Rage (7 page)

How on earth was she supposed to ride
that?

"Warhorse," said Death cheerfully, "meet thy Rider."

The steed bared its teeth. Its very sharp-looking teeth.

Missy paled, and she took an involuntary step backward.

"I wouldn't do that," Death murmured. "If it thinks you're afraid, it will attack. Then things will get messy."

She froze. Her heart tried to leap out of her mouth and instead got lodged in her throat.

"It's a bit temperamental," Death said, perhaps by way of apology. "But it's a fine steed."

The warhorse snorted.

Missy swallowed thickly. The horse had understood Death; she would have bet her life on it. Which, she supposed, she already had. Her voice reedy, she said, "Don't suppose I could have a motorcycle instead."

That made Death chuckle. "Don't suppose you have a license for a motorcycle."

Okay, he had a point.

Death motioned to the red horse. "Gentle thy steed, War."

She quashed an insane urge to laugh. He made it sound so easy. Clean your room. Do your homework. Gentle your war-horse. "I have no idea how to do that."

"You'll figure it out."

Missy stared at the horse as it radiated fury. "And if I don't?"

"Then your tenure as War will be cut quite short," Death said, sounding horribly chipper. "And you go right back to dying."

"Oh." No pressure or anything. "Okay then."

A minute passed as Missy tried to think of how to approach the horse without losing a hand, and she came up blank. Wasn't there something that went in their mouths to keep them from biting? And reins to steer? And a saddle? What was she supposed to do, magically fly up onto the horse and pray for the best?

As she stared at the horse in its silent rage, the calming numbness that had filled her since she had taken Death's hand began to ebb. She couldn't even control her own emotions; how was she supposed to control an ill-tempered horse? Her breath threatened to hitch, so she held it tight tight tight until she finally had to release it in a long, shaky exhalation.

"War," Death said, all traces of humor gone. "Gentle thy steed."

The horse snorted again. At her.

Let her go. She has to go home and cry to her mommy.

White hot fury flared through her, charring her heart and searing the marrow in her bones. She might not know the first thing about horses, but she recognized scorn when she heard it. Before her life had taken a turn for the supernatural, she would have either ignored the derision and the pain that came with it, or she would have attacked in kind with verbal slashes. After everything that had happened tonight, she wasn't about to back down from a freaking
horse,
no matter how terrifying it was. Staring hard at the red steed, she cemented her dead face over her features.

S
HOW IT YOUR STRENGTH.

That wasn't Death's voice—his was cold and yet intimate, like a snowflake melting on her tongue. This voice was a heated whisper threaded with licks of fire. It was the voice of the Sword, which was back in her room where she had dropped it ... and yet it was still with her, murmuring to her. Standing outside in the midnight air, in her stockinged feet and rumpled clothing, she felt the Sword's presence in her mind as it waited for her to summon it. This wasn't the suffocating, spiraling pressure of being completely overwhelmed; the closest thing she could compare it to was the comfortable, familiar weight of a favorite cat on her lap.

In a blink, she thought of Graygirl—not of the sickly creature she had become, but the majestic cat she had been in her prime. She remembered how Graygirl had felt in her lap as she did her homework, and how the cat had curled next to her in bed, a purring puff ball nuzzled in the crook of Missy's arm.

In her mind, the Sword purred as she imagined herself stroking the weapon gently, almost lovingly.

S
TRENGTH,
the Sword repeated.

Missy gazed at the steed coldly. People rode horses, she told herself. They muzzled horses and saddled them and controlled them with reins and spurs.
I will ride you,
she silently promised the horse. She stepped forward.

The red steed pawed the ground once, twice.

Missy kept her gaze on the animal as she quietly moved to the right. She stayed out of range of its mouth and legs as she slowly circled it, appreciating how large the horse was, how it emanated power. The red tail swished once as she passed by, and she gave the raised rear leg a respectable berth. As she completed the circuit, the horse snapped its teeth at her.

Dead face unflinching, Missy stomped her foot, hard.

The horse's ears flattened back.

