When he was a kid, his mom used to tell him that after he had a nightmare, the rule was he had to have a good dream next. “It’s only fair,” his mom would say as she mopped his sweaty hair from his face and soothed him. “After the bad comes the good. Time for a good dream, Xander.”
So Xander said aloud, “Time for a good dream.” Ideally, one about Riley. And him. And maybe a new car.
And doing things in the new car that didn’t involve driving.
Xander grinned and reached for his lamp, but then he paused. His fingertips, stained from the pencil, had left dark streaks along his pillowcase. He frowned at the white fabric marred by black, then flipped his pillow.
Good enough, he decided as he shut off his lamp. It didn’t matter that he knew the black was there.
He was good at hiding the truth.
Famine
The bride wore white, of course. She looked radiant in the way that most brides do—something about the pledge of eternal love and devotion heats them from within and sets their cheeks aglow. This bride, in particular, wore her silk gown splendidly; the beading over the bodice emphasized curves and softened angles, helping turn the woman in white into a delicate work of art.
The groom was equally brilliant as he gazed adoringly at the one who’d stolen his heart. His tuxedo was the same as those worn by the other men in the wedding party; from behind, they all could have been waiters at a particularly upscale restaurant where you have to pay a hundred dollars for a dollop of food set upon the plate just so. But the groom could have been dressed in jeans and a ratty T-shirt, and he still would have been majestically handsome because of the light in his eyes, the joy in his smile.
It was enough to make Famine want to puke.
The Black Rider of the Apocalypse stood in the back of the room, clad in ink and shadow, frowning at the loving couple. They didn’t notice her, of course, just as no one in the room noticed her. The Horsemen were visible to mortals only when they wished it, and right now Famine didn’t want to be seen. What she wanted was to be happy for the bride and groom, but they were just so pathetic—two meat sacks decked out in Vera Wang and Ralph Lauren. Sure, they were sated for the moment on love, but let them go a week with no food, then see how blissful their looks would be.
A touch of frost skimmed the back of her neck.
“You couldn’t stay away, either?” she asked, not turning around.
Death slouched up next to her. “Of course I could stay away. As could you. Yet here we are.” A pause. “There’s something about weddings that gives people a new appreciation of life, don’t you think?”
Famine declined to answer.
In the back rows, the guests began to shiver. An old woman loudly wondered if the air conditioning was set too high, and she was shushed by the people around her.
“Do you miss her?”
Famine scowled. “She made her choice long ago.”
“Not to be the Black Rider? Or not to be your friend?”
She turned to glare at Death, but then she paused in her indignation. “Why are you wearing pajamas?”
“Too lazy to put on a tux.” His blond hair was a tangled mess that crashed over his ears, and his blue eyes gleamed with winter’s secrets. He smiled as he offered her a bouquet of pink and white flowers, bundled together in a wide satin bow. “For thee, Black Rider. They don’t really go with my outfit.”
Startled, she took the flowers. As soon as they touched her gloved hands, they began to wither, starved.
“They were already dead,” Death said cheerfully. “Cut in the prime of their beauty, all for impact and style. Absolute murder on the bride’s mother’s allergies, but it’s merely one of her many sacrifices for her daughter. Or so she’d tell you. Frequently.”
Famine smiled thinly, a sliver of lips and teeth. “She hasn’t changed.”
“People rarely do.”
She saw the truth in that.
They watched the bride and groom gaze at each other lovingly by the altar as the officiator recited the words that would bind them with love and affection for all eternity, or at least until divorce court.
The Black Rider frowned at the bride. Could the woman dressed in white sense Famine’s presence? It was possible; even though the bride was no longer anorexic, she had once wielded the Scales of office. Did she miss flying through the skies on horseback, feeling and fueling the appetite of the world? Or did she pretend that part of her life had never happened?
A phrase from the clergyman nudged Famine from her bleak thoughts, and she sneered from the presumptuousness of the words.
Love is stronger than death.
