“One wrong move with that knife, miss, and I won’t hesitate to take you down,” the chief of police warns.
“I understand,” I say softly, unsheathing my blade.
This isn’t the worst situation I imagined. I assumed this gathering might fall apart at the seams and we’d never get this far. But we live in the time of nightmarish miracles. Defying death isn’t quite as insane as it might’ve been thirty years ago.
Baring my left forearm, I bring my knife to the exposed skin. I hesitate, drawing in a deep breath. I’ve never actually done this before, and my stomach turns at the prospect.
Before I can second-guess myself, I drag the blade down against my forearm. My flesh parts disturbingly easy. The pain comes a split second later, and even after all I’ve endured, it’s still a shock to feel that sharp sting.
I suck in a breath as my blood drips from the wound, and I drop my knife on the table.
Across from me, the fire chief stands, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket.
“To staunch the blood,” he explains. “It’s clean.”
Giving him a grateful look, I take it from him, wiping the blood away. A moment later, I round the table, heading over to the men, my arm extended.
“I figured you’d want to see the wound up close,” I say. “Just so that you all know it’s not a trick.”
I wipe the blood away, even as more wells up in its place. Around me, the three men do take a good look, the fire chief even going so far as to grasp my forearm and move it this way and that.
“How long will it take to heal?” he asks, releasing my arm.
I shake my head. “An hour, maybe two.”
“Two hours?” The mayor raises a hand as if to say, what was even the point of this?
And I agree—two hours is too long to wait.
“If that’s a problem,” I say, “then put me in a cell, lock me away for two hours, and begin making evacuation plans. If I’m lying, you can keep me there,” I say. “But I’m not,” I add, steel in my voice, “so you best start prepping.”
I’m not taken to a cell, but I am led to an interrogation room where I am kept for the next two hours, the door locked from the outside.
The time passes glacially slow, but eventually the doorknob turns, and an officer opens the door. Behind him the chief of police and the mayor file into the tiny interrogation room.
“Hank’s busy at the moment,” the chief of police says as the door closes behind them, “so he couldn’t be here.”
I assume Hank is the fire chief, and I have to hope that he’s busy evacuating people.
The mayor nods to my injury, which is now wrapped in gauze. “How’s it doing?” he asks, his eyes guarded. I think he’s still sure this is some prank.
Looking at both men, I begin unwrapping the bandages until the last of the linen falls away. Beneath it, there’s still a smear of dried blood where the wound once was. Taking the cup of water I was left in here with, I pour a little over the blood staining my skin, then use my bandages to wipe it away.
Beneath it, the flesh has stitched itself back together. There’s not even a faint scar left to indicate that there was ever a wound to begin with.
“I’ll be damned.” The chief of police’s words are hushed, almost reverent.
His eyes flick to me. “Who are you?”
Those were the very same words Death asked me, and at the reminder, a chill runs down my spine.
“Do you believe me now?” I say.
The interrogation room is quiet.
“Because if you do,” I say softly, taking their silence for a yes. “Then there’s a lot we should do to prepare, and not much time left to do it.”
Chapter 9
Lexington, Kentucky
October, Year 26 of the Horseman
I crouch inside the attic of a trading post that sits on the edge of Lexington, the smell of tobacco and beeswax wafting from the crates around me. My bow and arrow are poised over the open window, the late afternoon sun hanging low in the sky. I have a view of the I-64, the highway I’m betting the horseman will use to enter this city.
I adjust my grip on my bow. I’m a decent shot, but not great. I glance across the street, where a handful of other archers lie in wait behind and on the roof of a horse stable. One of them is Jeb Holton, the chief of police. He was adamant about being posted here, on the road that I felt most certain Death would be traveling.
The rest of the streets in and out of the city are being guarded as well. The horrible truth is that no one has any idea if or when or from which direction the horseman will ride through.
I roll my shoulders and crack my neck. My muscles are stiff from sitting still for so long.
I worry my lower lip. It’s been over twenty-four hours since I first met with Lexington officials, and I’ve sat up here for almost half that amount of time, taking shifts sleeping alongside Kelly Ormond, the officer posted up here with me.
Outside, the road is fairly busy as people flee their homes. Evacuation orders have been given, and over the last day many have packed up and left.
Many have also stayed.
At the window next to mine, Officer Ormond waits, her own bow poised.
Distant animal calls break the silence. My body tenses as I notice the thick, moving darkness on the horizon and the distant, shocked cries of travelers on the highway below us. As I watch, that dark mass moves like a wave towards us.
I hear bleating and howling and cawing and a hundred other animal cries over the shouts of frightened evacuees. Creatures flood the highway, overturning bikes and carts and barreling through the people on the road.
Once the animals are gone, an eerie silence follows in their wake, raising the hair on my arms.
I strain my eyes, searching, searching …
“Think the horseman’s coming our way?” she asks.
“Yes.” I’m certain that in a matter of minutes I’m going to see Death face-to-face once more. At that, unease pools low in my belly. Even after everything he’s done to me and my family, I’m not sure I’m ready for what I’m about to do—what I have already set in motion.
