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They were flowing along a storm sewer pipe under Sixteenth Street in the Mission. They were barely two-dimensional again, and they looked like tattered black battle flags, threadbare shadows, oozing black goo as they moved up the pipe. One of Nemain's legs had been completely severed and she had it tucked under her arm while her sisters towed her through the pipe.
"Can you fly, Nemain?" asked Babd. "You're getting heavy. "
"Not down here, and I'm not going back up there. "
"We have to go back Above," said Macha. "If you want to heal before a millennium passes. "
As the three death divas came to a wide junction of pipes under Market Street, they heard something splashing in the pipe ahead.
"What's that?" said Babd. They stopped.
Something pattered by in the pipe they were approaching.
"What was that? What was that?" asked Nemain, who couldn't see past her sisters.
"Looked like a squirrel in a ball gown," said Babd. "But I'm weak and could be delusional. "
"And an idiot," said Macha. "It was a gift soul. Get it! We can heal Nemain's leg with it. "
Macha and Babd dropped their unidexter sister and surged forward toward the junction, just as the Boston terrier stepped into their path.
The Morrigan backpedaling in the pipe sounded like cats tearing lace. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," chanted Macha, what was left of her claws raking the pipe to back up.
Bummer yapped out a sharp tattoo of threat, then bolted down the pipe after the Morrigan.
"New plan, new plan, new plan," said Babd.
"I hate dogs," said Macha.
They snagged their sister as they passed her.
"We, the goddesses of death, who will soon command the all under darkness, are fleeing a tiny dog," said Nemain.
"So what's your point, hoppie?" said Macha.
Over in the Fillmore, Carrie Lang had closed her pawnshop for the night and was waiting for some jewelry she'd taken in that day to finish in the ultrasonic cleaner so she could put it in the display case. She wanted to finish and get out of there, go home and have dinner, then maybe go out for a couple of hours. She was thirty-six and single, and felt an obligation to go out, just on the off chance that she might meet a nice guy, even though she'd rather stay home and watch crime shows on TV. She prided herself on not becoming cynical. A pawnbroker, like a bail bondsman, tends to see people at their worst, and every day she fought the idea that the last decent guy had become a drummer or a crackhead.
Lately she didn't want to go out because of the strange stuff she'd been seeing and hearing out on the street - creatures scurrying in the shadows, whispers coming from the storm drains; staying at home was looking bet
ter all the time. She'd even started bringing her five-year-old basset hound, Cheerful, to work with her. He really wasn't a lot of protection, unless an attacker happened to be less than knee-high, but he had a loud bark, and there was a good chance that he might actually bark at a bad guy, as long he wasn't carrying a dog biscuit. As it turned out, the creatures who were invading her shop that evening were less than knee-high.
Carrie had been a Death Merchant for nine years, and after adjusting to the initial shock about the whole phenomenon of transference of souls subsided (which only took about four years), she'd taken to it like it was just another part of the business, but she knew from The Great Big Book of Death that something was going on, and it had her spooked.
As she went to the front of the store to crank the security shutters down, she heard something move behind her in the dark, something low, back by the guitars. It brushed a low E-string as it passed and the note vibrated like a warning. Carrie stopped cranking the shutters and checked that she had her keys with her, in case she needed to run through the front door. She unsnapped the holster of her. 38 revolver, then thought, What the hell, I'm not a cop, and drew the weapon, training it on the still-sounding guitar. A cop she had dated years ago had talked her into carrying the Smith & Wesson when she was working the store, and although she'd never had to draw it before, she knew that it had been a deterrent to thieves.
"Cheerful?" she called.
She was answered by some shuffling in the back room. Why had she turned most of the lights out? The switches were in the back room, and she was moving by the case lights, which cast almost no light at the floor, where the noises were coming from.
"I have a gun, and I know how to use it," she said, feeling stupid even as the words came out of her mouth.
This time she was answered by a muffled whimper. "Cheerful!"
She ducked under the lift gate in the counter and ran to the back room, fanning the area with her pistol the way she saw them do in cop shows. Another whimper. She could just make out Cheerful, lying in his normal spot by the back door, but there was something around his paws and muzzle. Duct tape.
She reached out to turn on the lights and something hit her in the back of the knees. She tried to twist around and something thumped her in the chest, setting her off balance. Sharp claws raked her wrists as she fell and she lost her grip on the revolver. She hit her head on the doorjamb, setting off what seemed like a strobe light in her head, then something hit her in the back of the neck, hard, and everything went black.
It was still dark when she came to. She couldn't tell how long she'd been out, and she couldn't move to look at her watch. Oh my God, they've broken my neck, she thought. She saw objects moving past her, each glowing dull red, barely illuminating whatever was carrying them - tiny skeletal faces - fangs, and claws and dead, empty eye sockets. The soul vessels appeared to be floating across the floor, with a carrion puppet escort. Then she felt claws, the creatures, touching her, moving under her. She tried to scream, but her mouth had been taped shut.
