Breath (19 page)

Pestilence stood very still.

He knows the bullying will eventually stop. High school had been hard, but since he’d started standing his ground, the attacks had come less frequently, had been far less vicious. By senior year, they were nothing more than nasty comments from people he couldn’t care less about. Now, in college, he still gets the look from some people, the one that used to make him duck his head and pray he would turn invisible. And he still gets the comments, sometimes.

But he can handle it. He believes in himself far more than he ever had before. And that confidence shows. He has new friends. He has a full scholarship. He has Marianne.

He has his life. So he can ignore stupid comments by stupid people.

And for the times when he can’t, Bill Ballard stands his ground.

Pestilence steeled himself, and he hoped the warhorse couldn’t hear the wild beating of his heart. Or smell the sweat on his forehead. He was afraid, but that fear didn’t control him.

He wasn’t that person anymore.

Just as he was about to summon his Bow, the other two horses appeared, the black flanking the red, the white steed standing in front of him, blocking him. Protecting him. Though his horse wasn’t brave, right now it was ready to fight for him. Neither the white steed nor black made a sound, but their intent was clear: Back the hell off.

“Call off your beast,” said Famine.

“My
beast
could eat yours for lunch. Then again, there’s not much meat there.” War patted the red horse’s haunch. “I’m fine,” she said, quieter, calmer.

Not for the first time, Pestilence was struck by how gentle she could be with an animal that would gleefully rip out a person’s throat. Specifically,
his
throat.

“Go back to the rats,” she murmured to her steed. “Kill them all for me, would you?”

The warhorse snorted once, then launched itself in the air, looping down into the vast jungle of vegetation that made up most of the island. Only after it retreated did the other two steeds visibly relax.

For that matter, that’s when Pestilence relaxed as well. War could be . . . unpredictable. And her steed could be murderous. He had been ready to stand his ground, but he preferred not to fight. He scratched the white horse in its favorite spot, right behind the ears.

“Thank you,” he said. “My brave steed.”

The horse blushed—or would have, if it could blush—and nickered softly.

Famine spoke similarly to the black, and then the two horses went off together to run up and down the shore. Pestilence watched the two for a moment, and he envied their ability to live in the now. No worries about the future; no past pains that lingered.

Eddie Glass, the school bully and his personal tormentor, had graduated among the last in their class. Bill has seen him exactly once since then. He’d been home for winter break, walking by the old pizzeria, and he glanced in the window to see Eddie acting like the king around a court of thug wannabes. In that one look, Bill knows everything there is to know about Eddie Glass, who was clinging desperately to high school memories while Bill himself had moved on.

Bill would pity Eddie Glass, if he bothered to think about him at all.

“You okay?” Pestilence asked War.

“I’ve been better,” she admitted. “This is a messed-up situation. I’m a little emotional.”

“And pound cake is a little fattening,” muttered Famine.

War shot her a look, then sighed. “I’m sorry. My steed was just reacting to my anger. It’s a good steed,” she said fondly, proudly.

“They all are,” Pestilence said, and then something occurred to him. “Did either of you see the pale horse when you last saw him?”

War and Famine both shook their heads.

“I think something happened with his steed,” Pestilence said, remembering Death’s offhand comment about needing a horse that left him to his own affairs, and that good help was hard to find. “I think he got into an argument with it.”

War glanced in the direction her warhorse had gone. “You’re right,” she said tightly. “He needs us.”

Famine stood, unmoving and impassive, saying nothing.

Pestilence wanted to scream at her, but that would just send the horses back, spoiling for a fight. And time was running out—he was sure of it. He could feel it deep inside, in the part of him that housed the spirit of the White Rider.

The end was coming.

Cold,
wailed the King.
So cold.

And it was. In the past few minutes, the temperature must have dropped by ten degrees.

“Look,” Pestilence said, trying to keep his desperation in check, “if we try to help him, and it turns out that he’s fine, just feeling a little grumpy, then no harm, no foul. But if we don’t try to help him, and he’s not fine at all, then we’re doing the worst thing possible: nothing. You asked how I could think so little of him, but I can’t think of anything worse than leaving him to suffer alone.” He tried to read her expression, but the darkness beneath her hat gave nothing away. “Does he deserve that?”

