by Rhys Ford
“They killed her.” He stared at Peace, the other immortal as silent as the stones poking in the field.
“The Horsemen don’t kill their own.” Peace let the words slip free, cast on the breeze, where they tossed and tumbled. “Death would never let them take an immortal life, even if it were possible.”
“It’s possible. You and I both know it is,” Charity muttered darkly.
The haggard-faced immortal beside him ignored the comment, his attention still on the tiny girl playing on the hills below.
“I need you to watch her.”
“Until the new Faith arrives?” The elder immortal struck a match, cupping his hand around the flame as he lit a hand-rolled cigarette, the flare of coarse tobacco bright red under the fire. A few hard puffs started the cigarette’s slow burn, a wave of his wrist extinguishing the blaze. Carefully tossing the burnt match into a coffee can filled with sand, Peace drew in a lungful of smoke, holding it in until he nearly burst from lack of air.
“No.” Charity shook his head. “Until she leaves us. Hope’s not long for this world. I give it a few more months, and then she’ll be going on. They don’t stay long. You know that.”
“This one’s been here less than a year, hasn’t she?” Peace struggled to remember when he’d first met the girl.
“There’s a reason they say Hope dies quickly,” the immortal reminded Peace.
“What are you going to do then?” Peace drew another mouthful of smoke, savoring its harsh taste.
“I’m going to do what you tried to do before.” Charity turned toward the man, his once mentor and the missing piece of his Four.
“That wasn’t me.” Peace shook his head, long strands of graying hair loose around his rawboned features. “That was another Peace and a mistake. The Four aren’t evil, Charity. They exist just like the rest of us. Because mankind brought them here to serve. They’re as much a part of humanity as we are.”
“They’ve been here too long,” the immortal said, nearly brushing his shoulder against Peace’s in challenge. “Death and War have a hold on mankind. They’re too old… too powerful. How can mankind fight against their age? I think eliminating Death and War would be the greatest blow to mankind’s chains. It would allow humanity to be free of the weight of their purpose. Don’t you think I’m right in that?”
“And you plan on taking the new Faith on this path of yours, once he or she arrives?” Peace snubbed his cigarette into the sand, the pleasure of the smoke lost to him. “You going to poison someone new against the Four? If it were our reason to exist, Peace before me would have succeeded with his mad plans, and I wouldn’t be standing here right now watching you lick the wounds to your pride.”
“The Horsemen are people, like we are. Just older, but still human. We let the legend of who they are bring us nightmares, and we cower before them. For all we know, that Peace was the last one with a clear vision of what we’re supposed to achieve for mankind.” Charity shrugged. “He should have succeeded. I believe we’ve lost our way because we aren’t a Four anymore.”
“And I believe you’re full of shit.” Peace’s laugh was a harsh bark, scratching humor riddled with sarcasm.
“You’re just afraid, old man,” Charity said. “You’re supposed to be a part of us. We’re supposed to be Four instead of Three, and you walked away from that. Even before I came along, you turned away from us. I hope there’s something of that bond inside of you that will at least let me try to make things right.”
“I think you’re doing this because Faith left you, not because you think the Four are evil,” Peace responded. “You’re going to wage a war with someone who was born to fight and another who takes souls. How do you expect to win?”
“I don’t expect you to help me.” Charity felt the Veil shimmer. The new Faith was nearly upon them, drawn to Charity’s presence. “Can you at least keep her here with you? Until she goes?”
“Yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem.” Peace’s keen eyes lit up at the flock of birds flying over a far ridge. “I think what you’re doing is wrong. You’ll be pulled back into the Veil, and for what? Nothing. And what kind of Charity can you be, plotting the demise of other immortals?”
“I’m not going to neglect my call, Peace.” Charity sneered. Peace hid in the emptiness along a mountain ridge, tucked away from humanity and ignoring everything but the most insistent of pleas for his presence. “Not like you.”
Hope struggled up the hill, her arms burdened by plucked daisies. A sadness lingered in her eyes, the sparkle of her wide, innocent smile nearly too brilliant for Peace to bear. Hitching his jeans up, Peace left Charity’s side, dismissing the younger immortal with a wave of his hand.