Missy shook her head, the motion exaggerated, as if she were slicing the air with her chin. She wasn't having any of that, not from her horse.
You hear me, horse? You're mine. Behave.

The red steed's ears quivered, then flicked toward her.

Missy began moving again, circling the steed. This time, it didn't threaten to kick her as she passed its hindquarters. Better. She walked by its right shoulder, noting how its neck was arched high, its muscles tight. The horse was tense, anticipating. In a burst of intuition, she realized it was waiting for something.

In her mind, the Sword sang of blood and violence.

Ah.

Her dead face secure, Missy bottled her heart and held out her hand. She told the Sword,
Come to me.

The weapon appeared in a blink, hovering just over her palm.
Yes,
she thought, appreciating the way the blade caught the gleam of moonlight.
Yes.
Missy wrapped her fingers around the hilt, and adrenaline surged through her, bringing her blood to a boil. She wanted to dance, to move, to slam her foot against a soccer ball—to rip a tree up from its roots and throw it into the heavens.

And she
could.
With the Sword in her hand, she could do anything.

Anything at all.

Control,
whispered a still, small voice, as soft as death.

Yes, control. Missy was in control. She pointed her symbol of office at the steed. The wicked point ended just beneath the animal's chin. It stood very, very still.

"Hello, little horse," she said, her voice like thunder. "I'm War."

The horse blew air out its nostrils in a quick burst, its breath fogging the steel blade. Its ears twitched.

"And you're my steed."

The horse let out a soft nicker. Then it snorted once as it stepped backward, just out of range of the Sword's point, and it bowed its head.

Missy wanted to whoop for joy. Instead she allowed herself a very small smile.

"Told you you'd figure it out," said Death.

She lowered the Sword and approached the horse, which kept its head low. Visions whirled in her mind, showing her the red steed with its Rider as they traveled on land faster than a train, flying through the air like a comet, slicing across the turbulent seas—War and her steed, together, leaving their imprint on the world like hoofmarks in mud.

Lost in memories that weren't hers, Missy sheathed her Sword. She didn't see it vanish as she slid it to rest, and because its presence glowed contently in her mind, she didn't feel its physical departure. Her gaze was transfixed on the horse, her horse, and as she ran her hand over its powerful neck, she marveled at the strength she felt beneath her fingers.

"You put other horses to shame," she said softly. "You're magnificent."

The steed blew air through its nose, acknowledging the compliment.

"You're feeding its ego," Death said.

Missy smiled proudly. "It should have an ego. It's amazing." She paused, her fingers rubbing its shoulder. "What's its name?"

"It is the red steed. It needs no name, War."

Missy imagined a life of being called "horse." Well, no wonder it had an attitude. "I think you should have a name," she said to her steed. "I'll call you Ares."

The horse craned its neck so that it was looking at Missy, and it let out a satisfied snort.

"You named it after a god?" Death laughed. "I did mention its ego, didn't I?"

Ares leveled a stare at Death, who laughed even louder.

"Don't mind him," Missy said to the horse, stroking its back. "He's just jealous." How could she have ever thought her steed's eyes were frightening? They were dual onyxes, shining with liquid emotion.

She heard movement behind her even as Ares neighed in warning. Missy turned abruptly, summoning the Sword as she did so, rational thought giving way to the instinct for violence. But Death was right there in front of her, kissing-close, making her weapon useless. His face was blank, masklike, all but his eyes. Emotions swirled in their depths, too quick and deep for Missy to name.

Her mouth went painfully dry. How could she have forgotten who—no,
what
—he was? She'd turned her back on Death, had all but insulted him, all because she was enamored of her warhorse—the horse
he
had given her, along with her Sword. Death had come calling, bearing gifts, and she had repaid him with casual contempt.

She remembered, suddenly, how she had slammed the door in his face.

Oh God.

Missy swallowed thickly. Her head was too light; her bladder, too full. Her world tunneled down to a series of don'ts:
Don't scream, don't pee, don't pass out.

