Lex was gone.
Outside the apartment, the wind howled.
Everything intercepts us from ourselves.
War—Ralph Waldo Emerson
War paced along the beach, her footprints marring the sand. The wind tore against the ground strongly enough to kick up dirt and silt, pelting War with sediment. She barely noticed. On one side of her, a massive cliff reached up, covered with green vegetation that seemed to mock her with its brightness. On the other side, the Pacific Ocean stretched out and out, the rolling water striped in ribbons of blue.
She hated looking at all that blue. It made her think of
him,
of his eyes that were once so unfathomable.
Snarling, she continued her march along the narrow strip of beach. Her warhorse kept out of her way, amusing itself by hunting rats in the undergrowth. Normally, she would have told the horse not to kill, but at the moment, she didn’t really give a damn. She was in a black, black mood, so she let her steed get its jollies by taking out as many rats as it wanted.
Around her, the wind howled.
War stomped her boots into the damp sand, leveling it, leaving impressions like ruins. As she marched, her fingers clenched and released, clenched and released. She was itching to summon her Sword, to feel its perfect weight in her hands and swing it far and wide. She wanted to split the sky and hear its screams; she wanted to hew the earth until it wept.
She wanted the world to bleed.
War breathed in through gritted teeth and refused to draw out her Sword. There would be time for blood after.
She could always find time for blood.
Missy Miller hasn’t cut herself in years, not since she truly accepted the Sword of War and all that it meant. The lock box with her razor is still sequestered in the safety of her bedroom; even though she never intends to use it again, she can’t bring herself to throw it away. It’s a part of who she is, or who she was—it’s a reminder of how far she’s come.
Breathing deeply, taking in the taste of salt and dust, she continued her circuit of the beach. Waves slapped at the shore and receded and then returned, their rolling crashes echoing her own rolling fury—she fumed, she quieted, she fumed once more.
Finally, she couldn’t bear the wait. She reached out with her mind and demanded,
Where are you?
A feeling like a stifled sneeze, and then a reply:
Just over Peru. Be right there.
A smell of burned chocolate, and another reply:
I see New Zealand coming up.
Move your asses,
she growled.
This time, there was no reply.
War hated being ignored. She folded her arms and seethed.
She still gets angry, sometimes so angry it’s like she loses herself in a sea of red. And there are other times when her control is a precarious thing, and the lock box becomes so very enticing. But overall, she’s found a balance between bottling her rage and letting it fly free. More than that, she’s found a way to be both Missy Miller and the Red Rider of the Apocalypse. Part of it is having a few years of experience under her belt, but most of it is listening to her gut, knowing when it’s time to put away the Sword and settle back with her college books and weekly phone calls with her family.
And part of it is knowing that no matter what she does or who she is,
he’s
there for her.
Moments later, the White Rider and his steed touched down on the beach, the horse running along the sand and coming to a jerky halt not ten feet in front of her. She tapped her foot as he patted his horse’s neck and murmured that the steed shouldn’t worry, that he would be right there on the beach and he promised he’d come back. The horse blew against his gloved hand, a nervous reply that meant a range of things from “Okay, gotcha” to “Don’t leave me” to “I’ll be brave.”
War rolled her eyes. The white steed suffered from separation anxiety. She had no patience for anxiety.
Her own horse, fiery red and strong, agreed with her as it broke the back of yet another rat.
War couldn’t complain about her horse eavesdropping, since she had just done the same with the White Rider and his steed. Even so, she didn’t like it. At the moment, she didn’t like much of anything.
“Red,” said Pestilence, the White Rider, as he walked up to her. He had a confident stride and an easy smile, though his eyes were guarded. His outfit was snow white, but sand billowed around him as he walked, speckling the white with dirt. His thin silver crown caught the sunlight oddly, seeming almost invisible and then winking hypnotically. A broad white patch marked his hair, but whether that was from his tenure as the White Rider or simply a fashion statement, War couldn’t say; her own hair was short and spiky and tended to be various shades of red.
