Breath (23 page)

Xander is at Marcie’s party, and for a moment he thinks he sees something, something horrible, but no, it’s just Ted and Riley—

“Not everyone is like that,” Xander insisted. “There are good people out there, friends who always have your back. When they promise something, you can believe them. You can trust them.”

“Trust?” Death’s shoulders bobbed with silent laughter. “Trust is even easier to break than a promise. Trust always gets broken. It’s a rite of passage. That was the first lesson I learned here, when the life I’d come to save leeched itself onto me and drained me dry. Pay attention, class. Life means betrayal.”

Xander tried to speak, but there was a lump in his throat and all he could think of was how he wasn’t thinking about what he absolutely hadn’t seen at Marcie’s party.

It didn’t happen. Seeing was believing, and he hadn’t seen it.

It didn’t happen.

“It’s not anyone’s fault,” said Death. “It’s part of who you are. At a cellular level, you’re all programmed to do what you need to do to survive. And that means when the time comes, you’ll lie, you’ll cheat, you’ll steal, you’ll do anything you need to do in order to survive. But don’t take it personally. It’s only human.”

“That’s not true,” Xander insisted. “It’s not just about survival. It’s how we
live.
And we don’t live alone,” he said, his voice rising. “We find people we care about, people we
trust,
” he said, shouting now, “ones who’re
there
for us and
help
us and
make it all worthwhile!”

His words echoed until they were lost to the wind.

“You throw trust at me like a weapon,” said Death, “thinking you’re striking me with some profound truth. But in the end, trust exists only until it’s not needed. And then it breaks as quickly as a person’s spirit.”

They stared at each other, Xander breathing heavily and Death not breathing at all.

“What happened to you?” Xander asked softly. “What hurt you so badly that it shattered your trust?”

Silence, thick and suffocating.

“What brought you to my balcony?” Xander asked, more urgent now, feeling in his gut that this was the heart of the matter and it was now or never, baby, now or never. “Something must have happened, something big enough that it made you want to kill yourself. Something changed.”

A muscle worked along Death’s jaw, but he didn’t answer.

“Finish the boon,” Xander demanded. “What changed?”

When Death finally replied, his voice was empty and bleak, and he didn’t meet Xander’s gaze.

“I told you of the Slate,” he said, “how it had become my sanctuary, the one place to which I could retreat and rest.”

Xander nodded, but Death wasn’t looking at him. In a monotone, the Pale Rider continued.

“I told you how there, in the heart of the Slate, I could see all yesterdays and tomorrows, how I could entertain myself forever by remembering the past and observing possible futures, then step back into my role here, refreshed, ready to continue my work.” Quieter now, as if confiding a secret. “I told you of the one thing for which I was waiting, the one tomorrow out of all possible tomorrows that meant everything to me. I told you of that glimpse of my other, there in the distance, beckoning to me.”

Silently, Xander waited.

“I told you how that and that alone had been enough to keep me chained here, cycle after cycle, giving everything that I am to something that had been taking advantage of me for so long that my presence had simply become a given. I told you all of this.”

“Yes,” Xander said quietly.

“What changed, you asked.” Death turned to face him, to stare at him with those haunted, empty eyes. “My tomorrow changed, Xander Atwood. My future, the only future that mattered, was erased.”

Death’s voice was so very flat, but its absence of emotion made it all the more difficult for Xander to hear.

“My hope,” said Death, “my very reason for being, was suddenly gone. The one you called my soulmate will never come through this side of the door. My waiting has all been in vain. That
maybe
will never be.”

Xander’s mouth went dry. The thought of him being without Riley during four years of college had been enough to make him gamble his entire future; he couldn’t begin to imagine waiting for thousands and thousands of years just for a possibility. He rasped, “How do you know?”

“I looked,” Death said. “I checked and rechecked all the possibilities, from the most obvious all the way to the barest hint of a maybe. And it wasn’t there. It wasn’t there,” he said again, sounding lost.

“When was this?”