“Do what you’ve got to do, Charity,” Peace muttered, stepping onto the gravel pathway. “I hope to the gods that you don’t become the first immortal Death kills. And if you are, so be it.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MAL PLACED the last box of Kismet’s possessions on the floor. He was trying not to show his disgust, but the place was a mess. The warehouse loft was a compromise of sorts between the young man and the Horsemen. Taking another look around, he half agreed with Min’s suggestion that it could be made more habitable with a blowtorch and endless accelerant.
Kismet’s refusal to live with the immortals led to long, heated arguments, punctuated by verbal jabs and angry shouting matches. Ari finally threw his hands up in surrender when he couldn’t wear down Kismet’s stubbornness, while Death pursed his lips, calmly outlining his arguments to persuade the young man to live someplace they could keep an eye on him. That led to a few choice words and a couple of hand gestures Mal vowed to learn.
While he didn’t fully understand Kismet’s violent reaction to being cared for, he did comprehend the other’s reluctance to leave the shadow-infested world he’d grown up in. He couldn’t imagine being without the other three.
An expanse of stacked rectangular windows spilled a hazy light into the space, heavy white paint covering most of the glass. Kismet had refused anything but the loft, his stubbornness now nearly legendary among the Four. Paint supplies and finished canvases filled much of the southern wall, horrific creatures leering up at Mal from bloodied landscapes. A few softer images lay hidden under the starkness, the float of a daisy on slate gray rain or the line of a face nearly hidden under crosshatched nightmares.
The loft’s walls were a mixture of white-edged red brick and mottled drywall, its high ceilings spotted with wide-bladed fans. A kitchen had been carved out of a space by the door, a supporting column serving to anchor a long counter bristling with stacked containers. Mal sniffed at the mustiness in the air, spotting the slither of shadows collecting near the bathroom door. The wraiths were slothful, sated from a feeding off the homeless clustered around the trolley station below. Mal shoved his will at the dark masses, moving the serpentine shapes on their way.
Kismet stood at the counter, wrinkling his nose at the furry remains left in a Tupperware coffin, the fridge just starting to hum under newly restored power. After tossing the container into a black plastic garbage bag, he systematically rifled through the small cabinets, debating the worthiness of abandoned utensils and a spare pink dish.
Stacked mattresses served as living room furniture, an angled array of cushions scattered over the too-soft bedding. He’d accepted Mal’s offer of a bed, the low platform boasting drawers he could throw his clothes into, the plastic still wrapped around the box spring. Hidden partially behind fabric curtains strung on framing wire, the bed area would be his haven from the chaos of his captured dreams, the pain of his images cut free from his mind and left on the stretched canvases.
“We can hire someone to take the paint off the windows.” Mal picked at the flaking film, thankful he wasn’t subject to lead poisoning. There was evidence of past attempts to remove the thick covering, irregular scraping along the bottom of one pane.
“Or I can just take off what I want when I can.” Kismet looked up at
the other man. Mal’s shirt stuck to his back, beads of sweat spreading between his shoulder blades. With an appreciative smile, Kismet walked over to the contemplative immortal, his fingers briefly stroking at Mal’s spine. “It’ll come off with a razor blade. I might leave some of it on. It depends on how much light gets in. Hey, you can help me scrape it off and tell Death it’s just another training exercise.”
In the weeks since the encounter with the wraith, Mal grimly set to the task of learning how to handle a weapon, spending long hours in the practice studio or at the weights to build his strength. While the Horseman would never attain the breadth of War’s shoulders, his lean body easily adapted to the regime, sculpting hard lines into his long limbs and back. Kismet appreciated the slow change in Mal’s slender form, spending time watching Mal spar with Death just because he could.
“I don’t like this neighborhood.” From what Mal could see through the east-facing windows, the area left a lot to be desired. “It’s too dirty. It’s not a good neighborhood.”
“Hell, Mal,” Kismet replied. “For me, this is a huge step up.”
