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be my fault?
    The only thing that has kept me in the job is that I’m good at it, and that Morrigan likes me. Morrigan’s influence as Ankou can’t be denied. Mr. D’s close working relationship with Morrigan tends to piss off the state admins mightily—and Derek cops that because Morrigan is a person you don’t want to cross. All of which pleases me no end, because Morrigan is virtually family.
    Morrigan and Dad rose through the ranks together. Dad, a traditionalist; Morrigan, an innovator. Dad coordinates the cross-state linkages, pomps, and helps oversee Mortmax’s non-death-related industries—the various holdings in supermarkets, petrol stations and other businesses. He used to run the scheduling too, but a couple of years ago the side businesses expanded to such a degree that he had to let that slide. Morrigan had been pushing to stop him pomping as well but Dad prefers to keep his hand in.
    I’d like to think that I could have taken over the scheduling. But a desk job’s dull. Derek, on the other hand, loves it. Too bad he’s doing such a miserable job.
    I glance at my watch. It’s going to be close. Not showing up for a meeting is the fastest route to unemployment. Punctuality, under all manner of stress and duress, is an absolute necessity in the pomping trade. A hangover doesn’t even begin to cut it as an excuse.
    I’m pretty sure I can make it, even riding what seems to be the slowest train in existence, but whether or not I can avoid spewing over Derek’s desk is another matter. But it would be a pathetic vomit at best: the last thing I ate was that Chiko Roll.
    Anyway, getting into work is going to furnish me with some answers. There’s just been too much weirdness in the last couple of days. Too many things are unsettling me. If I wasn’t so miserable, they’d be unsettling me even more.
    I get off at Roma Street Station, ride the escalator up and out onto George Street, taking small sips of unsatisfying water as I go.
    I don’t notice anything is wrong until I touch the front door to Number Four.
    I push, and the door doesn’t give. So I push harder.
    Nothing but my knuckles cracking. The door doesn’t even draw its usual drop of blood. That’s the way it is with Pomps. You need blood to close certain doors, and blood to open them. But not today.
    Number Four is locked up tight and toothless.
    My first thought is that this is Derek, that he’s getting his revenge. Except the two wide glass windows either side of the door are dark. Not only that, but the brace symbol above the door has been removed. That symbol, an upside down triangle split through the middle with a not quite straight vertical line, keeps away Stirrers. It has to be refreshed every month or so, redrawn with ink mixed with a living Pomp’s blood. Now it’s gone, and that’s crazy.
    The door should have opened. The lights should be on inside. But they’re not. I peer through the window to the left of the door, or try to. It’s totally dark beyond. My reflection stares back at me.
    I touch the door again. There should be a buzz, a sort of hum running through me on contact, but there’s nothing, no sense at all that this is a point of interface between the living world and the dead one. It’s just a door. A locked metal door. I glance around, there’s no one I know standing around ready to tell me this is all some sort of joke.
    The door leads into the vestibule of the building. There’s a desk at the front. Some chairs, a couple of prints, including Mr. D’s favorite painting, Brueghel’s “Triumph of Death.” Beyond the desk is a hallwayleading to old-fashioned elevator doors, lots of brass, glass and art nouveau designs. The elevator has twelve floors marked, but our building only has eight storeys here. The other four are in the Underworld. That linkage between the living world and the dead should have me buzzing. Hell, standing this close to Number Four should have
anyone
buzzing.
    It’s the reason we