“What did you do to me?” I demand, sitting up, even though I already know the answer.
I touch my neck, remembering the flash of pain.
Death looms over me. “There is only one thing I am made to do, human.”
Kill.
The horseman continues to stare at me, and something about his gaze pricks my skin. Or perhaps it’s that bone-deep silence that seems to follow him. Or, you know, the fact that he killed me earlier this evening—maybe that’s what’s setting me on edge.
I suck in a breath, and this is where I lose it. I can feel my anger and my grief and every other ugly emotion that’s crossed my mind over the last few months sucking me under.
Remember your purpose. Remember—your—purpose.
I draw in a ragged breath and push down my rising hysteria. Despite what Death just did to me, this was a hard-fought meeting. I don’t want to squander it. I can’t.
“Stop the killing,” I whisper.
There’s a long beat of silence.
“I cannot,” he finally answers.
“Please,” I say. “Don’t make anyone else go through what I have gone through.” It cuts so deep, pleading with this man who killed my family and friends—and who just attempted to kill me as well.
I can feel the horseman’s dark gaze on me. Eventually, he stands, then backs away. “Leave it be, Lazarus.”—I jolt at the sound of my name—“I am what I am, and no sweet pleas will change that.”
He swivels around, baring those wings to me as he retreats to his horse.
I glare after him. “Is mighty Death running from me?” I call out, openly taunting him.
His footfalls pause.
“Go ahead then, leave. I’ll simply hunt you down again,” I vow. “And when I find you, I will stop you.”
He laughs, turning around once more. “I am one of the few things that cannot be stopped, Lazarus. Nevertheless, I look forward to seeing you try.”
I think that’s the end of the conversation, but instead he approaches me once more.
He pauses, then kneels back down at my side.
My brows furrow together, and I rear back a little. “What are you doing?”
His eyes gleam in the darkness. “Getting a head start.”
And then for the second time that day, the fucker reaches out and snaps my neck.
Death
After Lazarus goes limp in my arms, I gently lay her out on the ground.
I have made her hate me.
I try to relish that—it is for the best, foiling this cosmic challenge that has very literally been placed in my path. If she hates me, everything becomes easier.
But as I kneel next to her, I feel no satisfaction. Only a sickening sort of sadness, as though perhaps I made the wrong move. My baser nature still calls to me, demanding I place Lazarus upon my steed and take her with me. I’ve come to expect the impulse whenever I see her, and it makes it easier to ignore.
I stare down at her still body. Encased within all that blood and bone, there’s her essence. Even now I can sense her soul fluttering within that lifeless form of hers, trapped inside it like a caged bird. It should be effortless to reach out and pry her soul loose.
It isn’t.
In fact, it’s the one thing I haven’t been able to do. Stranger still, though I can sense her essence right now, it doesn’t feel as though it’s mine. Every other human is intimately connected to me. With this woman, the moment she leaves my sight, it’s as though she’s fallen off the earth. I’m coming to realize that this is going to drive me mad.
I bow my head and exhale.
I’ve got many, many souls I still need to deliver. She is distracting me.
Perhaps after tonight, she will leave me alone.
I frown, displeased at the thought.
I know she’s my challenge. All my brothers received one. And all of them failed. Even Famine, though somehow he managed to fail his task without finding humanity redeemable.
Dropping my hand, I stare at Lazarus once more, feeling my usually steady pulse pick up. The moon is just bright enough for me to make out her features. My eyes linger on her eyelashes, which kiss the top of her cheeks now that her eyes are closed. My gaze moves to her lips. I have the most peculiar urge to draw her back from death, all so that she might let me lean in and press my own mouth to hers, just to see how the two line up.
I shudder at the thought.
I’ve seen billions of people with every manner of physical variation. None of them have moved me.
But she moves me. This woman whose soul I can’t take and whose life I can’t know. This woman whose face should blur together with every other face I’ve ever seen. Instead it lingers on in my mind’s eye, haunting me like some sort of specter.
Lazarus.
How many times that cursed name has crossed my mind in the hours since she first spoke it.
This human doesn’t come with an Angelic word, but she doesn’t need one—she was given a human one that is just as fitting.
She can withstand death, which means …
She’s creation. Life.
Lazarus
I wake with a groan, my hand going for my neck. Above me the dark night is peeling away, the stars fading into the periwinkle sky.
This time the confusion lasts only for a split second before I remember—
Death. Confrontation. Broken neck.
That bastard.
He killed me twice in the last day, and left me lying here, off to the side of the highway. And now he’s gone—all but for a single black feather that tumbles off my chest as soon as I sit up.
My anger rouses deep from its depths. It’s too late to hurt the horseman, but no matter.
This latest confrontation has awoken something inside of me.
True purpose.
This was a task I already began months ago, but it feels different now that I’m formally committing myself to it: Stop the horseman. Save humankind.
No matter the cost.