A rattling iron-gated elevator grumbled up to the fourth floor of the warehouse’s top level, shuddering as it passed between second and third. Outside, downtown San Diego shuffled on its way, pausing only to scream or piss into the gutters, the Veil clouded with wraiths feeding on the raucous clusters of people, dark seagulls picking fodder from the air.
“We can find you someplace better,” Mal countered. “Someplace safer.”
“Don’t push, Mal,” Kismet replied, squatting to dig through the box at the Horseman’s feet. They’d raided a thrift store, picking through the battered pots and pans. He’d wondered at Mal’s insistence on including a baking sheet, perhaps driven by dreams of hot cookies coming from a nonexistent oven, but Kismet shrugged, adding it to the pile. The artist thought twice about giving in to Mal’s quirks, as he struggled to dislodge the more necessary dish drainer from the tangled mess wedged inside a box.
A shape danced alone in a corner of the loft, formless except for askew arms and legs flying about, its head a blank appendage missing telltale features. Kismet blissfully ignored the specter, leaving it to its solitary celebration. He’d wanted to put a lamp in that corner, a tall halogen torch they’d rescued from a trash pile, but it would have to sit a few feet away, leaving the ghost in peace. Finally triumphant over the drainer, Kismet nearly tumbled back on his rear, caught in Mal’s steady hands.
The Horseman helped the smaller man to his feet, taking the drainer from Kismet. Sniffing at the moldy smell clinging to the rubber mat, Mal turned on the hot water at the sink, waiting for the faucet to run clear after spurting a rusty stream into the basin. A tint of red remained, then disappeared, the drain coughing as it struggled to swallow the rush of water.
A child’s voice echoed in the spacious area, bouncing gleefully off the walls. Unseen, Chase’s laughter ran along the edges of the main room before dashing into the bathroom, folding into the tiled walls. Kismet followed the sound, his eyes unreadable and clouded. Intent on Kismet’s pretty face, Mal’s soul saddened at the pain living there, simmering just below the surface.
“At least let us make this place a sanctuary. I might be able to if Death teaches me. He says it’s just a matter of leaving a part of myself here. It’ll keep the shadows and ghosts away,” Mal offered. “Although I wish you’d reconsider living with us.”
“Mal, come on, man. Leave off.” Kismet waved away his friend’s protests. “We’ve already had this conversation. I can’t do that to Chase. Even if he’s not really here. What’s left of him is all the family I’ve got.”
“We’re your family.” Mal saw the disbelieving glance Kismet gave him. “Okay, I’ll be your family. Death too. He’s good. Ari just needs some time, and Min cares. In a Min kind of way.”
“Ari needs to get laid.” Another set of mixing bowls lay at the bottom of one box, and Kismet wondered just how many bowls someone really needed. He set the smaller ones aside, thinking of using them for mixing paints. “You’d think that old Mustang Death got him would have done the trick.”
“It did, a little bit.” Leaning on the counter, the immortal grinned.
Ari nearly wept with joy when Death led him downstairs and showed him the vintage Grande Coupe he’d bought for him. He’d been offered the first ride, an honor that touched Mal deeply. Since then, he’d almost forgiven Ari for the scare he’d been given when the older immortal opened the engine up on the freeway and nearly sent them into next week.
“Yeah, now he’s down in the garage waxing the car and thinking lewd thoughts about Death. Porn’s much cheaper.” Holding up a whisk, Kismet grimaced at Mal. “What the hell were you on when we were shopping? It looks like you were possessed by a magpie or something.”
“I think I was distracted,” Mal admitted slowly. He’d spent more time watching Kismet pick through the shelves than actually shopping, and he’d guiltily thrown things into the basket to look busy. He’d already discovered two sets of salt and pepper shakers, and who knew what was still lurking in the boxes they had left.
“I’m not taking you with me anymore. It’s like you see something that looks halfway domestic and you toss it in.” Laughing, Kismet grabbed an apron, its frilled laces dangling over the edge of the cardboard. “You’ve got some issues. Dude, there’s more bowls in here! What the hell?”
“I like bowls.” He shrugged, taking the bright Fiesta ware and placing it in the cabinet. “I liked the colors. They’re kind of happy.”
