Free Odds and Gods by Tom Holt Page A

contract killing profession.
    ‘Look,’ he gasped through clenched teeth as the Count’s icy fingers closed around his throat, ‘can we cut this a bit short, because I’m due in Haiti for a rogue zombie at six-thirty. I don’t like to rush you, but . . .’
    A right pillock he’d looked, reaching into his inside pocket and fetching out a five-pound lump hammer and a prime cut of best rump steak. He would have various things to say to Ms Parfimowicz when he got back.
    ‘Nothing personal,’ grunted the Count, ‘but I’d rather we went through the motions. Aaaaagh!’
    ‘Okay, that’s fine,’ Lundqvist replied, as his right hand finally connected with the butt of his .40 Glock automatic. ‘I’m about through here anyway.’
    The bullet wasn’t, strictly speaking, silver; but it was a Speer 170-grain jacketed hollow point, backed by six grains of Unique and a Federal 150 primer. By the time the echoes of the shot had died away, the Count didn’t seem in any fit state to discuss the finer points of metallurgy.You would have to be abnormally thin-skinned to take ‘Gluuuurgh!’ as any sort of valid criticism.
    Nevertheless, Lundqvist felt peeved. It wasn’t the way these things ought to be done. You had to preserve the mystique. Once people cottoned on to the fact that any Tom, Dick or Harry could blow away the Undead with a factory-standard out-of-the-box compact automatic, they wouldn’t be quite so eager to pay through the nose for the services of a top flight professional.
    A quick glance at his watch told him he was badly behind schedule. A quick scout round produced a three-foot length of broken fence post, and a few strokes of his Spyderco Ultramax lock-knife put enough of a point on it to do the job. He was just dusting himself off and searching the pockets for any small items of value when his bleeper went.
    ‘Lundqvist here.’
    ‘Oh Mr Lundqvist, I’m sorry to disturb you like this, I hope I haven’t called at an inconvenient moment.’
    ‘No, it’s okay. While I think of it, what I had in mind when I gave you the equipment list this morning was stake S-T-A-K-E, not—’
    ‘Oh gosh, Mr Lundqvist, I’m most terribly sorry, really I am, I never thought—’
    ‘That’s fine,’ Lundqvist broke in - in order to have the time to wait for a natural break in the flow of Ms Parfimowicz’s apologies you had to be a giant redwood at the very least - ‘it wasn’t a problem as it turned out. Just remember for next time, okay?’
    ‘I will, I promise. I’ll just quickly write it down and then I’ll be sure to remember. That’s stake spelt S-T-A...’
    ‘Ms Parfimowicz,’ Lundqvist said firmly, ‘quiet. Now, what was so goddam important?’
    ‘Oh yes, I’m sorry I got sidetracked, I must stop doing that, it must be so irritating for you. A Mrs Henderson called - she’s not in the card index but she knew the private number so she must be genuine, don’t you think - and she wants you to kill a god.’
    There was a brief pause while Lundqvist grabbed for the receiver which he had somehow contrived to drop. ‘I don’t think I heard you right,’ he said. ‘ Kill a god? ’
    ‘That’s what she said, Mr Lundqvist. Of course I could have got it down wrong, I know I’m still having trouble with taking the messages off the machine, but I’m pretty sure—’
    ‘Mrs Henderson, you said?’
    ‘That’s right, Mr Lundqvist. Do you want me to spell that back for you?’
    ‘I’ll be straight back. Call Haiti, cancel the zombie, make up some excuse. This is more important.’
    ‘Oh.’ The voice at the end of the line quavered slightly. ‘What excuse can I make, Mr Lundqvist?’
    ‘Tell them . . .’ Lundqvist grinned. ‘Tell them I had to go to a funeral.’

CHAPTER SIX

    L ove, according to the songwriters, is the sweetest thing; but tea as made by the great god Pan must come a pretty close second. It’s just as well that Pan is immortal, because if he were ever to die, several third