It was hard to tell if that was a threat or a suggestion.
Davy twitched as the clock struck nine. He wrapped a tentacle around the back of Hill’s neck and pulled him into a kiss that was cold and electric and tasted of bones. They kissed with the frustration of two days of only being able to touch through proxy, and the slow, cold knowledge that it would be sixty years before they kissed again.
Finally, Davy pulled back. He stroked Hill’s mouth with his thumb.
“Don’t miss me,” he said.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Hill answered.
Davy grabbed him by the arms and waist, tentacles hooked around the waistband of his jeans, and tossed him up onto the landing. Close enough to his body. While Hill spluttered a startled protest, Davy, now back in the clothes he’d died in, brushed himself down and grinned at Seb and the Hounds as they stalked toward him.
“I don’t suppose we can discuss this?” he said.
Seb glanced around at the Hounds that flanked him, then back to Davy.
“Maybe some other time,” he said. “Right now, get out of my way.”
Davy grabbed a champagne bottle someone had left on the stairs, tentacle wrapped twice around the narrow neck, and swung it around to smash against the side of the Hound’s head. He might not win this fight, but he’d make them remember it.
The bottle smashed, green bits of glass scattered on the carpet, and then the Hounds were on him. They tore and battered each other. The Hound’s teeth ripped Davy’s hand down to the bone, and he ripped its ear off with a twist of a tentacle. They slidand slipped on stairs slick with ectoplasm as Davy grabbed at muzzles and dug into eyeballs, and they shredded and ripped at him.
Eleven.
“Davy,” Hill blurted from behind him. “I can’t just…”
But it was too late for him to do anything stupid. The bell struck midnight, the Veil snapped closed, and Davy turned around just in time to see Hill’s body stir on the steps as its owner slid back home.
He was safe.
Davy grinned in relief and then swore as Seb grabbed him by the hair.
“You,” the Company dog said through bloody, broken teeth as he pulled Davy’s head back at an uncomfortable angle. “Owe me a polter.’
Davy spat at him.
That was dumb, but it was Christmas. He deserved a treat.
Epilogue
21 Jun, 11.30pm
The 447 pulled inat the bus stop. The doors whooshed open as Hill grabbed the back of the chair in front of him to pull himself up out of the seat. He juggled his shopping bag over one arm and his stick tucked under the other, pinned to his ribs with his elbow.
He could see the driver’s irritated expression mellow into something like pity as he limped down the aisle toward her. She should have seen him six months ago. Death took a lot of PT to get over. His body had only started to feel like his again, instead of a heavy, borrowed glove.
“Are you sure you want off here?” the driver asked. “It’s not the best part of town. Especially at night. Especially…”
She changed her mind about whatever the last “especially” was. Hill could, he supposed, have made her uncomfortable by pushing her to put it into words. He had things to do, though.
“I’m sure,” he said. “Thanks.”
He scrambled off awkwardly, his leg managing to be both stiff and weak, depending on how he put his weight on it. Once he was on the sidewalk, he pulled his stick from under his arm and let it take some of the weight. It helped.
Some.
On balance, though, he couldn’t complain. There had been a span of time where the doctors had thought he’d never get back his mobility. A shorter period when amputation for both him and Fraser had been on the table. Now, six months on, they said that, eventually, he should be able to do anything he could before. Just slower and with more pain.
So he fumbled with his stick, juggled his bag from arm to arm, and limped on his way to make a deal with the devil.
