by Rhys Ford
Taking advantage of the confusion of the downed creature, the Horseman reached for the weapon, then slid it free from its leather sleeve. The hilt felt large in his hand, carved from green bone and made for a wider grip. Mal didn’t stop to check the sharpness of its blade, hoping the darkfae took care of his tools of trade.
His world shrunk down until it focused on the creature’s crimson iris, the black pupil square and wide as bodies ducked through the foyer’s steaming light. Crouched on the floor, Mal readied himself, watching the darkfae’s eyes widen to track the Horseman’s right hand. The dagger’s tip slid easily into the darkfae’s right eye, its pulpy orb popping around the thick metal blade. Coming up onto one knee, Mal shoved the weapon down, using his weight for added force. The first layers easily gave beneath the sharp tip, an explosion of clear fluids running pink with blood. A tangle of nerves unraveled quickly as Mal leaned into the hilt, feeling the blade hit the edge of the orbital socket.
His thoughts focused solely on one thing, taking the darkfae to the brink of Death’s touch. A soft cracking sound murmured through the steel, reverberating in the dagger’s hilt. Crushing the hand guard into the darkfae’s skull, Mal barely blinked as the creature’s brains spurted over his face, the bilious fluids catching the corner of his open mouth. Pulling the dagger free from the male’s torso, he snatched at the slithering soul as it escaped from its fleshy prison. Mal called upon the bond he shared with the others, pushing his will along the edges of the shadowy curtain woven into every aspect of their lives. They existed in a world folded into the space between realities. He would make use of that world and its hold on the Four.
The darkfae were outside of Death’s immediate influence, but he’d hoped that the act of dying could somehow be enough. Tilting his head back, the Fourth Horseman mentally screamed across the Veil for the First, calling Death to his side to take the soul hovering just inside of his clenched hand.
Gasping with the effort, Mal slid down across the dying darkfae’s body, exhausted and refusing to cry. He would be damned if he went down without a fight. And even more damned if he let Kismet die alongside him.
A word whispered through the darkness, a single plea. Strident. Nearly commanding the eldest to come.
Death.
“Come on, Death,” Mal pleaded aloud. With the door no longer an option, it was all he could do to save them. He could only hope it would be enough and in time. “I need you.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WHEN DEATH came to the call, Mal felt it down in his guts. The press of the air in his lungs flattened, and the Veil buckled under the ominous weight of the First Horseman arriving for a soul. Even in the thin shadows, Death had enough strength to walk through the Veil, and he arrived, a whisper of power flowing from the eldest’s lean form. The foyer’s diffused light picked out the scar over Death’s serious features, his hard, dark gaze raking over the gather of darkfae standing on his doorstep.
Death’s presence touched off a deeply held dread in the creatures clustered in the tight space around the front door. The darkfae cowered as the air went thick with terror. Living in the shadows, they saw its inhabitants for what they truly were, and Death wore the Veil in his bones, a cloak of shadows and sorrow woven from each soul he sent into the beyond, threads stitched too tight by those he lost amid the specters wading back into the ghostly memory of their lives. What the darkfae saw was a nightmare come alive.
Darkfae living below the UnSidhe lands whispered stories about the Horsemen, a brutal Four that had no mercy. Suddenly faced with their own demon, the darkfae stilled. Humans spoke of the terror in seeing the First Horseman skulking at the edges of battle, often stopping to reap the last remaining breath from a stricken soldier’s body, but the darkfae knew from personal experience the intimacy of his touch.
The darkfae never forgot stories embedded into their clan memory. Death’s grip was felt through the shifting of the darkness, a trembling shiver running hot over any shadow-hidden creature born behind the gray curtain. There were faded Courts still licking their wounds and counting the pieces of their dead from battles they raged against mankind, only to be nearly extinguished from existence when the Horsemen arrived to even the odds. From behind the Veil, the Horsemen responded swiftly to defend humans the Sidhe wanted out of their lands. The skirmishes never lasted long but left the Fae and the darkfae with a healthy fear of the Four.