“Mal, bowls can’t make you happy.” Kismet nearly jerked his hand up, unsure if the dark, skittering shape he just saw was a wraith or a cockroach. “Okay, maybe they can make you happy, but they don’t do it for me.”
“I want to make things work for you.” Mal opened the lid of a packing box, then pulled out unfolded clothes and an odd shoe. His hands closed over a rolled-up towel, its edge unraveling as he placed it on the battered Formica table they’d dragged up from his SUV. “Maybe if I try hard enough, I can fix everything that’s gone wrong. I just don’t know where to start.”
A piece of tubing and syringes scattered out of the bundle, small foil packets folded into tight squares gleaming on the washed-out terry cloth. The kit lay where it fell, inert and poisonous in Mal’s eyes. Kismet stood silent, watching the other as he gathered up the items, rolling them carefully into their towel coffin, and handed it to Kismet. His fingers closed over Mal’s hand, holding on tightly.
“I’m trying, Mal. I haven’t used in a while, but it’s not going to go away overnight,” Kismet whispered. “You can’t fix me. I have to do it myself.”
“But you know you’re not broken.” Mal bowed his head, resting his forehead on Kismet’s temple, and sighed, exasperation heavy in his breath. He fisted his hands in Kismet’s shirt, wanting to either push the young man away or hold him closer. The loneliness in his life eased when Kismet was around, his husky laugh a memory Mal brushed over gently before he fell asleep. He wanted that sense of peace for Kismet. “Everything you see is real. You don’t need this shit to help you run away anymore.”
“I’m a bad influence on you. I’m pretty sure you didn’t swear before you met me,” the young man said, rubbing his cheek on Mal’s before pulling away. “Death must be so proud.”
“I’m serious,” Mal said. The immortal watched as Kismet placed the kit back into the box, burying it beneath old clothing he’d bought for rags. “I want to help you deal with this.”
“I’m doing the best I can,” Kismet assured him, dragging another box for the kitchen closer to one of the cabinets. “I’m not going to promise you that I’m going to be clean tomorrow or even the day after. It’s going to take time, and there’s going to be some days that I just am not going to be able to go through without it. You’re either going to have to deal with that or walk away.”
“I told you I’m not going anywhere, Kiz,” Mal said. “Hell, we’ve been shot together, s
ort of. That’s not something Death and Ari can claim.”
They continued to unpack, quietly companionable, at times pulling items from the thrift-store boxes and wondering at the other’s taste. Kismet dug around at the bottom of one of the boxes, finding a small velvet pouch tucked into its corner. Curious, he tugged open the ties, then shook out a leather thong strung with five dark green jade beads. Pursing his lips at the immortal, Kismet held the beads up to Mal’s face, a quirk of a smile as he waited for an explanation.
“Somehow I don’t think we got this at the Rags in a Box.” Kismet’s fingers worked over the carved jade. He traced over the kanji, then rubbed at the leather knotted to keep the beads centered on the thong. “What’s this?”
“I got it for you. Well, I had it made.” Mal took the leather from Kismet’s hands, sliding the threaded beads around the artist’s neck. The Horseman tied the thong around Kismet’s throat, then took a step back. “Those are our names, the Four and you. That’s Kismet in the middle. Death and War are to the left, and Pestilence and Famine are to the right.”
“Tell me that Death and you are next to me and not Ari or Min.” Kismet touched the beads, the jade cool against his skin. “Okay, I don’t mind Min. Ari, he’s just an ass.”
“Yeah, we are.” Mal grinned, a sense of satisfaction filling his chest at the sight of his name hanging around Kismet’s throat. “I wanted to give you something so you knew that you were never alone. The Four’s here for you. I’m here for you.”
“Ari wanted to kill me. More than once,” Kismet reminded him. “He said it was the best thing you all could do.”
“I think that’s Ari’s way of showing affection,” Mal responded. “He’s been wanting to kill me for years. Death says it means he likes you.”
“Then he must think I’m God or something.” Running his fingers over the kanji, he blinked at the moisture in his eyes. Stretching, he brought himself up to the immortal’s height. “Thanks, Mal. I like it a lot.”