Breath (20 page)

“I want . 
.
 .” Her voice fails as another spike of pain rips her apart.

“Wouldst thou live?” he asks.

Unable to speak, she nods.

Unable to speak, Famine nodded.

“Of course we’re your friends,” said Pestilence. “We always have been.”

War sniffed loudly. “What he said. We’re here for you. Even when you’re insufferable. Even when you’re cold. We’re here.” Softer, pleading: “Please. I love you. I
love
you. Don’t cut me off like this. Let me help you. Let us help you.”

Famine had frequently seen War’s sharp humor, as cutting and merciless as the sword she wielded. Famine had often seen War’s rage. Never before had she witnessed her tenderness. The Red Rider was crying silently, tears glazing her cheeks.

If Death was moved by her appeal, Famine couldn’t tell.

“You truly want to help me?” the Pale Rider asked, his voice like rotting fruit—overripe and poisonous. “Is that what you want?”

“Is that what you want?” he asks. “To live? You need to say it, Tammy.”

The elephant presses its foot into her chest, and she gasps.

“Time is not your friend, I’m afraid. Say it now, if you would say it at all.”

“Yes,” she whispers. “I want to live.”

“Yes,” Famine said over the lump in her throat. “Yes, we want to help you.”

Death looked at Famine, looked at all of them, his own face unreadable.

“Well then,” he said slowly.

“Well then, Tammy Thompson. For thee.” On the counter of the bathroom sink, a small white box appears. “Open the box, if you would live.”

Hands shaking, she reaches for the package. When her fingers touch it, the box turns black as ink. She’s beyond being startled, though, so she opens the box and sees a copper charm, in the shape of an old-fashioned set of scales, gleaming on a piece of black silk.

“All you have to do is take the Scales and agree to be the Black Rider. Will you do that, Tammy? Will you agree to something you don’t understand and learn what it means as you go? Or will you set the box aside?”

Either way, she’s going where Death will lead. So she picks the way that will let her take another taste of life.

Tammy Thompson grabs the charm, but now it’s a large balance made of brass or maybe bronze, big enough for her fingers to wrap tightly around the handle at the top. And suddenly she can breathe—the elephant has fled, the pain is gone, and the whole world waits before her like a banquet. She tastes the hunger of humanity, samples it and finds it delectable.

“Thou art Famine, the Black Rider, blight of abundance,” he declares. “Go thee out unto the world.” Then, warmer: “Rock on.”

Feeling a new appetite awakening within her, she turns to face Death. “What happens now?”

“Now you ride.”

“Well then,” Death said slowly, “it’s finally time to ride.”

Famine couldn’t breathe.

“Oh, no . . .” That was War, her voice small and scared. “No, no, no . . .”

“The four of us?” Pestilence asked, no longer sounding confident—if War was scared, Pestilence was battling terror. “Together?”

“Together,” Death agreed. “But not the four of us. It’s time.”

There was no dramatic speech, no grand gesture.

There was no time for goodbyes.

Something clawed into Famine, hooked into her deeply, caught the part of her that made her the Black Rider . . .

. . . and pulled.

She screamed as the Horseman was torn away in one long strip, peeled from her like wallpaper. Her screams mingled with those of the others, their voices weighing heavily in the air.

It was the last thing they did together.

With one final pull, the essence of the Black Rider tore free. She let out one final, agonized shriek, then she collapsed to the ground. She tasted sand and grit, smelled the stink of her own sweat and more.

And then the elephant pressed down on her chest.

“Oh God,” a girl screamed, “oh God oh God I’m
bleeding
—”

“Help us,” a boy shouted. “Please!”

She tried to speak, but the elephant muffled her voice.

From far away, a cold voice replied, “I have helped you, William. More than you know. And now it’s time for me to ride.”

One final wave of pain broke over her, and then Tammy Thompson was falling, even though she was already on the ground.

Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me.

—Emily Dickinson

On the night the world ended, Xander Atwood lost his brother.

He stared at the empty crib, not understanding what he was seeing—the baby had to be there; he couldn’t sit up, let alone crawl, so how could he have gotten out of the crib? Panic hit him like a fastball in the chest, slamming him with a terror so complete that for three seconds, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think of anything other than
Come back come back you have to come back Lex come back here right now!

Just as the horror receded enough for him to find his voice, his brain caught fire. He doubled over and let out a choked cry as he clutched his head. Agony, overwhelming and terrifying, turning his blood to shattered glass and slicing him from the inside out.

And then, a beep. On the heels of that, a small, still voice, telling him . . .

***

—there’s a voice whispering his name and telling him to kiss them all goodbye because today’s the day the world ends and he screams as the shadow reaches for him because he knows that when the shadow touches him that’s the end of everything and it can’t be it can’t he won’t let it he
won’t
—

***

Breathe, Xander.

He gasped in a strangled breath, and—

—and he saw his baby brother, sleeping peacefully in his crib.

Xander felt panic build up inside him again, slower this time, like he was chained to the bottom of a well that was being filled with water from a garden hose: He was going to drown, and there was nothing he could do but watch and then try to hold his breath.

Breathe.

He inhaled deeply, then let it out and shook his head. Lex was right there in the crib, where he was supposed to be, where he’d been all along. His eyes had been playing tricks on him, that was all.

Feeling stupid, Xander walked out of the nursery and closed the door. Then he ran down the hallway and into his bedroom. He needed the safety, the stability, of his bedroom. His sanctuary. All he’d meant to do was grab his phone, check to see if Riley had gotten back to him and then flop onto his bed and play video games, but something caught his eye, something subtle, almost intangible, something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on and yet he knew was there.

Something was different.

