“Yeah. No.” Xander pressed his hand against his forehead. It wasn’t hurting, exactly, but there was an echo of pressure, like a memory of pain. “Head’s hurting.”
“Want some aspirin?”
“No.”
“Good, I don’t have any.” Ted laughed, but it sounded off, like a guitar slightly out of tune.
Xander leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes and remembered pain—
***
—so much pain and he can’t move can’t think can’t get away he has to get away because something’s coming for him so he screams until the roof of the world is ripped away and there’s noise and glaring lights and a dark shadow reaching for him and there’s a face in the shadow a face made of shadow and he screams even louder because now there’s a voice telling him that it’s time—
“Time to wake up, Zan,” Ted said. “You’re home.”
Xander sat forward with a start, his body pulling the shoulder harness taut. His head was a mess, and his heart was screaming in his chest, and he kept thinking that a man made of shadow was looking for him.
But no; as Ted had said, they were in front of Xander’s apartment building. Xander blew out a shuddering breath and mopped his hair away from his face.
“Hell of a dream,” Ted commented.
“Not sleeping well.”
“No shit, Sherlock. You were whimpering.”
Xander took another shuddering breath and told his heart to calm down. “Stupid question. When did we leave Izzy’s?”
A long pause before Ted said, “About thirty minutes after the game ended. You had to get back because you promised your folks you’d babysit for the rugrat. You don’t remember?”
“I was watching the game,” Xander said dully, “and then it was halftime. You went to put the pizza in the microwave. And then I was in your car, on the way home.” He turned to face Ted. “I don’t remember any of the second half. It’s like I jumped from Izzy’s house to your car.”
“It’s a . . . what do you call it, a blackout. You’re losing time.” Ted paused, darting a glance at Xander. “Maybe you should stop drinking for a bit.”
“Not like I’m a boozer,” he said, perturbed. “Just, you know, at parties and stuff.”
“Still. Blackouts aren’t good.”
Xander sighed, closed his eyes. “Think I just need a good night’s sleep. I’ll tell Riley not to come over tonight.”
Ted’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. He didn’t say a thing, but Xander could feel the tension of the unspoken words clogging the air.
He snapped, “What?”
Ted said nothing, but his eyes were troubled. Guarded.
Angry for a reason he couldn’t name, Xander threw his door open—then slammed it shut as he heard a screech of tires, like a car was about to plow into them. Panicked, he looked for the oncoming car, but the street was empty.
“Zan,” Ted said quietly, “are you okay?”
Still hearing the prelude to a collision that didn’t happen, Xander didn’t know how to reply. He closed his eyes and wondered if he was losing his mind.
War, the Red Rider of the Apocalypse, smiled as she opened her eyes. She’d had a magnificent dream, one of passion and perfection, one that made her blush as she remembered the things she’d done. The blush wasn’t from embarrassment; one such as she didn’t get embarrassed. Instead, her cheeks flushed because the memory heated her. And she did so enjoy the feeling of heat along her skin. It was a good way to wake.
She felt like today, anything could happen.
Still smiling, she stretched languidly, arching her back to feel the pull in her shoulders. Her blanket slid down her body, revealing naked skin. War enjoyed sleeping naked. There was so much to
feel,
so much sensation waiting to be experienced, that it was a shame to swaddle her skin in clothing when it wasn’t necessary. She didn’t have to feel fluctuations in temperature—she could plunge into the heart of a volcano and not pop a sweat—but she preferred to experience heat and chill and everything in between.
War was a creature of feeling; without it, she was dead inside.
She rolled onto her hip and glanced at the clock on her nightstand. It was early, as far as mortal time went. And for the moment, she was in her mortal skin. Along with being a Horseman, she was a human teenager—well, technically, she was in the limbo of twenty, neither a teenager nor a full-fledged adult, but in her heart she was still sixteen and would be forever.
That had been the year she had accepted the Sword of office, when her life had changed completely.
Yes, it was early. Later that day, she would be attending her sister’s high school recital—family first, as her parents liked to say; how things could change in four short years—but she didn’t have to start getting ready until eight o’clock. She had hours to go. More than enough time for her to do a little work. Wreak a little havoc. Shed a little blood.