Death shrugged, one-shouldered. “Recently. Today, yesterday, last week—does it matter? It happened. I returned from the Slate and for a time, I wandered. It was my steed that made me aware I had been blighting the land in my wake. And I killed the dolphins. That was a mistake, but it didn’t matter. Nothing matters, not anymore. The Slate showed me that.”

“It showed you a future you didn’t like,” Xander said, treading carefully. “That doesn’t mean that nothing matters.”

“It means exactly that,” Death said. “I’ve been either banished or abandoned, and either way, I’ve been forgotten.” Quieter now, and filled with a subtle poison: “My vigil here has been for naught. My soulmate is gone forever.”

“Are you sure?”

“
How do I know? When was this? Am I sure?
Your questions grow tiresome,” Death said coldly, sitting up straight on the railing, wearing his costume of a blond man in a baggy sweater and ripped jeans, looking completely inhuman. “The Slate showed me the truth of things.”

“But—”

“You asked, I answered. The boon is done.”

Panic welled up in Xander, squeezing his bowels, his chest, his throat until he thought he was going to vomit his fear all over Death’s bare feet. The Pale Rider was about to take his final ride, off the balcony and down thirty stories.

Time had officially run out.

(dolphins)

“Wait, I don’t understand,” Xander said quickly. “How could an entire future just not be there anymore?”

“Something happened, something irrevocable, something that affected this particular future.” Death’s eyes glittered darkly. “I could scour all paths of all the yesterdays and determine exactly what it was that changed everything for me, but why bother? Knowing changes nothing. A butterfly flapped its wings and my world crumbled. My other is gone. All I’ve done has been pointless.”

“Of course it hasn’t,” Xander said, trying to stay calm. How could he get through to Death? “Your presence here has affected billions and billions of lives. That’s not pointless. You let us live.”

“I should have let you die.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” Death agreed. “And that cost me everything.”

“It cost you, yes, but look what it gave you.” Xander moved, lunging across the balcony and grabbing the acoustic guitar. He held it up by its neck, an offering to an angry god. “It gave you music.”

Death’s nostrils flared. “It made me a thief.”

“It gave you music,” Xander said again. “Call yourself a thief if you want, but that doesn’t change that it’s
you
taking the guitar and strumming the strings. It’s
your
voice raised in song. It’s you.”

“It’s pointless. Everything here is pointless.”

“But it’s not,” Xander insisted. “When you were telling me about what it was that drew you here in the first place, you kept talking about our creativity. Our heat, you called it. You said it was fascinating to watch. The wheel. Stupidly high buildings. Chocolate. Music. It’s all because of you.”

“I didn’t make those things.”

“You being here let us make those things, and so much more. Don’t you see?” Xander said, imploring. “Everything we do here is because you’ve kept the spark alive. We’re alive because of you. It’s the most amazing gift anyone, anything, could ever have. And we celebrate that gift every time we make something. Every time we create, that’s because of you.” He offered Death the guitar. “We make music because of you.”

The Pale Rider didn’t move to take the instrument.

“Look at everything we’ve done in the past hundred years,” Xander said. “No, in the past fifty years—the past
five
years. Look at the songs we’ve written, the music we make and listen to on the radio, in concert, on television, on the Internet, on our iPods. Don’t you want to see what happens next?”

Death sighed. “Yes. But I’m tired, Xander. I’m tired, and I know the pain that’s to come, and the thought of it is unbearable. The only thing that’s buoyed me was the knowledge that there would be a time when, finally, I wouldn’t be alone. But that time will never come. I’m done, Xander. It’s time for me to ride.”

(the dolphins)

“Please,” Xander said, lowering the guitar. “Don’t do this.”

“Your concern is touching, but it’s also self-serving. You care only because of the Möbius strip.” Death smiled tightly. “Survival, Xander. You’ll do whatever it is you need to do, even if that means wasting your time with me.”

“It’s not a waste!”

“You take my words and twist them, put meaning into them until they’re nice and pretty, then give them back to me wrapped in a bow. It’s so human.”

“Listen to me,” Xander said urgently. “Talking to you, spending time with you, that isn’t a waste. You
matter.
Not just because of what your job is, what you’ve been roped into doing for thousands of years. You matter because life matters.”