Ridiculous. A previous incarnation of the Black Rider had died of heartbreak. Nothing was stronger than death.
“Such flattery,” Death murmured. “One would think you want something.”
“Not this time.”
He smiled. “Liar. You just don’t know what it is you want. But you want something. All living things do.”
“I’m not like them,” she said. “Not anymore.”
“You think just because you’ve turned your back on your humanity that you’re no longer human?” He chuckled. “You’re adorable. And you didn’t answer my question. Do you miss her?”
The Black Rider said nothing. In her arms, the dried flowers flaked to ash.
“Of course you do,” Death answered for her. “Despite your protest, you’re only human. And so you miss her like a starving man misses food.”
She lifted her chin. “You’re wrong.”
“I’m many things, but I’m not wrong. She was your best friend—past tense, verging on the pluperfect—and yet here you are, present tense, at her wedding. You miss her.”
“You’re wrong,” Famine insisted.
“Am I now?” He gazed upon her, gazed through her with his empty blue eyes. “Since you know so much, do you want to know what you were to her?” His smile turned sly. “Nothing.”
A lump formed in the Black Rider’s throat, and she choked it down.
“In the scheme of things, you were just a distraction to her. That’s all.” Death stood in his ill-fitting green and white striped pajamas, and he stared blankly at the bride and groom, even as that sly smile played on his face. “She cut you out of her life so that she might live. As for him, he never cared for you in the first place. You didn’t matter then. And neither of them thinks about you now.”
Stung, Famine cringed.
“It doesn’t matter that you emulated her. It doesn’t matter that you followed in her footsteps. Lisabeth Lewis left you stranded in a field of dust.”
The Black Rider whispered, “Why are you being so cruel?”
“If truth is cruelty, then I am a sadist.” He turned to face the Black Rider, and this time she flinched as his empty gaze fixed upon her. “You look so hurt. Don’t be. Embracing the truth can be cathartic. Rather like purging, wouldn’t you say?”
She bit her lip until she tasted blood.
“Here’s more truth for you: People make choices, and each choice brings with it repercussions.” He laughed softly, the sound like a graveyard wind. “A butterfly flaps its wings and the earth trembles. Lisabeth chose to walk away from you, and as a consequence you chose to become Famine. In doing so, you chose to walk away from your humanity. What do you think the consequence of that action will be?”
“Nothing,” the Black Rider said tersely. “I may as well have never existed before I took the Scales from you. I’m Famine, now and forever.”
“Nothing is forever, Tammy.”
The room filled with thunderous applause.
Her lip sore and already swelling, Famine glanced at the altar. The groom was kissing the bride. And kissing. And kissing. It looked like he was eating her face. When they finally paused for air, Lisa giggled and her groom, James, kissed her again, to the hearty approval of their guests.
Famine dropped the dead bouquet to the floor, where it landed in a pile of black stems and ash. The satin bo
w fluttered to the ground, a discarded memory of something bright and festive. The Black Rider sighed. She wanted to be happy for her former friend, but she just couldn’t manage it. She was too raw inside. Empty, like Death’s bouquet.
Just as well, she decided. Famine didn’t go hand in hand with happily ever afters.
Nothing is forever, Death whispered in her mind. Especially happiness.
She turned to argue the point, but he was already gone.
Even though she wasn’t cold, she couldn’t stop herself from shivering.
Xander
Xander glanced at the thermostat as he headed toward the apartment’s front door. The needle was set at seventy degrees, which did nothing to explain his sudden chill. Whatever—he was probably coming down with something. The weather had been nuts lately; instead of the balmy temperatures that had been predicted, it had been unseasonably cold, almost frigid. Between the freaky weather and his adventures in broken sleep, he was a candidate for the flu of the week.
Or maybe he was absolutely fine and the thermostat was on the blink.
He opened the door just as the bell chimed—actually, beeped; that was weird—a second time. Ted stood in the doorway, grinning his trademark grin, the one that made parents frown and teachers reach for their detention slips. He waved and said, “Hey.”