Death’s dark eyes burned, and his katana shone as it slid free of its wooden sheath. He reached inside of himself for the thread that connected him to Ari, calling for him to come to his side. A moment later, he felt the other man arrive, the Veil shuddering from the Horseman shoving his way into the space, drawn by the resonance of Death on the shadowy trails in the curtain. For Death, Ari was as constant as the sun. He never worried about being alone as long as Ari was alive.
One of the darkfae staggered back, trying to distance himself from the blond lowering his head, War’s eyes black with anticipation. Cowardice was spat upon by the lower Courts, but the darkfae were silent as their comrade retreated, the crowd stepping back nearly as one.
“Hello, Death,” Mal murmured, wiping the blood from his face. Streaks of red burned along Mal’s skin, his glasses clotted with darkfae blood. He’d found them after searching with trembling fingers, the spectacles falling off when he’d killed the creature. With the world now in focus, Mal started to move toward Kismet.
“Faith, get back.” Ari quickly glanced around him, assessing the situation. He’d appeared nearly over Kismet’s prone body, almost straddling the young man’s legs. “How the hell did darkfae get up here, Pest?”
“We brought them to you, War. To help us do this,” Charity said, drawing his arm back. He shoved upward, hooking a sharp-edged knife into Ari’s side.
The blade speared through the sunburst scar on the immortal’s torso, slicing apart his T-shirt. A rib deflected the cut, sending the weapon astray. Charity lost his grip on the hilt as Ari jerked away, shocked at the other immortal’s betrayal. Nearly losing one of his blades, Ari bent over, holding his arm to his side. Shoving his shoulder into Charity’s chest, he pushed the younger immortal, sending him to the floor.
“Son of a bitch.” Ari kicked out, keeping his arm pressed tight against the wound. His foot connected solidly against the other immortal’s face, the strike making a sickening crunch when he hit Charity’s cheek.
Charity sprawled back, sliding over the slick floor. Faith gasped, reaching for her brother, unable to get ahold of his flailing limbs as he passed her. Beckett grabbed the plastic container he’d filled with Kismet’s blood, red splashing over its edge, and snapped a clear blue lid over the lip. Rolling aside, he pulled on Faith’s upper arm, yanking her out of Ari’s reach. Charity followed, getting to his feet with a quick roll. The darkfae closed in around Faith and Charity, protecting Beckett with raised weapons, long knives forming a wall of menacing points.
Beckett hadn’t known what he would see when confronted with Death. He’d not expected a nearly pretty-faced man, lean-bodied and scarred across his nose. Death’s calm unsettled him. It seemed as if he were invisible, a speck of dirt floating in the air. War suited his image, broad shouldered and muscled, a distinct rage fueling his powerful movements.
A few feet separated Death and Ari, the area emptied of darkfae and other immortals. Mal scrambled across the tile, his hands slipping out from under him as he got near Kismet. The older Horsemen flanked him, blades ready for the darkfae to attack.
“You okay, Ari?” Death didn’t dare glance at his friend’s side. Taking his eyes off the creatures in front of them would be dangerous, and dropping his guard would definitely bring on an assault. “Do you need help?”
“Nah, I’m fine, Shi.” The knife made a small sucking sound as Ari pulled it from his side. Death moved in, giving Ari some protection as he tucked one of his long daggers under his arm, still within easy reach should any of the darkfae move toward them. The length of the blade made him la
ugh, a few inches of bent steel. “Gods, he’s got to be kidding. I wouldn’t even fuck someone if he had something this tiny.”
“You’re horrible.” With Ari’s side healing quickly, Death took a moment to look down at Mal, the youngest Horseman’s hands hovering around the oil punch sticking out of Kismet’s body. “You’re going to have to take that out of him, Mal. He can’t heal with it in him.”
“I can’t do it.” Staring down at his friend’s still form, Mal bit his lip, uncertain and afraid. “Suppose I hurt him more?”
“Cooties, we really don’t have time to talk about this.” Ari nudged Mal’s leg with his foot. “The more he bleeds, the more you’re going to have to clean up after we kill these guys. Better start now. Death and I are going to be busy in a few.”
