouth, and no force on Earth or in heaven can remove it. I called it ‘The Corkinator.’ Would you like to see how it works? No? Then stop interrupting. Yes, pleased. You’re the only humans to ever step foot on Pluto! Well, except for Dave’s fellow survivalists, but they didn’t survive long, ha ha, they were poorly named, so they hardly count. I’ve been to Pluto and back, obviously, setting
up those lovely accommodations for you, but I’m not human anymore, so my walkabout doesn’t detract from your glory, either. A free trip to the edge of the solar system, privy to vistas mortal eyes have previously been denied, and this is the thanks I get. See if I ever arrange for you to get teleported to Trans-Neptunian space again.”

  Marla sighed. “What did she do, exactly? I really hope I’m misunderstanding you.” The resulting explanation—with competing input from Elsie, Pelham, and Rondeau—was pretty difficult to follow. (Bradley stayed silent, probably wisely.) Once Marla had it more-or-less straight in her mind, she turned to her fellow god. “Random excursions to former planets aside, why did you send them after a sword you took from Barrow’s dreamworld in the first place? You could have just cut out the middleman and handed it to us directly.”

  Elsie shrugged. “I gave the Blade of Banishment to Dave ages ago. Months and months. Then we started this little venture and I realized it would be useful to take it back. Certainly, I could have gone back to Dave’s charming little compound and taken the Blade of Banishment away from him myself, but you and I had other things to do. Or would it have made more sense for me to send these three squishy fleshlings into the lairs of assorted full- and demi-gods, while you and me went to beat up a survivalist with no social skills in the mountains of North Carolina? It’s like communism, or superheroes: each according to his abilities. The Avengers send the Hulk and Thor to beat up gods, and they send the guy with a bow and arrow to help the civilians get to safety. You’re the Hulk in this allegory, because of your anger issues, though you’ve been more Zen Doctor Banner here lately, not that I’m complaining.”

  “So I’m Hawkeye?” Rondeau said.

  “You’re the leather pants Black Widow wears, darling.” Elsie reached out and pinched his cheek.

  Marla sighed. “Okay. Fine. A little more information would have been helpful, but I know that’s like telling black ice it should try to be less slippery. How does this stupid sword help us, anyway? The Plutonian Shore it sent them to was actual Pluto, not the underworld. Did you get your literal and your metaphorical mixed up again?”

  Elsie threw open the blanket, revealing the sword, which was the stupidest-looking weapon Marla had ever seen, even with its palpable aura of displacing magic. The chaos goddess let the towel wrapped around her body drop so she could pick up the weapon with both hands.

  The boys all shrank away from the sword, if not from Elsie’s nakedness, and she chuckled. “Don’t worry, I won’t bop you back to outer space. It doesn’t send away everyone it touches, it’s not like an electric fence that zaps anyone who gets close, friend or foe. The wielder has to direct its power with intention. Anyway, the destination is adjustable, see?” She twisted the gems on the hilt, which turned and shifted and flickered into new configurations. Marla saw the aura around the sword change, too, from black and gray to something like a deep purple shadow. Elsie squinted at the sword with one eye closed. “Looks right to me. Can’t really test it, though. Once we use this thing, the New Death will notice the breach and plug the hole. This sword will only work because the New Death doesn’t know it exists, because it shouldn’t exist, because it was dreamed into existence by a feverishly prolific mind.”

  “So we can get stabbed into the underworld,” Rondeau said. “How do we get back?”

  “We win, and I send you back,” Marla said. “Or we lose, and none of us go back at all anyway.”

  “Ah, right. Thanks for clearing that up. Just wanted to know the itinerary.”

  Marla turned on Elsie. “You gave that weapon to this guy Dave, or whatever his name is, and he killed four people with it. Am I understanding that right?”

  “It’s amazing the things people do with their free will!” Elsie said.

  “You’re an accessory to murder, at the very least,” Marla said.

  “Oh, many times over, certainly. But maybe this time I was serving the greater good? Maybe Dave’s militia buddies were planning an act of horrible domestic terrorism and by sowing dissension in their ranks I saved hundreds of lives. Did you consider that?”

  “Is that what happened?”

  Elsie shrugged. “How should I know? I didn’t do that much research before I gave him the sword. But it’s certainly possible. Sorry, Marla. You’re complaining about my nature. I’m both the ill wind and the good, and even I don’t know which way I’ll blow on any given day. You can accept that, and benefit from my admittedly fickle impulse to help, or you can tell me to piss off, and I’ll find some other way to occupy my many empty hours.”

  Marla held up her hands. “All right. The partnership holds. What’s that old Bulgarian proverb that FDR quoted at Yalta? ‘It is permitted in times of grave danger to walk with the devil until you have crossed the bridge?’”