“Hey,” Xander said. “Tip for you: Ringing the bell a lot doesn’t make me get to the door any faster.”
For a moment, Ted didn’t reply. Something lit behind his eyes, something that Xander couldn’t read, and then Ted’s grin softened into a tired smile. “Tips are for mohels. And it works for elevators.”
Xander stepped aside, and Ted walked into the apartment, sipping from a Styrofoam cup.
“Uh-huh,” Xander said. “You probably press the Walk button when you want to cross the street.”
“Nah. I just jaywalk.”
“Such a rebel.”
“Got to get my jollies where I can. You ready to go? We’ve got to make a pit stop at the package store before we get to Izzy’s.”
Xander winced. “Say it a little louder. My parents might not have heard you.”
“Please, they’re over forty. As if they hear anything if we don’t shout.”
“It’s selective hearing. It’s like a superpower.” Xander frowned at his friend. The grin on Ted’s face couldn’t disguise how exhausted he looked: skin too pale, circles under his eyes dark enough to be bruises, hair that would have given a brush a case of the nerves. “You okay? You look like you met the business end of a baseball bat.”
Ted slid him a look, as if he was weighing Xander’s words. Finally, he said, “Just tired. Nothing a little coffee won’t cure.” He took another sip as if to prove the point.
“Late night?”
Now Ted was staring at him. “Dude. Marcie’s. Last night.” He paused. “Remember?”
“Right.” Of course Xander remembered. Well, sort of. His memory was spotty, like he couldn’t quite focus on any one thing from the party. He grinned to cover his embarrassment. “Late night.”
Ted was looking at him oddly. “How much did you drink, anyway?”
“Dunno,” he admitted. “It’s sort of a blur. Head’s a little weird today.”
Ted saluted him with his cup. “That’s why God invented coffee. And aspirin. Are we going, or what?”
“Wallet’s in my room, give me a second.”
He raced to his bedroom and snagged his wallet, keys, and phone, pausing for a moment to glance at the framed Escher print hanging over his dresser. It showed a figure eight that had been twisted into a Möbius strip, flipping the figure 180 degrees, with ants crawling along both sides. Because of the extra twist, the ants would never meet, and they would crawl along the perpetual surface of the figure eight for all eternity.
Xander frowned. He was definitely having a moment, because for the life of him, he couldn’t remember when he’d gotten the poster, let alone framed it and put it on his bedroom wall.
Whatever. It was yet another side effect of having a baby brother double as an alarm clock.
Tucking his phone into his shirt pocket, Xander ducked into the nursery to tell his mom that he was headed out. He thought maybe she was changing Lex’s diaper, but no, she was sitting in the rocker—nursing the baby.
Xander blushed and turned his head so he couldn’t see anything he shouldn’t be seeing. “Mom! Hang a sign up or something!”
“I’ve got a nursing cloth covering me,” she said reasonably. “Nothing’s exposed, I promise. Besides, breast feeding is perfectly natural.”
Maybe so, but the thought of accidentally seeing his mother’s naked boob was enough to give him the heebie-jeebies. Bad enough that his parents obviously had had sex. Still not looking at her, he said, “I’m going with Ted to Izzy’s house to watch the game.”
“You’ll be home before six, right?”
He sighed. “I promise for the zillionth time I’ll be home to babysit.”
“My son the saint,” she said happily.
Not so saintly; he was hoping to build up enough good karma that his parents would reward him with a car. Xander was a believer in the power of positive thinking. Besides, he was going to ask Riley to come by tonight. He didn’t mention that part to his mom, who had definite ideas on when it was appropriate to leave two horny teenagers alone—also known as “never.”
Next he ducked into the kitchen, where his dad was playing yet another round of online poker. “Off to Izzy’s for the game,” Xander announced.
His dad didn’t look away from the screen. “You guys could watch here.”