They stood staring at one another, quiet and stiff. Tension was high, with the darkfae wavering between their instinctual fear of the Four and the promise of glory to their clan while the immortals glared at one another with varying degrees of anger and disgust. Faith moved in front of them, keeping an eye on Death and Ari in case they moved. For a long moment, Kismet’s gasps of pain filled the air, his tortured breathing mingled with piercing groans.
“Take it out, Mal,” Death ordered. “Now.”
The blood was nearly too much for Mal. It seeped around the metal cone sticking out of Kismet’s chest and spurted up the flexible metal spigot bobbing near his face. Kismet’s face was white, the blue of his veins vivid under his pale skin. His chest barely moved now, his lungs struggling to provide oxygen to a body shutting down around them. Mal gripped the oil punch, then tugged, hoping to pull it free.
Its edge caught on a bone, and Mal lost his hold on the cone, his wet fingers sliding up its length.
Resting on one knee, he wrapped both of his hands around the cylindrical spout and yanked. He fell back, tumbling onto his rear.
“Put pressure on it, Pest. It’s not that bad.” Ari bristled when Beckett took a step forward. “Stay back, bitch. You come any closer, and I’m going to rethink what we consider acting against us.”
Pressing his hands over the torn flesh, Mal pushed down, hoping the skin would seal over. Strands from the shirt’s torn fabric were caught under his palms, and he worried whether or not he should pull them out before the threads were sealed under Kismet’s skin.
“Keep the pressure steady.” Carefully avoiding the spilled blood, Ari moved until he stood on a patch of unblemished floor. “I’d say pray, but the bastards responsible for all that crap are standing in front of us with our blood on their hands.”
“Why’d you bring this to our door, Faith?” Death asked, his calm voice carrying over the darkfae’s heavy breathing.
“We just need the boy, Death. Give him to us, and we’ll walk away. You don’t need to be involved in this.” Faith stepped forward. Stopped by Beckett’s hand on her wrist, the immortal comforted the magus with a murmur. “Let me do this. We can end this without any more trouble.”
“Your human did this to the boy, then?” Death slanted a look at Kismet, the young man’s shivering body pressed up against the wall. Faith’s glance at the magus confirmed his suspicions. “He has to be the one who crossed the boy over. Any immortal smart enough to do it wouldn’t have.”
“So we kill the human first?” Ari grinned, a lupine smile that pushed the darkfae back another step. “Save Charity and his bitch sister for later?”
“You can’t kill a human,” Faith reminded them. “Not unless he raises a hand to you. He changed a human with his potions. Not an immortal. You cannot touch Beckett, Death. Not for anything.”
“Nice of him to bring someone who knows the rules,” Ari muttered under his breath to Death. “Fucking whores betrayed us, Shi.”
“We didn’t do anything to you that you couldn’t have avoided, War,” Charity slurred, working his jaw back into place. Ari’s hit broke his cheekbone, shifting the bone in and shattering his orbit. The swell against his eye bothered him, his vision blurry and unpredictable. It would take a few hours before he’d be able to see clearly. “All you needed to do was mind your own business for a change.”
“Do you have any idea what he’s done, Faith? This threatens us. Threatens our existence,” Death said. “You weren’t around for the days when we lived in blood, fighting off wraiths coming through a broken Veil. Doing this, helping this man bring that about, will take mankind back centuries. They’ll lose everything they’ve accomplished, and for what?”
“Maybe it’s what mankind needs right now, Death,” she responded, conscious of the shifting darkfae around her and the men standing next to her. They were getting impatient and, in the presence of the Horsemen, were quickly losing their nerve.
“You’re supposed to be helping them, whore.” Ari paced out a step before returning to Death’s side. “Trust me. They don’t need wraiths chewing on their asses.”
“What would you care?” Charity sneered. “You only exist to torment mankind. You’ll be in your glory if what Death says is true. And if not, then it’s just more of the Four manipulating things to keep the rest of us in line.”
“Kick his teeth in for me, Ari,” Mal growled. Kismet’s blood was cooling on his hands, and his fingers were going numb. The young man’s skin was slowly knitting, not quick enough for Mal’s liking, but it was moving together. The feel of the tear undulating to join back together made his stomach twist, and he looked away, glaring up at the immortals behind their wall of darkfae. “He talks too much.”
