Gentle rain pockmarked the moving surface of the Vltava, but the white foam had drifted on. Nothing churned the water from underneath. Whatever had happened in the dim depths was over now. 

Perun lay on the cobbledstoned embankment with his eyes closed, exhausted. For a longer time, his mind was empty of thoughts, only the feeling of the warm water falling from the sky, washing the oily film off his skin and clothing, let him know he was still physically present. 

Warm rain. He had a dim recollection that he'd been shivering when he'd entered the river. Now, only the stones under his back were mildly chilly. As if it were summertime. But wasn't it autumn?

Perun opened his eyes. How long had he been under the water? Two hours? Three? It couldn't have been long. 

Snippets of facts gleaned from fairy tales came back to him. Didn't time pass differently in the world of witches and spirits? 

Perun reached up and felt his face for a beard, but his fingers met only minimal stubble. He mentally shook his head at how someone like himself, a professional criminal and murderer, could be so easily unnerved. First thinking the messengers from Old Veleček could be vampires and now that he'd been transported into some kind of mythical land with legendary princesses, only to have emerged days, weeks or even years later. As if he were in some kind of weird folk tale gone wrong.

Well, he was Perun Hammerfist, not some damn farmer. He had a life in reality to get back to.

He lifted his arm and consulted his watch, cocking his wrist to read it in the dim light of a nearby street lamp. 

12:26 am.

But the hands weren't moving. Perun flicked the side of the timepiece, then shook his wrist. Nothing. Water had probably seeped in and crusted up the mechanics while he was in the river. Fabulous.  

Perun let his arm flop down onto this chest. 

Automatically, his hand felt again for the reassuring weight of the pistol in his belt before he remembered he'd lost it. No watch, no pistol. He made a quick check of the rest of his situation. It was raining and he was soaking wet. 

And probably stunk of river rot, but that was a minor inconvenience. 

He was breathing. 

And not in the damned river thinking he was trading insults with a freakish blue monster any more. Small comfort.

He'd accidentally fallen into the river. That's what had happened. He'd perhaps got a knock to the head from some passing driftwood and dreamed that whole thing. He hadn't died; he wasn't a Wiedergänger. He was Perun Hammerfist. Owner of bars, brothels and a classy restaurant off Wenceslas Square that served a delightful venison roast with dumplings.

When had he last eaten?   

Perun sat up, muscles protesting as if he'd run kilometres, and felt in his boot for the long, thin blade he'd slipped in there in the comfort of his office before he knew what an adventure the night would turn out to be. 

It was still there. Perun breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wasn't completely unarmed. 

The task now was to figure out exactly where he was. Passing fog banks obscured the spires of the skyline making identifying buildings in the distance difficult.  He turned his face upward for clues. The yellow and red search lights were still criss-crossing the sky, reflecting off the low-hanging clouds at intermittent intervals. From their sweep, Perun attempted to locate their source at Vyšhehrad Castle. That would tell him how far upriver he was.

But there was something wrong with the roving lights. They were angled oddly and had no source. The beams moved over his head as if coming from behind him, not across . . .

Everything went silent. The sound of the rain falling on the water, the rush of the river, his own breathing. Gone in an instant as the realisation unfolded in his mind. He was on the other side. Somehow, he'd crossed the Vltava and ended up on the opposite shore. 

He was in Small Side, on Old Veleček's turf. 

Perun's hand immediately went to the knife in his boot. This was not good. This was worse than not good. 

He had to get back across the river before anyone recognised him and phoned in a warning to Veleček's men. Perun peered at the dark water, the most obvious means of escape, and shivered. He wasn't going back in there. Swimming was out of the question. 

A bridge. He needed a bridge. 

Or . . . perhaps better yet, a patrol. His mouth curled up in a disgusted sneer at the thought, but perhaps getting picked up on purpose was his best, and safest, bet. They couldn't link him to Krovac, who should have been floating past the villages and farms on the edges of Prague by now. And if the Speedster hadn't been discovered, he'd simply be locked in a cell for the night and forced to make a steep little monetary gift to the Axis before he was thrown out without so much as a cigarette in the first light of morning. 