Chapter 7
Lexington, Kentucky
October, Year 26 of the Horsemen
I have two goals in mind: One, warn cities about the horseman’s looming arrival. Two, stop the horseman by any means necessary.
Just finding a town untouched by Death takes the better part of two weeks. I assumed I’d have trouble picking up the horseman’s trail, considering my past luck, but now it’s as though I cannot escape him. Everywhere I go, he’s already been. He doesn’t just leave corpses in his wake; the cities themselves are destroyed, the buildings leveled, the streets obscured by debris. It’s as though it’s not good enough to simply kill us, he must wipe out all evidence of our existence.
By the end of two weeks, I’ve seen dozens of cities of dead, and the map I picked up back in Tennessee is full of X’s—each one representing a city Death has taken. One of them is Nashville—beautiful, doomed Nashville. I openly wept when I entered the metropolis. The bodies had already begun to rot and the smell … it and the carrion eaters drove me out of the city just as quickly as I entered it.
But amidst it all, I’ve been learning. For instance, Death doesn’t move in straight lines. Instead he zig-zags across sections of the country. I can see it plainly on the map, though by the time I recognize the pattern, the dead I come across are older and more decomposed, which means Death is pulling farther ahead of me.
Another thing I’ve learned—through assumption alone—is that the horseman never sleeps and never stops, making it that much harder to stay one step ahead of him.
So when I eventually do come across a city lying in Death’s path—one full of living, breathing people—it’s like a cruel dream, and I have to check my map again.
The city of Lexington bustles about as though nothing is amiss. And not only is it thriving, it is a massive city—one Death would not leave standing.
Did I get something wrong? Has the horseman changed his pattern?
I have this panicky urge inside me to stand in t
he middle of the road and scream the truth from the top of my lungs.
Death is coming for you all!
Instead, I head for the police station—though it takes me a few tries and some asking to find my way.
I lean my well-traveled bike against the side of the police station and I worry my lower lip as I eye the building.
Should I have gone to a fire station instead? City Hall? I don’t actually know where the best place would be to share news of Death’s movements.
Taking a deep breath, I reluctantly remove my weapons, leaving them with my bike. I sincerely hope no one is ballsy enough to steal these right outside a police station. Then, I stride inside.
There are a few people waiting in nearby seats, and the officer manning the front desk gives me a bored look, like he’d rather be doing other things in other places.
I head up to him, cracking my knuckles finger by finger as though that might dispel my nerves.
“What can I do for you today, miss?” the man drawls.
I draw in a deep breath. There is no sugar-coating this.
“One of the Four Horsemen is closing in on this city.”
I assumed I wouldn’t be believed. I assumed the officer I approached would laugh me off.
That wasn’t the case.
Two hours later, I find myself sitting across the table from Lexington’s mayor, its chief of police, its fire chief, and another official whose title escapes me, all of us gathered inside one of their City Hall’s conference rooms.
Unlike the officer I initially met with, not everyone here is eager to believe my story.
“Tell me again who you are,” the mayor says.
“Lazarus Gaumond—”
“‘Lazarus’?” the unnamed official interrupts. He guffaws. “Her name is Lazarus and you didn’t question her account at all?” he accuses the others. “This is just one of those loonies from the Church of the Second Coming.”
The chief of police glares back at him. “Don’t call my department’s judgment into question, George.”
“So you actually believe that a horseman is coming to our city?” George says skeptically, raising his eyebrows. He glances at me, then huffs out another disbelieving laugh.
The chief of police casts George a withering look, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t say anything else.
“There have been eyewitness reports of mass deaths in the last few weeks,” the fire chief says idly. “It’s not unthinkable, especially considering the fact that we know the horsemen are here on earth.” The fire chief turns his attention to me, his hands clasped loosely on the table. “Why don’t you tell us what you know,” he says gently. The man has kind eyes, and he’s not looking at me like I’m a kook.
My gaze moves over the other three men in the room. I’ve never done this before—never tried to warn an entire town of Death’s arrival. I’m more than a little uneasy that these people won’t believe me.
“Death is heading in this direction,” I say haltingly. “Whether he’ll ride through this city remains to be seen—but he probably will. I—I think he’s drawn to big cities.” It’s another one of those assumptions I’ve made, but it seems right.
“What proof do you have that he’s coming here?” the fire chief asks.
Proof. The word has my heart sinking. I have precious little proof besides what I’ve seen and experienced firsthand.
I reach for my weatherworn bag, setting it on the conference table. I open it, and a sheathed dagger slides out. Pushing it aside, I grab my maps. I have one of Tennessee, one of Kentucky, and then a bigger one of the entire United States. All of them are meticulously marked.
I ignore the way my hands tremble as I open them one by one, laying them out on the table.
You thought you could just walk into this city and warn them, Lazarus? These people will never believe you, they’ll die not believing you.
All of my worries rise up, and there’s a sick sort of irony to it because there’s nothing for me personally to be worried about. I won’t be killed, after all; it’s the people around me who will.
