“Yes,” said Molly. “To a game of World War. You up for it?”
“Well, well,” said the Bones Man. “I think that might be fun. And an honour, to take on one of your many accomplishments. I shall enjoy beating you. I shall enjoy making you bleed, and scream, and beg for mercy. Before you die. And your soul shall make such a fine addition to my collection.” He looked past her, at me. “You understand, of course, that your companion cannot aid you in the circle. No matter what happens to you.”
“Now, then, you had to go and spoil it,” said Molly. “You were doing so well, all old-time villain with a sadistic streak . . . and then you let yourself down by showing how scared you are of Shaman and me. I don’t need any help to walk all over you, conjure man. I have had dealings with the loa; they know me and I know them. I don’t think you’ve got any surprises for me, old man.”
The Bones Man was still smiling, even though it must have been a long time since anyone spoke to him that sharply. “Perhaps, me child. But you’d be surprised how many Games are won here in the audience before the Games even start. It’s all in the mind, me girl. After you . . .”
“I don’t think so,” said Molly. “After you.”
He laughed, and made his way unhurriedly down through the stone seats and into the Arena. Molly took the time to kiss me quickly, and then hurried out into the circle after him. She smiled and waved cheerfully to the crowd, as a generic uniformed flunky came forward to announce the Game, and the names of the competitors, to the crowd. There was general good-natured applause, and even a few cheers for Molly. The crowd might respect the Bones Man, but it was clear he wasn’t . . . popular. I sat down in the front row, while Frankie went off to work the crowd, for the best odds. I let him do it. I had eyes only for Molly and the Bones Man. More and more people were arriving, filling up the seats and talking excitedly, looking forward to a really good match. A good game, and a good death. That’s what they were there for. You could almost smell the anticipation in the air.
And all I could do was sit there and watch.
It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Molly to win. I had absolute faith in her abilities, and I would back her against anyone and anything, up to and including Elder Gods and Ancient Ones. But I didn’t trust the Games, or the Casino, or the Bones Man, to play fair and by the rules. I had already decided that if I saw anything that looked like cheating, or even if she just looked like she was losing, I would set this whole world afire to protect her. She’d be mad as hell at me for interfering, but I’d rather have her alive and shouting at me than dead and silent.
Frankie sat down on the seat beside me, just for a moment, out of breath from running back and forth in the crowd, pushing the odds as far as they would go.
“Just checking in,” he said. “How many of the souls we’ve won do you want me to wager?”
“All of them,” I said.
“Are you sure? You don’t want me to hold some back, just in case . . . ?”
“All of them,” I said.
“You’re the boss!” And he was gone, flitting through the crowd, making instant new friends and jollying them into betting more than was sensible.
A large thug in tailored combat fatigues suddenly loomed over me. I looked up, and he scowled at me. A very thorough scowl. Probably practised it in front of a mirror.
“You’re in my seat,” he said.
“No, I’m not,” I said.
“That’s the best seat, so it’s my seat,” said the thug. “So move. Or I’ll move you.”
I sighed, quietly. There’s always one. I stood up, kneed him in the groin, waited for him to bend over, and then rabbit-punched him on the back of his exposed neck. He fell to the ground. I sat down again and put my feet up on his unconscious body. Everyone else left me alone, after that. They could tell I didn’t want to be bothered.
The generic flunky, or one very like him, gestured for Molly and the Bones Man to retreat to the far ends of the circle. They did so; Molly still waving to the crowd, the Bones Man walking slowly and calmly, as though in a deep concentration. The flunky then left the Arena with more than usual speed, and the crowd went suddenly quiet, watching intently, not wanting to miss anything. I leaned forward in my seat. I’d seen Molly do many amazing things with her magic, but I’d never seen her create a world.
The Bones Man started first, while the flunky was still leaving the Arena. He gestured, quite calmly, and a huge dark jungle immediately filled his half of the circle. Tall trees bowed down with heavy luxuriant foliage, interlocking branches high above forming a giant canopy, blocking out the light. A menacing place, full of moist sweaty heat that spilled out across the first few rows of the audience. An oppressive jungle, with closely packed vegetation, and fat pulpy flowers, burning with phosphorescent fire like unhealthy ghosts. Things moved in the jungle the Bones Man had made. Horrible things.
Dead birds crawled across the jungle floor, broken wings drooping as they hauled themselves along. Crippled animals, warped and twisted by unnatural forces, lurched out of the shadows, burning pus dripping from their empty eye-sockets. Great swarms of insects buzzed loudly on the hot still air, sounding mindlessly vicious and hungry. Even the great trees moved slowly under the Bones Man’s will, creaking loudly in sudden jerks. Everything seemed rotten and diseased, and even the light seemed poisoned. And then, the final touch, as dead men came walking through the jungle, heading straight for Molly, in her half of the circle.
She didn’t budge an inch. “Zombies?” she said loudly. “How very . . . traditional!”
She stamped her foot once, and winter fell upon her half of the circle. A terrible winter, of snow and ice and blazing sunlight. It hit the jungle dead on, and stopped it in its tracks. The freezing cold laid its powerful touch on everything at the jungle’s edge, painting it white with frost and ice. Freezing it in place. Vegetation shattered, and fell apart. The cold surged on, freezing everything it touched. Even the trees cracked, and fell apart, invaded by the awful cold. The vegetation died, the animals froze to death, and the insects fell lifeless from the bitter air. And the walking dead men slowed and stopped, frozen in place, and fell on their faces on the frozen ground. All of the jungle was winter now, white shapes in snow drifts. Except for the Bones Man himself, standing in his own small circle of unaffected ground.
He dismissed the frozen jungle with a wave of his hand, and the circle was empty again. He frowned, and surrounded himself with a new world, or perhaps more properly an old one. The familiar dimly lit back streets and alleyways, the Caribbean territory of his childhood, when new immigrants were packed into substandard tenements and left to make their own world. He stood in the darkest streets of old London, heavy with shadows because half the street lights had been smashed. The shadows were everywhere—deep and dark and full of menace. Not real things, these streets, probably, but how the Bones Man remembered them.
Shadows seemed to move with a life of their own. The few remaining street lights hummed loudly and then exploded in showers of sparks, one at a time. Making more shadows. Dead rats with broken backs heaved themselves forward into the light, dragging lengths of pink intestines behind them, followed by cats that had been turned inside out. Just because someone in those streets had a taste for suffering. Windows in the surrounding buildings glowed unnaturally bright, and foul, and dark shadows moved like demons glimpsed in Hell’s light. The Bones Man looked just as at home in this new hell as in his jungle.
And once again, dead men came shambling forward, heading straight for Molly, with old appetites stamped deep in their rotting faces.