I can hear the beat of my own heart. I steady my breath.
I can do this. I will do this.
Below, the spooked travelers help up their comrades who were knocked down and right their overturned belongings. It’s that day at the farmer’s market all over again, only now, an officer poised behind the building across from us is calling out to the people on the road and directing them back the way they came.
Those farther down the highway aren’t so lucky. I see one man standing in the middle of the road, dusting himself off like his life is not being threatened at this very moment.
“Move,” Officer Ormond murmurs under her breath, noticing the same man.
I press my lips together, grimacing. I don’t know how much time the rest of these people have.
I hear horse hooves echo against the asphalt.
My skin pricks, and then—
There he is.
Great, winged Death.
For a moment, I can’t breathe.
Hate is such a gentle word for what I feel for the horseman. And yet the sight of him makes me ache inside. He’s beautiful and terrible and more than just a little mythical as he rides down the highway. Around him, people fall down dead. A few scream—some are even able to turn around and run back towards us and those ones don’t fall down dead. Not yet at least.
For a moment, I’m gobsmacked at the sight. Back in Georgia Death killed everyone far before he came upon them. And though I’m thankful that these fleeing travelers and the posted officers haven’t died, I’m still shocked that the reach of the horseman’s power has changed.
Next to me, Kelly’s oiled bow creaks as she pulls the string taut, and it’s that subtle sound that snaps me out of my own musings.
I aim my arrow and force myself to clear my mind as I wait for the signal.
The seconds pass like minute
s. Then, in the distance someone whistles, and that’s all the cue I need.
Please don’t miss.
I release my arrow alongside Officer Ormond’s and half a dozen others. The projectiles slice through the wind.
The horseman only has time to shield himself with an arm, his wings flaring wide, before the arrows slice into him. Many glance off his armor, but several more puncture his wings and at least one slices through his throat. I can hear the choked sound he makes as his horse rears back.
Under the onslaught, Death’s wings seem to crumple and the horseman’s body slides off his horse, hitting the ground with a dull thud.
Even as he falls, I nock another arrow into my bow and release it—as do the other officers. Again and again we release them.
Shoot until he falls, I’d told the room of uniformed men and women last night. And then continue to shoot him. Shoot until you’re out of arrows.
That’s what we do. We empty our quivers and pelt the horseman with arrows until his horse is driven away and Death himself looks more like a porcupine than anything else.
Meanwhile, the final few living travelers flee for their lives, their screams growing distant as they move farther and farther from us.
Eventually, our volley of arrows tapers off, the quiet hiss of them sliding into silence.
“Shit,” Kelly breathes next to me. She then slumps back against the wall, dropping her bow. “We did it.”
“We did,” I say softly, still staring at Death’s still form. All sorts of conflicted emotions churn within me.
We took down an angel.
I’m the first to get to the body. Partially because everyone seems reasonably spooked, and partially because once I snapped out of my stupor, I ran for him.
I kneel at the horseman’s side, and I swallow my own choked cry when I see the damage we’ve inflicted on him, damage I insisted on. I have to fight back the urge to retch.
I’ve never done anything like this before, and the sight fills me with deep remorse.
He killed you twice, and he likely wouldn’t hesitate to do so a third time if you got in his way.
The thought lessens the sickness I feel, but only slightly.
I place a hand on the horseman’s silver armor, my eyes lingering for a moment on a procession of mourners hammered into the metal plating.
Leaning towards his ravaged head, I whisper, “Death?”
Nothing. He doesn’t stir at all.
I have this crazy urge to remove the arrows one by one and clean his body, but I don’t get the chance.
Behind me I hear the footfalls of others coming to inspect the horseman. A strange surge of protectiveness wells within me. My hand falls away from his silver armor.
“No one touches him,” I say hoarsely, standing, then swiveling around to face the incoming crowd. I feel like a lioness defending her kill.
“Who says?” calls out a familiar voice.
My eyes hone in on the man who speaks.
I’ll be damned. It’s the same official who walked out of the meeting yesterday, the one who thought I was crazy. What was his name … ?
George.
I hadn’t realized that same man had been posted here. My eyes dip to the sheriff’s badge pinned above his chest. I also didn’t realize he was involved in law enforcement.
“I say.” I meet his frigid gaze with my own. “So far, I am the only person Death hasn’t been able to kill.” Something most of the people here are aware of; they were all debriefed on me last night.
“This is ridiculous,” George says, approaching me anyway. And then he’s pushing past me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop him. “We don’t even know that he’s dead.”
The rest of the officers and a growing crowd of onlookers form a semicircle around us, peering curiously at the winged being, his body strewn with arrows.
“Do you really have any doubts?” I say, fighting the urge to drag insufferable George away. It would be useless; the man is much larger than me.
Ignoring my words, George reaches for the horseman, presumably to check his pulse.
The moment his fingers brush the horseman’s flesh, his body stiffens, then collapses in a heap, half on, half off of Death.
My breath catches.