Death leaned in and Missy arched back, coming to rest against Ares' side. She tried to speak, but her words caught in her throat, strangling her. Now Death was nose to nose with her, and she breathed in the smells of fresh earth and old paper, and beneath that, something primal that had no name. It was a heady mixture, that combination of power and comfort and age, and Missy found herself breathing too fast ... and not entirely due to fear.

Is this a death wish?
she wondered, and then she fought back a nervous giggle.

A touch like frost as Death stroked her cheek, once, his cold fingers tracing the curve of her face.

"This is why I've always liked you," he murmured, dropping his hand. "You're saucy."

His words tripped along her spine, making her shiver. "Me?"

"You. War." Something in his gaze softened. "The others who have ridden before you."

"There've been others?" she blurted. "Like me?"

"Oh, yes," he said, a knowing smile teasing his lips. "War and Death have always worked well together."

Worked?

Oh.

A flush of warmth crept over her face where Death's fingers had been ... and that warmth reached lower, making her knees buckle. If not for Ares, she would have crashed to the ground.

Unless, of course, Death would have caught her.

Still gazing at Missy, he reached over to pat the warhorse. Missy felt Ares shudder beneath his touch. "Treat thy steed well," said Death, "and it will repay you in kind."

That sounded more like a command than advice. Her reply came out in a choked whisper: "I will."

"Well, then. Saddle up, Red Rider," Death said, stepping back to give her space. "Time to earn your keep."

She struggled to get her heartbeat down from its rocketing speed to something less likely to put her in cardiac arrest. She breathed, and breathed again, and slowly her body calmed. Her mind, though, was a mess of thoughts and feelings—confusion, primarily, with snatches of embarrassment and, inexplicably, jealousy. Of course there had been others who had been War. The notion shouldn't bother her. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Thou art War," Death replied. "Go thee out unto the world."

Missy waited, but no explanation followed. She took a deep breath as she sheathed her Sword, this time noticing how the blade simply vanished. Missy blinked, then blinked again, and finally turned to face Ares. "Want to go for a ride?"

The horse knelt low enough for Missy to pull herself onto its back. As she settled down, she realized that there was a saddle beneath her and reins in her hands. She had no idea if she had magicked up the gear or if Ares had—or, for that matter, if Death had—so she just took it in stride. One thing she was quickly learning this night was to roll with the supernatural punches.

And touches.

Shivering in her seat, she saw that Death, too, was astride a horse—one that had, apparently, stepped out of nowhere. Or maybe it had been invisible until now. Or maybe she simply hadn't noticed it before this moment. Or maybe none of those things. Atop his pale steed, Death grinned.

Roll with it, Missy.

She rolled with it. "Okay," she said aloud. "Let's go."

Ares reared back, and Missy clutched the reins for dear life. She hung suspended, her thoughts tumbling together—

—I'm in the air oh God don't let me fall don't oh God I can't breathe my chest hurts my heart oh God my heart is pounding through my ribs and I'm still holding on still holding and I'm not falling and look and me look look my God look this is so damn COOL—

—and as the nighttime air kissed her face she let out a jubilant shout, which the warhorse matched with a trumpeting whinny.

And then both Rider and steed took off into the night.

Melissa Miller, the most powerful sixteen-year-old in the universe, rode through the skies atop her fiery red steed. Bruised from the wind, Missy grinned wide enough to split her face. This was roller coaster giddiness and freefall elation—better than ferociously defending the goal in soccer, or acing a test, or even that magical first kiss. This was the epitome of exhilaration, all white bubbles tickling her skin. This, in other words, was the most incredible thing that had ever happened to her. They soared, and beneath them, the world waited.

Missy wanted to see more. The warhorse, either intuiting or understanding its Rider's intent, swooped lower, giving Missy a bird's-eye view of a slumbering city. Pinpricks of light pierced the nighttime darkness, illuminating occasional houses and the rare open business. Parked cars littered the roads like children's toys, scattered and forgotten. Wherever they were, it was too late to be night and too early to be morning. Missy blinked, and they left the city far behind. Ares climbed higher, and soon the world was once again a smudge beneath them.