Free Apocalypse Happens by Lori Handeland Page A

his usual bravado. I almost wanted him to slug me, if only so I could slug him back.
    In the yard a slight mound of grass made a pathetic hill, but Milwaukee wasn’t exactly rolling in them. I think the closest knoll was a good twenty-minute drive.
    “Lie down,” Quinn ordered, and we did. From his pocket he drew a cloth bag.
    “Dirt from the Otherworld,” he explained, then dipped his fingers within. “Only those who have been there possess it.”
    He sprinkled the dirt over us. The falling specks felt like cool sand against my face. The scent of moist earth surrounded us. The sky appeared to be receding.
    “Crap,” I said. But it was too late; we sank, the dirt streaming in on us from above, the ground sinking away below.
    I reached for Jimmy’s hand again, managing to link our fingers together right before we were buried alive.

CHAPTER 8
    I never thought it would end like this—suffocating as earth filled my mouth, my nose, blocked the starlight from my eyes. No, I figured I’d go down in a blaze of glory—sword slashing, blood everywhere—perhaps during the final battle called Armageddon.
    Jimmy’s fingers tightened on mine, and the panic that had threatened receded. At least we were together. At least he hadn’t pulled away again.
    Then we landed with a thud in a cool, gray, misty world, and Jimmy did pull away. I blinked and dirt cascaded off my lashes. I scrubbed it from my face, my eyes, my hair, then glanced up. The sky was brown; the earth beneath our feet swirled like a cloud.
    “Upside down,” Jimmy murmured.
    We stood. The mist was so thick we couldn’t see anything but each other.
    “Now what, Sherlock?” Jimmy asked.
    “We find the Dagda.”
    “By wandering around blindly, dropping off the edge of time and into a hell dimension?”
    Music flowed on the mist; it sounded like a—
    “Harp.” I smiled. “They don’t play harps in hell.”
    “How do you know? If I were a demon—”
    “You are.”
    “Do you really want to throw that stone?”
    Good point.
    “If I were a demon,” he continued, “I’d use harps to lure the unwary right into the pit.”
    “I’ll remember that.” And I would, because he was probably right.
    The harp music drifted closer, became louder. Jimmy and I pulled out our silver knives. I always felt better with something sharp and shiny in my hand.
    From the fog stepped a tall, broad man with a huge club slung about his waist. In one arm he held a harp made of glistening, polished, intricately carved wood, with strings of gold that he plucked with large yet nimble fingers.
    His hair was the sun and his eyes the sky. His teeth when he smiled were as white as winter ice and his lips the shade of a sunset in the west.
    He was huge—everywhere. About eight feet tall, several feet wide, probably three hundred pounds. How could he walk on the clouds? Big feet, big hands and a codpiece—who wore those anymore?—the size of a dinner plate, which appeared to barely contain his impressive package.
    At the sight of us he paused. The harp disappeared, as did his smile. The silence that descended when the music died seemed to pulse in my ears like thunder.
    He reached for his club; the thing detached from his belt and flew through the air into his hand. “How did you get in?”
    “Quinn.”
    He relaxed somewhat, though he didn’t put the club back.
    “Are you the Dagda?”
    He stared me up and down, the perusal as blatantas any I’d received while tending bar at Murphy’s. “Who wants to know?”
    “Elizabeth Phoenix.”
    His smile returned. “The leader of the light.”
    “Word travels,” Jimmy said.
    “I am not completely cut off from your world. My people come here for rest, for protection, for . . .” He grinned again. “Vacation.”
    “Seems like a real rockin’ place,” I said.
    “It is peaceful. No one can enter the Otherworld who has not been here before. Or who is not given entry by one of us. This is not bestowed lightly.” He swung his