He watched them walking away from him down the street, and felt a pang, like a minor chord being played inside him.
It had been a good kiss, Shadow reflected, but Sam had never looked at him the way she was looking at the pigtailed girl, and she never would.
“What the hell. We’ll always have Peru,” he said, under his breath, as Sam walked away from him. “And El Paso. We’ll always have that.”
Then he ran after her, and put the flowers into Sam’s hands. He hurried away, so she could not give them back.
Then he walked up the hill back to his car, and he took Highway 90 south to Chicago. He drove at or slightly under the speed limit.
It was the last thing he had to do.
He was in no hurry.
He spent the night in a Motel 6. He got up the next morning, and realized his clothes still smelled like the bottom of the lake. He put them on anyway. He figured he wouldn’t need them much longer.
Shadow paid his bill. He drove to the brownstone apartment building. He found it without any difficulty. It was smaller than he remembered.
He walked up the stairs steadily, not fast, that would have meant he was eager to go to his death, and not slow, that would have meant he was afraid. Someone had cleaned the stairwell: the black garbage bags had gone. The place smelled of the chlorine-smell of bleach, no longer of rotting vegetables.
The red-painted door at the top of the stairs was wide open: the smell of old meals hung in the air. Shadow hesitated, then he pressed the doorbell.
“I come!” called a woman’s voice, and, dwarf-small and dazzlingly blonde, Zorya Utrennyaya came out of the kitchen and bustled towards him, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked different, Shadow realized. She looked happy. Her cheeks were rouged red, and there was a sparkle in her old eyes. When she saw him her mouth became an O and she called out, “Shadow? You came back to us?” and she hurried toward him with her arms outstretched. He bent down and embraced her, and she kissed his cheek. “So good to see you!” she said. “Now you must go away.”
Shadow stepped into the apartment. All the doors in the apartment (except, unsurprisingly, Zorya Polunochnaya’s) were wide open, and all the windows he could see were open as well. A gentle breeze blew fitfully through the corridor.
“You’re spring cleaning,” he said to Zorya Utrennyaya.
“We have a guest coming,” she told him. “Now, you must go away. First, you want coffee?”
“I came to see Czernobog,” said Shadow. “It’s time.”
Zorya Utrennyaya shook her head violently. “No, no,” she said. “You don’t want to see him. Not a good idea.”
“I know,” said Shadow. “But you know, the only thing I’ve really learned about dealing with gods is that if you make a deal, you keep it. They get to break all the rules they want. We don’t. Even if I tried to walk out of here, my feet would just bring me back.”
She pushed up her bottom lip, then said, “Is true. But go today. Come back tomorrow. He will be gone then.”
“Who is it?” called a woman’s voice, from further down the corridor. “Zorya Utrennyaya, to who are you talking? This mattress, I cannot turn on my own, you know.”
Shadow walked down the corridor, and said, “Good morning, Zorya Vechernyaya. Can I help?” which made the woman in the room squeak with surprise and drop her corner of the mattress.
The bedroom was thick with dust: it covered every surface, the wood and the glass, and motes of it floated and danced through the beams of sunshine coming through the open window, disturbed by occasional breezes and the lazy flapping of the yellowed lace curtains.
He remembered this room. This was the room they had given to Wednesday, that night. Bielebog’s room.
Zorya Vechernyaya eyed him uncertainly. “The mattress,” she said. “It needs to be turned.”
“Not a problem,” said Shadow. He reached out and took the mattress, lifted it with ease and turned it over. It was an old wooden bed, and the feather mattress weighed almost as much as a man. Dust flew and swirled as the mattress went down.
“Why are you here?” asked Zorya Vechernyaya. It was not a friendly question, the way she asked it.
“I’m here,” said Shadow, “because back in December a young man played a game of checkers with an old god, and he lost.”
The old woman’s gray hair was up on the top of her head in a tight bun. She pursed her lips. “Come back tomorrow,” said Zorya Vechernyaya.
“I can’t,” he said, simply.
“Is your funeral. Now, you go and sit down. Zorya Utrennyaya will bring you coffee. Czernobog will be back soon.”
Shadow walked along the corridor to the sitting room. It was just as he remembered, although now the window was open. The gray cat slept on the arm of the sofa. It opened an eye as Shadow came in and then, unimpressed, it went back to sleep.
This was where he had played checkers with Czernobog; this was where he had wagered his life to get the old man to join them on Wednesday’s last doomed grift. The fresh air came in through the open window, blowing the stale air away.
Zorya Utrennyaya came in with a red wooden tray. A small enameled cup of steaming black coffee sat on the tray, beside a saucer filled with small chocolate-chip cookies. She put it down on the table in front of him.
“I saw Zorya Polunochnaya again,” he said. “She came to me under the world, and she gave me the moon to light my way. And she took something from me. But I don’t remember what.”
“She likes you,” said Zorya Utrennyaya. “She dreams so much. And she guards us all. She is so brave.”
“Where’s Czernobog?”
“He says the spring-cleaning makes him uncomfortable. He goes out to buy newspaper, sit in the park. Buy cigarettes. Perhaps he will not come back today. You do not have to wait. Why don’t you go? Come back tomorrow.”
“I’ll wait,” said Shadow. This was no geas, forcing him to wait, he knew that. This was him. It was one last thing that needed to happen, and if it was the last thing that happened, well, he was going there of his own volition. After this there would be no more obligations, no more mysteries, no more ghosts.
He sipped the hot coffee, as black and as sweet as he remembered.
He heard a deep male voice in the corridor, and he sat up straighter. He was pleased to see that his hand was not trembling. The door opened.
“Shadow?”
“Hi,” said Shadow. He stayed sitting down.
Czernobog walked into the room. He was carrying a folded copy of the Chicago Sun-Times, which he put down on the coffee table. He stared at Shadow, then he put his hand out, tentatively. The two men shook hands.
“I came,” said Shadow. “Our deal. You came through with your part of it. This is my part.”
Czernobog nodded. His brow creased. The sunlight glinted on his gray hair and moustache, making them appear almost golden. “Is…” He frowned. “Is not…” He broke off. “Maybe you should go. Is not a good time.”
“Take as long as you need,” said Shadow. “I’m ready.”
Czernobog sighed. “You are a very stupid boy. You know that?”
“I guess.”
“You are a stupid boy. And on the mountaintop, you did a very good thing.”