Her exposed skin suddenly bumped with chill.
“Lounging in bed,” said a bemused voice, “yet thinking of work. I don’t know if that makes you a workaholic or a slacker.”
Neither Death’s sudden appearance in her bedroom nor his easy ability to read her mind bothered her. Nothing about him bothered her. He’d been the one who’d saved her when she hadn’t known she’d needed saving. He hadn’t just given her the Sword of office years ago—he’d given her the world.
And she’d given him her heart.
“Contrary to popular belief,” she said with a grin, “the wicked do rest. We just don’t get a lot of sleep.”
“
Wicked?
Isn’t that a musical?”
“And a state of mind.” She rolled over, unselfconscious about her nudity, to face Death. And then the grin slid off her face.
She saw him perfectly, there in the dark of her tiny bedroom, saw his long golden hair and the scruff of a goatee framing his face, saw the twin maelstroms of his eyes, their color so blue and deep it was like drowning in the Mediterranean. She saw those things, blinked at his green and white pajamas—some things about him, she’d never understand—then looked back at his face, into those bottomless eyes, and she knew with perfect clarity that something was wrong.
She asked, “What is it?”
His mouth quirked into a smile. “A pronoun, usually. Unless you had something more specific in mind.”
War sat up, her gazed fixed upon the Pale Rider. She had learned to trust her gut, even when her brain attempted to muffle emotion with rationalization, and her gut was insisting that the figure standing before her was in pain.
“Something’s hurting you,” she insisted.
He laughed softly, and though she heard the humor in that laughter, there was also an unspeakable sadness. “Nothing can hurt me.”
“Bullshit.”
“Such eloquence.”
“That was extremely eloquent. You should have heard what I was thinking.”
“I did.”
Yes, he probably had. “Then instead of listening to me curse up a blue streak, talk to me.”
“I’m talking to you now.”
“Tell me what’s wrong. You’re hurting, love,” War said softly. “I feel it like it’s my own pain.”
Death leaned against the wall of her bedroom, wearing the form of a pajama-clad dead rock legend and keeping his secrets close.
“‘Love,’” he repeated. “A noun, a verb, a term of endearment. Is that what you think of me? Am I dear to you?”
“You know you are.”
“Well then, Red Rider. A gift for thee.”
He was suddenly next to her, smothering her with his closeness, leaning down and sealing his lips on hers.
Kissing her deeply.
She felt herself falling into him, into a cold so complete it threatened to leave her numb. For a moment, she almost struggled—she was War, and she was defined by struggle and conflict. But he was Death and she was his handmaiden. She trusted him. So she opened herself up to him, allowed herself to sink into his kiss.
It was a moment trapped in time, ongoing and echoing, one she would replay again and again: the memory of Death kissing her, lulling her.
Stealing her heat and her breath.
When the Pale Rider finally pulled away, War’s hand flitted by her mouth. If her lips were swollen from his kiss, she couldn’t feel it.
She couldn’t feel
him.
“What . . . ?” Her voice trailed off as she stared at him in horror. Nothing. That was all she felt from him: nothing. It was like hitting an iceberg, all slick and perilous and so very cold. Desperate, she reached out with her senses and almost sobbed with relief as the emotions of her neighbors licked at her like fire.
She could still feel. She just couldn’t feel
him.
Through gritted teeth, she hissed, “What did you do?”
“I gave you a gift.” He smiled at her, but it was empty, devoid of meaning. “My feelings, such as they are, are not meant for you. So I took away your ability to feel them.”
“You . . . !” Words failed her, so she punched him in the face, right in the center of that vacant smile. He didn’t even have the decency to bleed.
“So violent.” His eyes, so fathomless just moments ago, were now as empty as his smile. “But then, you’ve always defaulted to violence.”
Seething, War clenched her fists and forced herself not to hit him a second time. “Why did you come here?”
He paused, as if considering his words. “I wanted to see you. To speak to you.”
“Well, you have,” she said bitterly, “and you even stole a kiss in the bargain. Now get out.”