She liked red. No matter how much she hated everything else, she would always like red.
“White,” she replied, nodding once.
Neither of them offered to shake hands.
W
EAK
, War thought, but then pushed the thought away. That wasn’t her; it was the voice of the Sword. It had very distinct opinions, and she did her best to keep those opinions out of her brain. If it were up to the Sword, she would have set the world on fire long ago.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet,” she said. The three of them rarely got together, other than when work had them cross paths. She liked Pestilence well enough, though he was too much of a pacifist for her taste. As for Famine, War tolerated her. Barely.
“I was glad you suggested it,” Pestilence said. A pause, and then: “Have you heard from him?”
Her lip curled into a sneer. “Since this morning? No. You?”
“No.”
“This is bad.”
“Very bad.”
He’s so very good for her, in every way—he listens to her, he gives her advice, he supports her when she tries new things. And then there’s the other way he’s good for her, how his touch does such things to her. At first, she hadn’t known whether it was the Sword that kindled her attraction to him—the Red and Pale Riders had long been partners, on and off the battlefield. But soon, she didn’t care how her feelings for him had begun; they’re her feelings, and she treasures them.
She treasures him.
Both of them turned to the east to watch the Black Rider and her horse approach, sliding across the sky like an oil slick.
“Could she move any slower?” War growled.
“Be nice.”
“I am being nice.”
“Be nicer.”
“Take your advice and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine. Please,” she added sweetly.
“Much better.”
The black horse finally landed on the beach. Famine, the Black Rider, slid off her mount and fished something out of her coat pocket—a sugar cube. She offered the treat to her steed and another to the white horse, which had come prancing up to the black. The white steed accepted the snack and sneezed its thanks, and then it and the black horse nuzzled as they chewed. Famine patted her steed’s neck, then walked over to War and Pestilence. She was head to toe in black; a gloved hand kept her broad-brimmed hat from flying away in the wind. She approached the other Riders stiffly, as if she were saddle sore. Then again, it wasn’t like she had much padding to cushion her, so maybe riding her steed was painful.
Whatever. It wasn’t War’s problem.
Her face hidden in shadow, Famine nodded at the other Riders. “White,” she said to Pestilence, and then, cooler: “Red.”
“About time,” War muttered. At Pestilence’s pointed look, War forced herself to grin. There, she was all about the good cheer. “Thanks for coming.” See that? She was practically drowning in diplomacy.
“Where’s your steed?” Famine asked, darting a glance up and down the beach.
War shrugged. “Somewhere on the island. Killing rats.”
“You’re letting it kill?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me how to handle my steed. Besides, the rats don’t belong here. The Polynesians brought them when the rats stole aboard their ships.”
“Infesting them,” said Pestilence, nodding.
“Gorging on their grain,” said Famine. “And after the settlers abandoned the island, the rats remained, dining on a smorgasbord of newborn birds.”
“Destroying the ecosystem,” said Pestilence.
They all knew this because the parts of them that were Horsemen had experienced those events, and they themselves remembered it as a sort of race memory. The Riders’ collective conscience. If War were still in high school, she would have rocked her history class.
“So yeah, I’m letting my steed get its jollies by taking out as many rats as it wants,” War said. “I like birds. Especially with a side of fries.”
Famine’s nostrils flared, but she didn’t rise to the bait. “You wanted us to talk. So? Let’s talk.”
And War couldn’t think of a thing to say.
He listens, but he doesn’t say much, not about himself. He hasn’t even told her his name. When she asks, he says that Death is always personal, so whatever name she chooses for him, that would be his name for her. At first, she thinks this is incredibly romantic. But over time, she comes to see this as sad. To try to better understand him, she doesn’t call him by name, any name, not ever. He’s simply Death, the Pale Rider.
And she is his handmaiden.
Pestilence cleared his throat. “Have you heard from him?”
There was no need to clarify whom the White Rider meant. Famine shifted her feet. “Not since this morning.”
“Us, either,” said Pestilence. “What was he like when you saw him last?”