“I agree with the brat, Death.” Ari winked at his partner, his confident arrogance filling his face. Canting his shoulder down, War affectionately bumped Death’s hip. “Too much talking. Not enough killing.”
“Keep your head down and protect Kismet. See if you can keep him behind you, Mal,” Death said, his voice low. “If not, then at least keep him down.”
The fight exploded before Mal blinked. One moment the air bristled with violence, and then it spilled over them, a wave of bodies and grunting shouts.
Hot liquid splashed from the severing blow of Death’s katana across the attacking Veiled’s forearm, a wave of foul acidic blood cresting into his open mouth. War’s shirt was already nearly black with blood, his hands sticky with offal and shreds of intestines, a malevolent grin breaking through the gore across his mouth. Death’s mouth slid into a half smile at the look of childish glee on his oldest friend’s face.
A motion caught Death’s attention, pulling him back into the fray, the katana arcing bright with a trail of silver threading through a darkfae’s throat. They would have to provide protection for the boy until Mal could remove him from the foyer. After that, he and War could move into the middle of the fight, depending on their youngest to take care of their charge.
Sputtering, Kismet coughed, hidden by the relative safety of Mal’s body, trying to clear the taste of his own blood from his tongue. Kismet’s trembling limbs seized under his body’s demands, his nervous system contracting him into a fetal ball. Panting hard, Kismet opened his eyes and bolted nearly upright. Mal pushed him back down, keeping him clear of the fight.
“Shit,” Kismet gasped, a shuddering roll starting in his blood. “I need a hit.”
Ari growled, “Think it was mingled in with drugs?”
“Easiest way to get it into him,” Death agreed, blocking a blade coming at his ribs. The darkfae were coming slower, more wary now that blood had been spilled. After a few jabs, the creatures pulled back, trying to circle in and test the Horsemen’s abilities. “Mal, try to keep Kismet calm.”
“That’s going to be a bit hard,” Mal sighed. Kismet was fighting him as he regained consciousness in spurts, his body painfully knitting together. “I can’t keep myself calm.”
“Do your best, Mal,” Death replied.
“Just knock him over the head,” Ari suggested with a sneer. “Hell, do us all a favor and knock yourself out too.”
“Watch your side, War.” Death nudged his friend. “They’re
coming back in.”
Rising from his knees, Mal ducked around War’s upswing, trying to keep out of the older Horseman’s way. He felt the Veil ripple again, a call flowing from Death along the shadows straining to close in on the foyer. Death was reaching out for the other in their Four. A resonance built up in the darkness, spilling out with an echoing need. Min would be certain to feel the call, Mal was sure of it. If he hadn’t already been there, he knew he would have been pulled to the fight.
“Beckett!” Faith’s head jerked up, her eyes wild as she clutched at Beckett’s arm.
The magus turned, his mouth wide as he watched the walls convulse, disgorging the petite Min, armed with a long blade and a fierce temper.
“Famine’s here! We won’t be able to fight off all of them. We should leave now!”
Swinging wildly, Min fought viciously, dropping down under the taller creatures’ arms, stabbing up into their rib cages. The meat and bone in the darkfae’s torso halted some of her thrusts, but as she found her rhythm, Min angled her attack better, feeling for the ripe softness of an organ giving way. She stopped short, in shock, at the sight of Faith and Charity standing by the attacking force.
“Faith! Charity!” Min moved quickly, trying to slash her way to the immortals. “I’ll get to you!”
“Don’t go in, Min,” Death warned her. The steel in the eldest’s voice pinned Min to the ground.
“They brought the darkfae….”
“What?” The woman dove to the side, bending her torso back to avoid a blow. “Why?”
“Why later,” Ari argued back. “Kill now. Whys and hows are for later.”
“Damn it, he’s trying to get the door open.” Beckett spotted Mal working at the door latch, the heavy body of a fallen darkfae blocking his way. “We shouldn’t have let go of the boy.”
“I’ll see if I can get to him. Mal’s not a threat,” Charity said. “Keep Faith safe.”