“George?” another officer calls—and I realize after a moment that it isn’t just some officer—it’s Jeb, the chief of police. “George,” Chief Holton says again, sterner now.
He shrugs off his bow and quiver and steps forward.
“Wait,” I say, giving him a meaningful look. “Let me do it.”
Jeb pauses. His jaw works, but after a moment, he gives me a nod.
I kneel at George’s side and place my fingers against his inner wrist. There’s no pulse.
Slowly my eyes lift, meeting Jeb’s. I shake my head, then set George’s arm gently on the ground, even as I hear a choked cry from the crowd. Apparently, the horseman can kill even when he’s dead himself.
I glance back at Death.
“This is the part we agreed on, Jeb,” I say quietly to the chief of police.
I’d only requested a few things yesterday, when I began coordinating this strike with Lexington’s officials, but the one I’d been most adamant about was taking Death’s body.
Chief Holton runs a hand down his mouth, then turns to the rest of the crowd. After a moment, he clears his throat.
“Congratulations,” he says to them. “Together we have stopped Death himself. We’re all alive today because we brought him down. But there’s much we still don’t know about this rider. So, in terms of survival, I need you all to return to your stations. If you’re part of the evacuation teams, please check in with your supervisor for further instructions. If not, I suggest you go home, grab what few items you can, and evacuate town.”
“What?” an officer says, surprised by the news.
Several others protest as well.
“What about Deputy Ferguson?” Someone else complains, and I think he’s referring to George, who’s still slumped over Death.
“I’ll take care of George. Now get going.”
The officers don’t leave immediately. Whatever they were expecting to happen, this isn’t it.
Jeb glares at them. “Do you want me to put you all in cuffs?” he threatens. “Move it.”
That seems to get the crowd going. The officers and onlookers disperse.
It takes another minute, but eventually, Chief Holton and I are alone.
Lexington’s chief of police eyes Death, then shakes his head. “I don’t know that I fully believed you until now.” He blows out a breath. “Do you need any help?” he asks.
“Even if I did,” I say, “I don’t think you could give it. Not without ending up like George.”
Chief Holton’s eyes move to the man in question and he suddenly looks a decade older, and so, so weary.
“It could’ve been worse,” I say.
The police chief nods. “Think he’ll stay away?” he asks.
I shake my head. Not if he’s anything like me.
“Unless he can be stopped for good,” I say. “I have a feeling he’ll be back. But hopefully I’ll be able to get him far enough from Lexington by then to give you and the rest of the city time to fully evacuate.”
The chief of police nods his head, still looking weary. He looks over to the buildings we so recently occupied.
“You should go,” I insist. “I’ve got this.”
I don’t, in fact, got this, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“And you won’t die?” he asks, scrutinizing the horseman.
By way of answer, I kneel down next to Death and place my hand against what I can of his cheek. “He cannot kill me,” I insist. At least, not while he himself is dead.
Chief Holton blows out a breath, shaking his head. “Sunday School never prepared me for this shit.” After a moment, he jerks his chin towards George. “Someone’s going to have to collect my friend there,” he says. He turns towards
the way we came, squinting at the people in the distance. “And there will be more people using this road to evacuate. I can give you an hour to get gone, but not much more.”
Hopefully an hour is all I need.
Jeb turns to go, then pauses. “Thank you for coming here,” he says. “It was an astonishingly decent thing to do.”
I give him a small smile and watch as he turns and leaves, this time for good.
And I’m left alone with Death.
For a moment, all I do is stare at the horseman. He’s badly mutilated, and I’m shocked to find that it bothers me—the injuries, his pain, all of it. He’s not a man to pity. And yet I can’t stop replaying the way he fell from his horse as we continued to shoot at him.
I stand, then back away from the horseman, worried that if I tear my gaze away for even a single moment, he might simply vanish.
In the end, I do have to turn away so that I can retrieve my things. Among them is my bicycle and a borrowed cart Jeb let me hitch to it.
I can’t be gone more than five minutes, but I’m terrified that when I return to the horseman I’ll find another dead body slumped against him—or worse, that he’ll be gone altogether.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I catch sight of Death—he’s exactly how I left him.
I ride my bike and hitched cart up to his side. Hopping off the bike, I move to the back of the cart, where I’ve already stashed my bag and my weapons. I lower the ramp then turn to Death.
Now for the impossible: lifting him.
In theory it shouldn’t be hard, but the man weighs about as much as a goddamned whale, and the moment I get my arms under his shoulders, I’m sure his wings are deliberately trying to smother me, and I keep getting feathers in my mouth, and a half a dozen bloody arrow points are now digging into my skin.
“Why do you have to be such—a—giant—jerk?” I ask as I drag him inch by painful inch up the cart’s shallow ramp.
I’ve barely gotten him fully in when my legs give out and I collapse, his body falling on mine. I lay there for a moment, cursing God that I can’t die. At least then I would’ve never found myself in this motherfucking embarrassing situation.
Eventually, I extricate myself, my hand brushing against Death’s bloody neck and a lock of that dark, wavy hair in the process.
Death (The Four Horsemen Book 4) Page 4