A long pause before Famine said, “No.”

He released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Then are we agreed?” he asked, looking from one Rider to the other. “That we need to figure out how to help him? And, if needed, how to stop him?”

War smiled toothily. “You bet.”

The Black Rider wrapped her arms around herself, like a straitjacket of shadow. “I don’t see how. If he really wants to die, then we can’t stop him.”

“Bullshit,” Pestilence said. “He’s still alive now. That tells me he doesn’t want to die, not really.”

“Then maybe we should wait.”

War laughed harshly. “For what? A suicide note?”

“We can’t wait,” Pestilence said.

“Fine,” Famine said. “But what do we
do?
”

“Yes,” said a cold voice from behind him. “What do you do?”

Pestilence felt the breath catch in his throat. In his head, the King screamed and the Elder cowered. He turned slowly to face Death, the Pale Rider of the Apocalypse.

Famine heard Death’s voice just before he appeared out of nowhere, tall and pale and so very angry. His long blond hair whipped about his head in a frenzy, as if the wind were trying to rip it away and reveal the skull below. The green and white striped pajamas had been replaced with a ratty sweater and jeans busted at the knees. His hands were hidden in his pockets, but the casual stance couldn’t belie the rage that burned in his eyes like blue fire.

Her heart danced crazily in the safety of her ribcage, and she realized that she was afraid.

It’s five years ago and Tammy Thompson is so afraid as she’s standing over the bathroom sink. Her insides twist violently as cramps rack her body, and she’s thinking that maybe, just maybe, she took too many laxatives.

But she had to, she
had
to, they had stopped working, they weren’t helping her at all, so she had to take more and more. And now her stomach hurts, it hurts, God, it hurts and there’s a weight on her chest and it’s so hard to breathe and she thinks she might be dying.

This is the first time she hears his voice, like some angel from up high calling to her, asking her . 
.
 .

“Is this how you spend your free time?” Death asked, smiling a terrible smile that made her think of a piranha pondering lunch. “Talking about me behind my back? Wouldn’t it be nicer if you took up a hobby? Golf, perhaps, or a nice game of chess?”

“How did you find us?” Pestilence asked. If he was afraid, it wasn’t obvious. He astounded Famine, whose fear was building by the second.

Something was going to happen—she sensed it, like milk on the verge of turning. Something bad.

Death’s smile stretched to inhuman proportions. “No matter what pains you take to be secluded, you can’t hide from me. Wherever you go, I go as well. You could have flown to the moon, and I would have known.” He shrugged. “No surprise parties for me, alas. Takes some of the fun out of life, but hey, ‘fun’ is only the beginning of a funeral.”

A lump worked its way into Famine’s throat. No matter how she swallowed, she felt as if she were choking. The rage in Death’s eyes suffocated her, stole her breath.

It’s so hard to breathe and she thinks she might be dying. This is the first time she hears his voice, like some angel from up high calling to her, asking her if she is ready to die.

“Because ready or not, you’re dying, Tammy,” he says, his voice like chocolate-covered strawberries, so sweet, so addictive.

She sees him reflected in the bathroom mirror, a tall man with long blond hair and penetrating blue eyes; she knows who, what, he truly is, and the knowledge chokes her.

“Your heart is about to go into cardiac arrest,” he says, not unkindly. “Is this what you really wanted?”

She flinches from the question. She’s crying and shaking and the weight on her chest has gotten heavier, like an elephant is slowly crushing her.

And he says . 
.
 .

“I’ve been listening to you talk.” Still smiling, Death began to walk around them, circling them lazily, his bare feet leaving no footprints in the sand. “Oh ye of little faith.”

His gaze seared Famine, and no matter how she tried, she couldn’t look away.

“It’s not like that,” War blurted.

“No?” Even with the wind gusting, Famine heard Death’s soft laugh. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”

Pestilence replied, “We’re worried about you.” He sounded perfectly calm, immensely reasonable. Famine couldn’t understand it; her own thoughts were a panicked mess, a tangle of present and past.

“Worried? About me? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” War seethed. “Pestilence thinks you’re suicidal.”