Perun was so deep in thought, that the approaching clatter of a motor only entered his consciousness at the same time as brakes squealed not fifteen paces from where he sat. As he  twisted around, a cloud of petrol exhaust drifted over him, making him cough slightly. 

"I was told I'd be transporting one of you. Not two, goddamn it," a gruff voice said over the sound of the motor.   

The wide shape of a motorcycle with a sidecar stopped on street level was all Perun could make out as the yellowish-orange beam of a single sodium headlight was blinding him. He held up a hand to shield his eyes. 

"Where's the Royal Collector?" the voice said again, this time louder. 

A razor sharp jag of alarm ran through Perun's gut. Not what, but who. 

He hadn't escaped the nightmare yet. Whoever it was on the motorcycle, he'd been the one the Collector had had been referring to. The one they were supposed to meet. Perun cursed under his breath the choicest, most latinate obscenities he could think of.

"Collector!" the voice shouted, followed by the revving of the bike's motor, which screeched like a witch before settling into a din of coughing and snapping. 

The river remained silent, dark and impassive. Perun followed suit.

"Why isn't he here? I'm talking to you, Perun. Yes, you Mr Hammerfist. Where's the eel-man?" 

At the sound of his name, Perun stealthily drew his leg up to be able to reach his knife. Who knew who  this character was or what he was capable of. Until he knew who he was dealing with, a damned pixie or whatever, the best policy was probably to play along. 

"He got into a spot of trouble and couldn't make it," Perun answered, his voice coming out scratchy and rough. He coughed and swallowed hard. 

The figure -- Perun could now make out a vague human shape on the bike -- grunted. "Oh, ah. A spot of trouble? Trouble with you or with a depressed carp?"

"Must have been the fish." 

"Ha! The Royal Collector is a reliable as clockwork. What happened? Why is he not here?" 

Perun thought for a moment. He could lie, but what would it get him? Who was he even talking to?  The memory of the churning water and the red eyes made him hesitate, and he had to beat down the urge to look back over his shoulder at the water to make sure it was no longer there, staring at him.  

"There was some sort of underwater. . . hurricane. With babies inside."

"The Velko Vodař? You're telling me he tangled with an appearance of the Velko --" The voice fell into silence.

A string of curses erupted a few moments later.

"Oh, that's all I need! First the rain, now this. What the fucking hell dog rotting-corpse remains am I supposed to do with two of you, eh hm? Why did you have to go and fish another one out? Not as if I don't have better things to do than come out in a storm to fetch you. Oh no, saddle me with two of you nightmares. Go on, Mr Hammerfist, sir. Not that it bothers me. Humble servant, at your service." 

Anger flooded Perun's system, displacing the fear, but he told himself to leave it out and think. Buy some time, consider his best options. He glanced around, hoping to find an escape route. The pixie was on a motorcycle, he couldn't out run that. Back in the river? No. Or maybe...

Perun's gaze fell on the pale, white lump lying a few arm's spans away. A child. Its eyes were closed, arms splayed. He'd forgotten all about that. Was it dead?

Why did you have to fish another one out?  Another...? A horrific thought reached out of the night and wrapped itself around Perun's mind.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I've got nothing to do with that." Perun jerked his head in the direction of the child, hoping it was true. 

"Oh, ah. Right. I'm sure you don't." 

The sarcasm in the shadowy figure's voice pushed on Perun's nerves and he barked, "Who are you anyway? You're not National Axis. If you were, you'd have arrested me by now. Who do you work for? I'm tired of this stupid game!" 

The headlight died, leaving dancing purple rings in Perun's vision. The motor continued to idle quietly, but the figure dismounted. It was tall, and as it moved closer into the light of the street lamp, Perun could see it was wearing a bulky leather jacket lined with lamb fleece like American actors in films wore. A leather motorcycle cap, similar to a pilot's helmet, covered its head and motoring goggles obscured its eyes. 

It crouched down a few paces away, placing itself exactly on Perun's eye-level.  