“Izzy’s got surround sound.” And beer, but Xander didn’t mention that part.
“Damn it, should’ve held! Would’ve had four of a kind!” His dad let out a frustrated snort. “Guess no one sees something like that coming.”
(the Pale Rider is coming)
For no reason he could name, Xander thought of his fragmented dream, the one that had led him to sketch four horses breaking the world. Suddenly uneasy, he forced a grin onto his face. Dreams were stupid and meant to be forgotten.
“Heading out. And yes,” he said before his dad could mention it, “I’ll be back by six.”
His dad grunted, “Good man.” Then he cursed at the virtual players at the online poker table.
Xander said, “At least it’s not for real money. Which is good, because I’m guessing we’d be bankrupt by this point.”
“I swear,” his father muttered, “I don’t know why I bother. It always ends the same way, with me wanting to win even more.”
“So stop playing.”
His dad glanced at him, an odd twinkle in his eye. “But playing’s so much fun. Go, enjoy the game. Home by six.”
Xander agreed, collected Ted, and left the apartment. An elevator ride later, they were outside the building and walking to Ted’s car, which was parked across the street. It was a gorgeous day, with the sky so blue that the white of the clouds looked almost sharp. A cawing sound heralded a slice of black that suddenly cut through the blue—a flock of birds, taking flight.
No, not just birds, but crows. A murder of crows, marring the summer sky.
On impulse, Xander took out his cell phone and snapped a picture of the crows. Their cries hung in the air, echoing after the flock passed on to another patch of sky.
Soon, the birds warned. Soon, soon.
“Come on,” Ted said, unlocking his door. “Places to be, beer to drink.”
“Yeah, okay,” Xander replied absently, staring at the place where the crows had been. The last of the caws faded, leaving only an impression of doom.
He shook his head and finally got into the passenger seat of Ted’s secondhand beast of an automobile, which Xander thought of as the Death Car. The shocks were nonexistent; the brakes were questionable; the seat belts were an afterthought. How the thing always passed inspection was anyone’s guess. Ted had gotten it for his seventeenth birthday last year, and he swore
he’d drive it until it fell apart. Which, based on the odometer, could be any second now.
Once Xander shut the door, Ted gunned it out of the parking spot. The Death Car lurched down the street, belching exhaust. Ten seconds later, Xander was clinging to the grip over his door.
“I think you missed a pothole back there,” he said through gritted teeth.
Ted grinned at him. “Nope. Got ’em all. I’m talented like that.”
Maybe it was because he was behind the wheel of his beloved evil car, but Ted looked worlds better than he had at Xander’s house: the paleness of his skin softened from sickly to merely sun-starved, and the shadows under his eyes gave him an air of mystery, even danger. He could have been on his way to a casting call for beautiful vampires, except vampires didn’t sip from old Styrofoam cups and grimace every time they swallowed.
Xander asked, “Want to grab some fresh coffee before we hit the package store?”
“Zan, the man with the plan.”
“You know you said that with your out-loud voice, right?”
“I blame the bad coffee.”
Ted pulled into a fast-food drive-through, although the word “fast” was a horrible tease, considering the line of vehicles ahead of them. Once the Death Car stopped moving, the air became oppressive—the car didn’t have luxuries like air conditioning—so Xander and Ted both opened their windows.
“Love the smell of garbage and hot oil in the morning,” Xander said, breathing deeply.
“That’s because you’re disturbed. Damn it!” Ted swatted at a mosquito, which avoided his hand either by luck or insectile agility. “Stupid bugs. What’s the point of mosquitos?”
“Food for fish.”
“Can’t they just eat a pizza?”
“Maybe if they had teeth.”
“They bite, don’t they?”
The mosquito whined by Xander’s arm. He waited until it touched down, just below his elbow, and then he smashed it to a smear. Bug guts and Ted’s blood combined in a deathly streak that marred Xander’s skin.
“Zan the skeeter killer,” Ted said.
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