The Black Rider’s jaw worked silently, as if she were grinding her teeth. “He was cold,” she finally answered. “But that’s nothing new.”
“Were you on the job?”
“At a wedding.”
“Let me guess,” War said. “The bride starved herself to fit into her wedding gown.”
“It’s not your concern,” Famine snapped.
Ooh, she must have hit a nerve. “Touchy touchy.”
“Back off, Red.”
“Look at that,” War purred. “Famine found her backbone. No, wait, that’s just your spine. Sticking out prominently. Because you don’t eat.”
Famine’s mouth twitched. “I said back off.”
War grinned, and the Sword said,
“
M
AKE ME.
”
“Ladies,” Pestilence warned. “We don’t have time for this.”
War took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She knew she was being bitchy, but only part of that was actually her. Most of it was from the Sword. The Red Rider had a long history with the Black Rider. Neither of them liked each other. And it usually ended with one of them killing the other. The Sword tended to bring out War’s ugly side, especially when Famine was nearby.
S
HE DESERVES IT
, the Sword said.
“He’s right,” War gritted. “Sorry. I’ll behave.”
The Sword mocked her. She ignored it.
Famine nodded curtly. In the shadows of her face, her eyes glittered. No, there was no love lost there. War’s fingers drummed restlessly against her arms, and she told herself to let it go.
“You said he was cold,” Pestilence nudged.
“He said things to me.” The Black Rider’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Cruel things. True things, if harsh.”
War snorted.
Famine sniped, “What?”
“He’s
always
harsh. Cutting.” War smiled tightly. “Sometimes, he’s funny. Sometimes, he’s dark. But he’s always harsh. Ruthless. Brutal.”
“This isn’t about you,” said Famine.
“I didn’t say it was.”
“No,” said Pestilence. “It’s about him. Frankly, he scared the hell out of me today.” He told them how, in some flyspeck village in some backwater country, Death had completely eradicated malaria.
“He slaughtered disease,” War said. “I’m impressed.”
Pestilence shot her a look. “Do you have any idea how reckless that was? What I had to counter that came to take malaria’s place?”
“He threw disease off balance,” Famine mused. “He stepped into your territory.”
“That’s not like him,” Pestilence said.
“At all,” War admitted.
“And then all the crows died.” He described the birds, black and frozen, falling from a tree.
“My God,” War breathed. “That’s . . .”
“Bad,” said Pestilence.
“Bad,” she agreed.
“You’re overreacting,” Famine said. “He’s acting a little oddly—so what?”
“A
little?
” said Pestilence.
“So some crows died. That doesn’t mean anything other than some crows died.”
“What about the malaria?”
“Yes, well,” she said, shrugging. “He made a bad decision. Like that’s never happened to you. He’s just a little off today. That’s all.”
Pestilence’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “You really think that?”
“Of course. We all have our days.” Famine glanced at War. “Some more so than others.”
War spluttered, but Pestilence held up a gloved hand. Seething, she bit her tongue and ignored the Sword’s suggestion to cut Famine down where she stood.
“This isn’t just having an off day,” the White Rider said. “This is sea-change different. When have you known him to just let things die like that? Or to blow away the balance of disease? Even when plagues ravage entire countries, he sits back and lets things run their course. You know why? Because disease isn’t his demesne. He’s said as much to me.”
Beneath the brim of her hat, Famine’s face was inscrutable.
“The Spanish flu killed off almost a hundred million people,” he said. “He didn’t stop it. He could have, but he didn’t.”
“Neither did you,” Famine commented.
“That was before my time. And don’t change the point. If he didn’t step in to stop something like the Spanish flu or the Black Plague or AIDS or even Alzheimer’s, why on earth would he kill off malaria now?”
“Change of heart,” Famine said coldly.
War rolled her eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake . . .”
“That wasn’t some quick-fix miracle cure,” Pestilence said, his voice rising. “What he did was rash.”
“You’re both making too much out of this. So he’s acting different. Maybe even rash. That doesn’t mean anything,” Famine insisted. “He’s allowed to be moody.”