“I’m not alive.”

“Of course you are. Maybe not in the same way as me, but you’re alive. You’re here. You’re part of everything. And that’s literal, in your case. I understand that you’re in pain,” Xander said, more gently now, “that you’ve been hurt worse than I could ever begin to imagine, that you believe the one thing that made everything worth it is gone. But how you’re feeling now, that’s not forever. Maybe it feels like it is, but it’s not.”

“How do you know what’s forever and what’s not, Xander Atwood? Have you watched the centuries flow and ebb?”

“No,” Xander admitted.

“Then don’t presume to tell me what forever feels like.”

(the dolphins were a mistake)

Something nagged at Xander—a thought, an idea, but he didn’t quite have it. He tried a different tack. “Maybe what you need is to step away for a bit, get your head clear. Get another perspective, you know? Everyone needs a mental health break every once in a while.”

The Pale Rider chuckled and shook his head. “
Death Takes a Holiday,
you mean? Where would I go, Xander? Where could I possibly go that life wouldn’t leech on to me?”

“The Slate—”

“Has shown me how futile everything is. Why would I go there?”

(the dolphins were a mistake he made a
mistake
)

“Because maybe you made a mistake,” Xander said breathlessly.

Death grew still.

“Maybe you saw something in the Slate that wasn’t really there,” Xander said, his words coming in a rush. “Or maybe something was there that you just didn’t see. A trick of your eyes. Stress. Sunspots. Whatever you want to call it. Maybe you made a mistake!”

“I don’t make mistakes.”

“Of course you do. It happens to everyone.”

“Not to me.”

“No? Why don’t you ask the dolphins?”

Death blinked.

Xander saw a world of meaning in that blink, everything from surprise to disbelief to anger. Whatever else the blink meant, it proved one thing: Xander’s words were having an impact.

Death was listening to him.

“What if you’re wrong?” Xander asked, keeping his excitement in check. “What if that hint of
maybe
is still there, and you just didn’t see it? What if there still is a tomorrow where your soulmate finally joins you?”

“I looked,” Death said tonelessly. “I looked again and again. That future is gone.”

“But what if another one took its place? Maybe that specific possibility is gone, but what if now there’s another one, somewhere, where your soulmate finds you? Maybe in that one, the door opens again.”

Death frowned.

“You said your kind has made other realities,” Xander said. “Maybe your soulmate has just been searching in the wrong ones. Maybe you’ll figure out how to send up a smoke signal. Maybe one of the others of your people will find you. Maybe you’ll find them. Maybe humanity will help you get a message to your soulmate. Maybe
lots
of things. There are so many maybes, I don’t know how you ever could have seen them all. But I’ll tell you one thing I do know: If you check out now, none of those maybes will ever happen.”

Something flashed behind the Pale Rider’s eyes, a thought too quick for Xander to follow.

This was it—Xander knew it, felt it in his gut. This was the moment where Death’s hope was either renewed or completely obliterated, and it all came down to how much Death was willing to believe.

He had to convince the Pale Rider to take a leap of faith.

He had to show Death that he was more human than he realized.

“Can’t you at least admit that it’s possible?” Xander implored. “That maybe, just maybe, you were so set on seeing that one specific future that it might have changed and you missed it? That there’s still a chance your soulmate and you will be together again?”

A long pause as the Pale Rider considered and the world hung on a thread.

And then Death said, “It’s possible.”

Xander wanted to cheer. Instead, he calmly replied, “The only way for that future to happen is if you’re there to meet it when it arrives.”

“All this time,” Death said slowly, “I’ve seen one image, one tomorrow, burning brightly in my mind. That was my one hope.”

Xander nodded. He understood. “The thing about hope is that it changes over time. It changes as we grow.”

“I don’t grow.”

“Maybe you do. Maybe your specific hope has just taken on a different shape.”

Death’s empty gaze lost focus, and his frown lifted into something less stern, less disbelieving.

“Look again,” Xander coaxed. “Open your eyes and really look. And maybe you’ll find that new tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” Death said, tasting the word. “Maybe,” he said again, and this time he nodded. “Maybe you’re right.”