I push the maps towards my audience. “The X’s are where Death has been already. Those cities are gone. If you look at the map of the entire country, you’ll see that these extend all the way to Georgia—that’s where I’m from.” I’m babbling, but I can’t seem to stop. “There were a couple months where I lost track of the horseman. I don’t know where he was during that—”
“This is your evidence?” George says, cutting me off. “A few marks on a map?” He makes a disgusted sound, then pushes out of his chair. “You all are damn fools if you’re going to waste your time listening to this.” Flashing me one last unpleasant look, he shakes his head and leaves the conference room. He slams the door behind him, the noise echoing.
There’s a few tense moments of silence.
“He’s right,” the mayor chimes in, running a hand over his silvery hair. “Why should we believe you? Seems to me like a great way to scare people out of their homes long enough for you to rob them.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You think I’m going to—” I cut myself off, even as my annoyance rises.
I meet each man’s eyes. “I have ridden through the towns Death has visited. I have seen the bodies and smelled the rot. Go to any one of those marked cities and see it for yourself, but for the love of whoever gives a shit, please warn your town.”
The room is quiet.
“There will be more sightings of the dead, especially as Death gets closer,” I say, softer, “but your time is running out. This is the first living town I’ve come across in two weeks.”
The mood of the room has grown grim. I see them looking me over again, reassessing whatever initial assumptions they made of me. I’m wearing a simple white shirt, jeans, and a scuffed up pair of leather boots, the items a little travel-worn. They’re also not mine. I’m sure I came in looking young and naive. I hope they see the haunted look in my eyes, and I hope they hear the truth in my words.
If they do, this might just work.
“No horseman has ridden through this country in two decades,” the mayor finally says. “Why would one show up now?”
I try to find my patience. I was never meant to be a diplomat.
“I don’t know why,” I say. “I don’t actually have any of the answers. All I do know is that I met a man with black wings who called himself Death, and he’s been riding through town after town, killing everyone in his wake.
Again, an ominous silence falls over the room.
“As far as I can tell, this horseman doesn’t sleep, and neither does his steed,” I say. “There is one thing and one thing only that drives him: the need to annihilate us. The only thing I can try to do is warn cities like yours. If you evacuate your city, you might survive Death’s wrath.”
The chief of police clears his throat. “There’s one problem with your story,” he says. “If Death is killing everyone he crosses, then how are you still alive?”
This is the question I’ve been dreading. Of course they’d want to know this. I haven’t come up with a convincing enough lie, so I go for the truth.
“I cannot die.”
The room grows quiet again; only now, I feel the collective skepticism and distrust.
Finally, the mayor laughs humorlessly. “George was right. This is a goddamned waste of our—”
“I can prove it.” I don’t want to, but I can. “I just need a knife and a little more of your time.”
Chapter 8
Lexington, Kentucky
October, Year 26 of the Horsemen
“This is ridiculous,” the mayor protests a minute later. “No one is going to let you cut yourself—or whatever the hell you plan on doing.”
“You want proof I cannot die; I have the proof. Do you really think any of this is bloodless?” I demand vehemently. “My hometown isn’t the only city I’ve seen fall. Look at those X’s. They represent every massacre I’ve seen with my own eyes. And there are c
ountless more that I haven’t seen. I’m trying to prevent Lexington from being another X on my map, so if you need proof, I’m willing to give it.”
It’s quiet for a long moment, and I can tell the men are uncomfortable with everything I’m telling them.
“Fuck it,” the chief of police says, threading his hands behind his head, his chair groaning as he shifts his weight. “If the lady wants to cut herself to prove a point, I say she does it.”
I don’t want to do anything.
The fire chief stares at me for a long moment, then nods his head.
“Really?” The mayor blows out a breath. “Fine, whatever.”
I begin rolling up one of my sleeves as the mayor mutters something under his breath.
“Just what exactly are you planning on doing?” the fire chief asks, his eyes narrowing.
I glance over at him. “I’m not going to kill myself, if that’s what you’re worried about. I heal unnaturally fast—I was planning on demonstrating that.”
“How exactly is one little cut supposed to prove that you can’t die?” the mayor says, somewhat hostile.
I blow out a breath. “Should I just go?” I ask. I feel defeated. “I want to help, but if you think I have malicious intent, I can go.” Bile rises at the thought. I don’t want to leave, but I also need to know when to fold.
I think I know what road the horseman will take into Lexington. If I leave now, perhaps I can cut him off …
“If you have malicious intent,” the mayor says, “you won’t be going anywhere.”
The chief of police holds up his hand. “Nobody is asking you to leave,” he says, giving the mayor a sharp look. “Do what you need to, to prove your claims.”
I exhale. Okay, I can do this. I haven’t scared off these officials yet.
I point to my bag. “Can I grab my knife?”
The men in the room tense as though I haven’t been saying for the last several minutes that I need a knife.
The fire chief eventually nods. “That’s fine.”
Slowly, I pull the blade out from my bag.
Death (The Four Horsemen Book 4) Page 3