Frowning, he scanned his bedroom. On the walls, which were painted a steel blue that looked almost gray, his paintings from years of art classes hung in frame after frame, dotting the room with shimmering colors: proud garnets, lofty aquamarines, vibrant chartreuses, too many colors to name. Over his desk, the Escher print of ants crawling along a Möbius strip stood sentry. His parents had given that to him when he’d first become interested in art. At least, he was fairly certain that’s how he’d gotten it. When had it been—ninth grade? Tenth? Last month? He couldn’t remember.

Just as he couldn’t remember when he’d gotten the two blue nudes.

He stared at them, the Matisse and the Picasso posters, framed side by side just over his headboard, and he swallowed thickly as he tried to convince himself those pictures had been in his room for years.

The same pictures that had been at Marcie’s house, in the tiny office off the main hallway.

Xander closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was just stress, that was all. Stress was messing with his memory, messing with his head. Keeping his real college plans secret, then waiting and waiting and waiting to hear from Stanford, and then figuring out when to tell Riley and his parents what he’d done—that had been hard, especially while still keeping his grades up. On top of that, he hadn’t slept well in months, thanks to his strange dreams and his baby brother waking him up at ungodly hours of the morning.

Yes, that was it. He was stressed. That was why he was having trouble remembering some things, why his eyes had tricked him into thinking that Lex hadn’t been in his crib—

(of course little Lex was in his crib his parents’ baby was safe in his crib)

—and why he’d been losing time, like what had happened at Izzy’s during the game and then on the car ride home with Ted—

(Izzy’s voice, saying she’s sort of stunned Xander was actually talking to him, and Xander asking him who, and Izzy saying)

“Enough,” Xander said aloud. Because it was enough. He was just zoning out from sheer exhaustion. Xander glanced at the blue nudes and let out a rueful laugh. Do not operate heavy machinery. Do not drive while under the influence.

A sound, like a screech of tires.

No, there was no sound, not like that. Certainly not thirty stories up, deep in the bowels of his bedroom. He was just hearing things. That happened to his mom a lot—she’d swear the baby was crying, even when Lex was fast asleep.

“Just sleep deprivation,” his dad would say, and then his mom would smack his dad upside the head, because that man could sleep through anything.

Just sleep deprivation.

Just stress.

Xander glanced at his desk, where his phone rested on top of his open sketchbook—the picture in progress, showing four horses and the end of the world. He checked, but Riley still hadn’t gotten back to him. Xander tucked his phone into his pocket and stared at the four horses—no, at the three horses and the one horse that was not a horse, for a man who was not a man—and then he ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face. He really needed some sleep. Then maybe he’d stop hearing things.

Because right now he was positive he was hearing music.

He cocked his head and listened. Yes, there it was: A snatch of music rode the air, leaving behind an impression of sadness and resignation.

Frowning, Xander walked out of his room and down the hallway, following the sound as he headed toward the living room. It was a guitar’s distinctive strumming that he heard; the music was a slow, sad tune that he knew well—one of his favorites, from his favorite album, a song that never failed to pull at his heart.

In the living room, the door to the balcony was wide open.

On the balcony, a guitarist was leaning against the railing, not minding how the wind was tugging at his long blond hair and grabbing the ends of his baggy sweater, not minding how easy it would be to topple over that railing and fall thirty stories and end in a smear on the street.

Air whooshed out of Xander as he watched Death play the guitar.

Real. Everything from before had been real.

Death was here because he owed Xander a boon, and then he was going to kill himself and take the world with him.

As if he’d been waiting for an audience, Death began to sing. His voice was haunting and completely familiar—and not just because he was a dead ringer for Kurt Cobain.

Xander finally remembered.

The boy finally remembered—part of it, anyway. It was a start. The rest would come, and soon; once the first memory slid into place, the rest tended to follow quickly.

Especially when there was a little mood music.

Smiling, he continued to play the guitar.

Xander Atwood was six years old the first time he met Death.

He’d been stuck in the lobby of his mom’s tennis club, waiting for her to finish her lesson, and he was bored silly because there was no one else around. So he decided to build a fort using the cushions from the sofa. That’s how he found a treasure trove of three quarters and five nickels—more than enough for him to hit the vending machine. He bought two chocolate bars and returned to the waiting area to eat his snack.

This time, he wasn’t alone: a blond-haired man was sitting on the sofa, strumming a guitar and singing quietly. When he noticed Xander, he winked.

“You play good,” Xander said.

“Thanks.”

“You sing good, too, but not as good as you play the guitar.”

The musician grinned. “Music comes first and lyrics come second, or so I’ve heard.”

“What’re lyrics?”

“Words that make up a song.”

“Oh.”

The blond man kept strumming the guitar, and he starting singing again. Xander listened. He felt like the musician was telling a story with the song, but Xander didn’t understand what the story was about. The man kept singing that something was in the way, but he never said what the something was. Even so, listening to the song made Xander feel sad enough to cry.

When the guitarist stopped playing, Xander somberly offered him one of his two chocolate bars.

The man smiled at him. “What’s this for?”

Xander tried to express himself properly—the song had made him ache inside, like he’d lost his favorite toy or maybe even like his parents were never going to come home again and he was all alone forever—but he didn’t have the words. So he shrugged and said, “You played good.”

The musician’s blue eyes glinted. It made Xander think he was laughing without making a sound.

“Thanks.” The man accepted the candy. “A sweet gift from the boy with the chocolate.”

“Will you play more?”

“Another time.” Still smiling, the musician placed the guitar inside its case, then put the chocolate bar on top of the guitar. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

Xander frowned. “You don’t work here?”

“At the moment, I do.”

Just then, a cluster of people ran through the lobby and raced to the tennis courts. Xander couldn’t read all the words on their jackets, but he recognized the snake-and-staff symbol on their patches. They were 911 doctors.