  “Aw, you think I’m the devil? You flatter me!” Elsie beamed. “You do know you’re the lord of Hell in this room, though, don’t you? I’m the one holding your hand... but not because I need to cross a bridge. I can fly. I just like holding hands. Figuratively, at least.” She dropped naked onto the couch. “I say we order just an immensity of room service breakfast. Pelham, go do that, heavy on the poached everything. While we wait, and eat, and digest, Marla can tell us a story, and after that, we’ll make our preparations to invade Hell, whee.”

  “We have more important things to do than tell stories –” Marla said.

  Elsie stomped her foot. “You owe me, Marla. Tonight we dine in Hell, and I don’t want your friends here to die without hearing my captivating origin story.” She smiled around at them. “It’s really wonderful, a real rags-to-riches tale of triumph and personal growth.”

  Marla sighed. “Do I have to? It... doesn’t really paint me in the best light, Elsie. Which, hearing myself say that, I realize isn’t likely to dissuade you.”

  The chaos god batted her eyelashes. “Oh, please, dread queen Marla? Regale us with the story of my ascent to goddess-hood? Tell them how I completely outsmarted you?”

  “I wouldn’t say completely,” she muttered. “All right. Gather round, fellas. This happened in the underworld a while back, during my last stint in Hell before we fought the Outsider, when my real husband was still around....”

  A Serpent in the Roots of the World

  The dread queen of the underworld and her husband the god of death had no need to eat, but since she was still intermittently human, and he’d grown (or rather been adjusted) to admire much about humankind, they sometimes donned human appearances and dined together, speaking with one another as mortals do.

  The morning her quest began, the queen sat on one side of an octagonal table made from a single immense piece of shaped obsidian. Made, rather than carved, because no one had actually carved it.

  She lifted a forkful into her mouth, chewed it, and made a face. “The hollandaise is perfect.”

  “The food of the gods,” Death said. “So why do you sound disappointed?”

  “You know how I like to complain, and this is so perfect, there’s nothing to complain about. My compliments to the chef. But do we even have a chef, or is this stuff just wished into existence?”

  “Technically, the eggs are no more real than this table.” Death thumped his ringed fingers against the stone. “Which is to say, we have willed them into reality, and in this place, our will is reality.” He took a bite. “I’ve had eggs benedict in the world above, though, and it didn’t taste notably different from this, except not as good.”

  The Bride—as her followers, the cult of the Bride of Death, called her, to her cold and considerable amusement—lifted up her poached egg with her fork and looked underneath. “This isn’t Canadian bacon. It’s regular bacon. So this isn’t eggs benedict, it’s eggs blackstone.”

  “As always, I appreciate your tireless efforts to educate me. Blackstone. Like the table. I like that. It wouldn’t be a bad alias for me to use if I have to go to the world above and pretend to be human, sometime.”

  “I can see your pas
sport now: Mr. Mortimer Blackstone. There’s a Blackstone in my ancestry, a few generations back. John Henry Blackstone.”

  “Did he invent this egg dish?”

  She snorted. “I doubt it. Someone would have probably mentioned it if he had. He was a horse thief.”

  “You could go downstairs and look him up. See what kind of afterlife he’s conjured for himself—if it’s full of demonic horses because he felt guilty, or if it’s full of happy little ponies frolicking freely. You could even nudge him toward a happier eternity if he’s concocted something really terrible for himself. I know you disapprove of nepotism, but what’s the point of power if you don’t harmlessly abuse it every once in a while?”

  “I don’t even look in on dead relatives I knew,” she said. “Let alone ones who died before I was born. I think I’ll pass.” She put her fork down. “Are we done small-talking? Don’t we have any big talk instead? Matters of life and death, or mostly death, that need our attention?”

  “Mmm. There are certain situations that would benefit from our presence. There’s an epidemic brewing in southeast Asia, and a chemical spill in North America. I’m giving them a bit of my attention now. I know you don’t like dealing with the human side of things, though—the shepherding, and coordinating the psychopomps, and all that.”

  She shrugged. “I just have trouble focusing on individuals from this vantage point. It’s like trying to pick out a particular grain of sand and appreciate it for its unique and winning qualities. The woman with the scythe doesn’t have time to get to know every stalk of wheat she mows down personally—she’s concerned about the state of the whole field. You know I’m better with larger things, like the cycles of the seasons, both terrestrial and metaphysical. I’m bad with people. Even when I’m in human form, with my perceptions curtailed, when it’s easier to tell all the scuttling mortals apart—even then I’m bad with people. I’m practically famous for it.”

  Death took another bite with obvious relish. “I think you’re too hard on your mortal self. You can be perfect, in your way, or at least perfectly suited to your role. You’re a god, so whatever you do is the right thing, almost by definition. During the months when you’re mortal, you’re.... only human. Holding your mortal self to your divine standard is unfair.”