Мор - ученик смерти

           LISTEN,saidDeath,FAIRDOESN’TCOMEINTOIT.

           YOUCANTTAKESIDES.GOODGRIEF.WHENIT’STIME,IT’STIME.THAT’SALLTHEREISTOIT,BOY.

           ’Mort,’moanedMort,staringatthecrowd.

           Andthenhesawher.ArandommovementinthepeopleopenedupachannelbetweenMortandaslim,red-hairedgirlseatedamongagroupofolderwomenbehindtheking.Shewasn’texactlybeautiful,beingover-endowedinthefreckledepartmentand,frankly,ratherontheskinnyside.Butthesightofhercausedashockthathot-wiredMort’shindbrainanddroveitallthewaytothepitofhisstomach,laughingnastily.

           IT’STIME,saidDeath,givingMortanudgewithasharpelbow.FOLLOWME.

           Deathwalkedtowardtheking,weighinghisswordinhishand.Mortblinked,andstartedtofollow.Thegirl’seyesmethisforasecondandimmediatelylookedaway–thenswivelledback,draggingherheadaround,hermouthstartingtoopeninan’o’ofhorror.

           Mort’sbackbonemelted.Hestartedtoruntowardstheking.

           ’Lookout!’hescreamed.’You’reingreatdanger!’

           Andtheworldturnedintotreacle.Itbegantofillupwithblueandpurpleshadows,likeaheatstrokedream,andsoundfadedawayuntiltheroarofthecourtbecamedistantandscritchy,likethemusicinsomeoneelse’sheadphones.MortsawDeathstandingcompanionablybytheking,hiseyesturneduptowards—