The White Rider sighed, exasperated. “Not the way I wanted to approach this . . .”

War ignored him. Glaring at the Pale Rider, she said, “I think he’s right.”

“Do you, now?” Death paused in his circuit, considered War and then Pestilence, measuring them both with his gaze. Then he cocked his head in Famine’s direction. “What of thee, Black Rider?”

She felt herself flinch from his unforgiving blue eyes.

She flinches from the question. No, she doesn’t want this. She’s crying and shaking and the weight on her chest has gotten heavier, it’s like an elephant is slowly crushing her.

“I know,” he says, “it’s painful. Hearts are fragile things, so easily broken. Yours is breaking now, Tammy. You’re about to die, alone, here in the bathroom, and your sister will find you, cold on the floor.” He smiles at her fondly, as if he knows her. “Your death will ruin her life. Your parents will stop talking, and their marriage will end in an acrimonious divorce. That’s the thing about death—it’s never just about the dying.”

Guilt stabs her, or maybe that’s just her stomach tearing itself to shreds. She tries to speak, but all that comes out is a whimper of pain, so she looks into his eyes and tells him silently that this is a mistake . 
.
 .

“I said he was mistaken,” Famine whispered hoarsely, her eyes still trapped by Death’s gaze. “He has to be mistaken. You can’t be suicidal. You’re . . . you,” she finished lamely.

“That I am,” Death agreed, inclining his head in a mocking bow. “As I’ve been since time began.”

“You’re you,” Pestilence said, “but something’s changed. You’re not acting like yourself.”

“I never
act
like myself,” he replied, all winter cheer and frostbite. “I
am
myself. The only acting I do is when I put on a human face. And after so much time wearing it, the fit is rather poor.”

“You’re hurting,” War said. “Your pain’s bleeding you dry.”

“We know that something’s wrong. We want to help you, but we can’t if you don’t talk to us,” said the White Rider.

Famine would have spoken, would have told them how futile their efforts were, but her tongue had turned to ash.

She tries to speak, but all that comes out is a whimper of pain, so she looks into his eyes and tells him silently that this is a mistake, that she doesn’t want to die, but she can’t bear to be so fat so
fat
every time she looks in the mirror she despises what she sees and she just can’t look anymore.

“It’s no mistake,” he says. “You overdosed, and now you’re dying. All those laxatives. My goodness, Tammy. I know there were times you felt that life was shit, but did your death have to be shit as well?”

Her mouth full of marbles, she says, “Please.”

“Please,” said Pestilence, his arms out as if to appease, “talk to us.”

“And what would you have me say? Shall I tell thee of my dashed dreams, perchance?” Death slid a glance at War. “Shall I speak of lost love?”

The Red Rider’s gloved hands balled into fists. “You pushed me away!”

He laughed coldly. “Whoever said I spoke of
thee?
”

War’s face blanched, and then two hectic spots of red stained her cheeks. A fine tremor worked its way up her arms. She growled, “You bastard!”

“Indeed. I’m the bastard child of this world and mine, orphaned on the day I was born.” He threw his arms wide, and for a moment, Famine glimpsed dark wings unfurling. “None is like me.”

“Please,” the White Rider implored. “Tell us what’s hurt you.”

“Please,” she says.

“Please what?” he asks, curiosity coloring his words. “What would you have of me? A quick death? I’m afraid that’s out of the question. You brought this upon yourself, Tammy Thompson. I’m happy to keep you company until you breathe your last, and from there, well, that’s the great unknown, isn’t it?” He laughs softly. “Is that what you’re asking? Do you seek my company? A friend at the end?”

“We’re your friends,” Pestilence said. “Anything you have to say, we’re here for you.”

“Friends,” Death repeated, rolling the word on his tongue. “My boon companions. I made thee long and long ago for this very thing: to have companionship. So tell me, my Riders: Are you my friends?”

Famine wanted to tell him that yes, she was his friend—she wouldn’t leave him, wouldn’t abandon him the way that she herself had been abandoned by someone she had trusted with her deepest secrets. She wanted to say all that and more, but when she opened her mouth to speak, her voice failed her.