"I was told you wouldn't recognise me. Hurts, that does, but I can accept it." The figure grasped the goggles with both hands and lifted them up onto the helmet. 

Clear, watery-blue eyes stared at Perun from a face that was a blank as it was ageless.  "Dimitri. Known to some as The Morbid." 

The wheels in Perun's mind ticked over and the name rose up from the shadows of his memory. "Dimitri the Morbid. You're Veleček's. . ." the exact description escaped him. He knew what the man in front of him did, but couldn't put words to it. The notion existed only as a gut feeling. 

Dimitri smiled, and a flash of unease caused Perun's muscles to tighten. The smile was genuine, but the movement of the mouth seemed to have nothing to do with the rest of the face. It was like watching stone attempt to grin -- appalling and fascinating at the same time.

"Gravedigger," Dimitri said, completing Perun's sentence for him. "I'm Veleček's gravedigger."  

An image of a cemetery, marble statues of weeping women and family crypts with their ornate iron doors standing open, came swimming up out of the depths of Perun's mind. He'd been there many times at some point when he'd been much younger. He'd seen. . .the image faded faster than he could reach out and lay claim to it, disappearing into the impenetrable shroud that surrounded the memory of his early life. 

"I'm supposed to know you?"

"That's why he sent me out in this. . .oh so pleasant evening." Dimitri rolled his eyes, indicating the rain and the darkness. The effect was unsettling. "Thought it would be less of a shock to see me first. Although, shock. Er, hm. After seeing the Soul Collector he could have made a personal appearance and it wouldn't have mattered. He's a frighting one, isn't he? The Collector? If you aren't expecting him, that is."

"He. Veleček?" Perun phrased it like a question, but that was definitely who they were talking about. 

"Of course. You didn't take the polite invitations. Other methods had to be used. Your own fault."

The feeling of river water rushing into his lungs returned, cold, rot-tasting river water, and Perun truculently puffed out his chest. 

"What does that old bastard want from me?" 

"Now, now, what kind of a word is that? He wants to talk. Like Jaroslav and Miro told you." 

Those must have been the two bizarre messengers that had shown up in his office. Perun wasn't sure if -- after all he'd seen that night -- they weren't the least bizarre of the men Veleček had in his employ. And all of these creatures were in Veleček's employ, there was no doubt about that now.

Perun squinted at the gravedigger. "Why? What could I possibly have to talk to him about?"

Dimitri the Morbid gazed at Perun, rain drops running down his pale face that he made no effort to wipe away. "You are a stubborn one, I'll give you that."

"Why does he want to talk?"

"How should I know? I've only been asked to take you to him." Although he hadn't moved, Perun could clearly sense that the man in front of him was losing patience with the situation. That was perhaps not a wise thing to let happen. 

"And how do I know this isn't all just a big ruse to do me in and take over my operations? I don't need to tell you what will happen if my men don't see me by noon today. It won't be pretty for your boss, rest assured."

Dimitri continued to stare at him, and it occurred to Perun that he hadn't seen the man blink more than a few times. 

Slowly, Dimitri's eyes began to narrow to slits.

"You didn't kill the Collector, did you? Before he had a chance to carry out his task? Fair warning, Hammerfist, he won't be pleased with you if you have done, ah hm, no matter what business he has with you. You may not recall, but he takes rather unkindly to having his plans upset." 

Perun shook his head. "The Collector met up with some kind of, I don't know what, down in the water. He threw me up here and disappeared."  

Dimitri watched Perun's face for a moment or two before continuing. "Then the Collector should have told you that  you're beyond death. Even if someone tried -- and I think the Collector demonstrated that to you sufficiently? -- you'd come back. Veleček couldn't do you in even if he wanted to. He wants to talk and what he wants, he gets. Run, and he'll only find another way to get you here again. Take my advice, don't make this any harder on yourself  than you already have. Next time might not be so pleasant."

For a long moment, Perun and the gravedigger stared at each other. Then Perun sighed and shrugged. 

"Good lad." Dimitri smiled slightly, and then turned to the pale, motionless child still lying next to them. "And you'd best bring that with you. He'll want to see it."