“I’m a thief, Melissa. I always have been.” Death smiled at her again—so empty, so hollow—and he tilted his head in a bow. “Enjoy your sister’s recital.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “GET OUT!”
A tickle of frost on her brow, and then nothing.
She waited for a count of sixty, and then she opened her eyes and fumed. That sorry excuse of a Horseman! She had half a mind to summon her Sword and chase after him and slice him head to toe, and then toe to head, maybe even julienne him like fries and serve him to Famine. How dare he just shut her out like that? Did he really think he could turn off her feelings for him by literally turning off her feelings
of
him?
That stupid, sorry,
miserable
Horseman!
A ripping sound made her look down. She blinked, nonplussed, when she saw that she’d shredded her blanket.
But soon her fury cooled and settled into something thicker, something more troubling.
Unease, peppered with fear.
That hadn’t been a kiss goodbye.
Tears stung her eyes, and she clutched her blanket to her chest as she cried. Less than five minutes ago, she’d felt like anything could happen. And something had—something overwhelming and horrifying.
Death hadn’t just kissed her goodbye.
He’d kissed her farewell.
He had finished his task. He had said his goodbyes, in his own way. Now he was free to end it all. The cycle was coming to a close; there was no way to deny that. The only heat left to him now was the memory of War’s passion.
He absently rubbed his mouth, where she’d struck him with her fist. He was far too cold to feel either the impact or the echo of that blow, but he held on to the memory.
She’d been so angry with him. She hadn’t understood that he had spared her as best he could. Now she was as numb to him as he was to all living things. She couldn’t feel him. And that was how it should be; what he was to do, he had to do alone.
In the end, everything dies alone.
He was ready. Soon had finally stretched into now, and it was his time. The cycle was hovering by its endpoint. But this time, for the first time, there would be no renewal.
This time, done was done.
So why, instead of welcoming the end, was he wandering this particular city street? Was he stalling, or had he been drawn here by some unfinished business? Around him, life flowed—people going and coming, all of them absorbed in their momentary distractions—and as he walked down the block, mortals made way for him without knowing why they sidestepped. He noted them, took tally of their names and lives, and wondered again why he was walking among the humans instead of bringing about the end of the world.
If his steed had been with him, perhaps it would have had an answer.
Vexed, he opened up the woven purse dangling from a cord slung over his hips, a purse that previously had been a saddlebag. He rummaged through it, ignoring the countless coins, the various feathers in their clashing shades of red, the iPod. His fingers closed on an item, and he pulled it out.
A chocolate bar.
Ah.
He glanced up at a building, up toward one of the higher floors. Yes, there he was, puttering from room to room, doing human things in his human way.
The boy with the chocolate.
Death smiled. He had unfinished business after all.
Xander’s mom kissed him goodbye, and his dad clapped him on the shoulder, and then the two of them fled the apartment, ready to let their hair down and do whatever it was that grownups do when they don’t have to think about being parents. Xander waved to them and told them to have a good time. He shut the door behind them and turned the lock.
“Well,” he said. “Just you and me, kid.”
In his bouncy seat, Lex gurgled agreement.
For the next hour, Xander took care of his baby brother. He fed him a jar of mashed peas—or, more accurately, attempted to get more peas into the baby’s mouth than onto the baby, and was only moderately successful. He gave Lex a bath to get rid of the remnants of dinner. He diapered the baby, pajamaed the baby, repajamaed the baby after the Horrible Spit-up Incident, disposed of the baby’s diaper after the Stinky Poop Bomb, gave the baby a second bath after forgetting that there should always be a blocking cloth involved when changing a baby boy’s diaper, rediapered and repajamaed the baby again, and, all in all, discovered a new respect for his parents for doing this crap every night.
“Swear to God,” he said, exhausted, “I wasn’t this much trouble with Mom and Dad.”
Lex agreed as he passed gas.
“Nice.” Xander popped the pacifier into the baby’s mouth, then selected a picture book from Lex’s bookshelf. “Tonight’s reading selection will focus on trucks. Big trucks, little trucks, all sorts of trucks. Sound good?”