Hunger (17 page)

Finish it
, Famine said.

Working on it!
Gritting her teeth, Lisa tried to pull War down farther, but she was too weak, and her power slipped. She grabbed hold again, but it was too late; the ground beneath the knight began to harden.

"I'll kill you," War roared, her sword slicing at the clumping mud. "I won't rest until your head is mounted on a spike! You'll die for this offense!"

Finish it
, Famine said again.

How?
Lisa was drenched in sweat, her limbs trembling. What could she possibly do, besides stand here and count the seconds before she died? She was as weak as when she'd been willingly starving herself.

She needed food.

War let out a victorious laugh as she pulled one leg free.

Finish it!

Food.

Tucking the Scales into the crook of her arm, Lisa dove forward and grabbed on to War's sword arm. The knight bucked and kicked, trying to shake her off like a flea, but Lisa held on fast.

And she let Famine feast.

"No," War screamed as Famine ate away at her, "you can't!"

"Yeah," Lisa answered. "I can."

War screeched, renewing her thrashing with desperate force. But the Black Rider had her now, had gotten under her skin, and her blood lust was slowly sucked away. The knight staggered, crashing to her knees. Within her armor, she began to shrivel. She doubled over until the fiery plume at the crest of her helmet touched the ground.

Lisa still held on tight, her black eyes glittering with hunger.

"You're nothing," War whispered, her voice a dying wheeze. "Nothing without me."

"Oh, shut up," Famine said, and then she sucked out War's life.

The helmet slipped off and rolled on the hardening ground. It came to a halt, its metal crusted with mud, its bloody plume sodden and limp. Empty armor fell to the ground in a clatter of plate mail and mesh, formless. The Sword slipped out of War's vacant gauntlet and landed point-first in the still-hardening mud. By the time Lisa released her power, the Sword was half buried in the road, its hilt waiting for a new master to hold it tight.

War was gone.

Lisa sat down hard on the ground, her gaze fixed on the weapon. The Scales slipped from her numb fingers and clanged to the ground. Lisa didn't notice; she was queasy—probably from overeating, ugh—and a little heartsick. Yeah, War had been about to kill her. Still, she'd utterly destroyed the Red Rider—there wasn't even a body left to bury. Her head throbbed. Lisa propped her elbows on her knees and held her head in her hands.

The Thin voice had nothing to say. Perhaps it, too, was gone. That cheered Lisa somewhat as she sat on the dusty ground, waiting for her head to clear. Belatedly, she realized the horses had stopped fighting.

And that someone was standing behind her.

"Well now," Death said, "I didn't see that one coming."

Lisa was too tired to be afraid. Without turning around, she said, "So you're here to kill me?"

Behind her, Death let out a chuckle. It was as warm as War's had been full of malice. "Kill you? What makes you think I want to kill you?"

"Oh, I don't know. Your being death and all..."

A pause, and then Death asked, "Do you
want
me to kill you?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Well then, let's take that off the table, shall we?"

She glanced over her shoulder to look at him. He was still heroin-chic with long blond hair hanging in his face, his too-lazy-to-shave scruff, his long and lean physique that even his baggy, striped sweater couldn't disguise. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, and his sneakered feet were crossed at the ankles as he leaned against his pale horse. Even with his casual pose, there was an air of menace that wafted around him like deadly cologne. The other two horses, Lisa noted peripherally, were standing opposite Death and his steed, red and black heads down in what she took to be equine bows.

Huh.
Was she supposed to bow also?

"Only if the mood strikes you," Death said with a lazy smile.

Oh, right. "It's sort of unfair that you can read minds."

"Try not to think so loudly."

She decided he was joking. "If you're not here to kill me," she said slowly, "why are you here?"

He motioned to the empty armor on the ground.

"Oh," Lisa said, feeling very small. "Uh. I'm sorry about that."

He arched a pale eyebrow. "Why?"

She honestly didn't know how to answer that.

"Death is part of life," the Pale Rider said. "These things happen. Plus, she was going to kill you."

Maybe that was supposed to make Lisa feel better. "You said you didn't see this one coming. What did you see?"

"It's not as if I can read the future in tea leaves," he chided. "But since this is a business call and not a social one, frankly, I thought there would be a different Horseman standing now." He shrugged, as if in apology. "She did have an advantage."

"Sorry," Lisa said again.

Death shook his head. "You have to learn to stop apologizing for your own strength, and to stop cringing from your victories."

Her cheeks heated. "She, ah, told me she was your handmaiden."

This time when Death smiled, there was a hint of whimsy and sadness that crept by the corners. "She was. War and Death work well together."

Lisa looked down at her feet, feeling as if she'd just accidentally drowned his puppy.

"Pestilence and Famine work well together, too," Death added thoughtfully.

Okay, ew.

He laughed quietly. "It's all right, really. What she and I had can never be lost. It will always be there, like a book you can reread. But this particular chapter has come to a close."

The Pale Rider motioned with his hand, and in the ground, the Sword hilt shuddered.

"What..." Lisa swallowed, then tried again. "What are you doing?"

"My job."

The ground trembled and let out a terran sigh, and then the Sword unearthed itself. The weapon floated in the air, its blade gleaming and free of dirt and mud, and it glided over to Death. It hovered before him, pommel first, a breath away from his outstretched hand.

Death opened his mouth and neighed—not like a person pretending to neigh like a horse, but an actual neigh.

Oh wow
, Lisa thought, one hand covering her mouth.
Oh wow oh wow...

The pale horse snorted and trotted around its rider in a tight circle. When it returned to the place it started from, there was a limp saddlebag slung over its back. Lisa stared as Death rummaged through the sack she was quite certain hadn't been there a moment ago. As he dug about, a few items spilled out onto the ground: an iPod; an orange ballpoint pen with white writing on the side; a feather that was the orange-red of molten lava; a penny, green with age. Finally he pulled out a scarlet cloth the size of a handkerchief.

"The thing you want is always on the bottom," he murmured, "isn't it?" With a flick of his wrist he snapped the cloth open, and it unfolded into a blanket large enough to cover a twin bed. Death released the material, and it drifted in the air as if ready to tuck in a cloud.

Lisa was staring so hard that her eyes burned.

The Sword floated over to the scarlet cover and landed neatly in its center. The blanket wrapped itself around the weapon from tip to pommel, swaddling it like a baby with particularly sharp teeth.

"I have to admit," Death said, "the Scales are easier to package. This is sort of like a gunman encasing a rifle in a flower-box. Which, I suppose, is appropriate enough."

Lisa wondered if Death was being chatty because he liked talking or because he needed to talk as he performed this task. She held her tongue. No matter how bad she felt about her part in War's demise, no matter how much she wondered if the man standing here in his grungy sweater and faded jeans was grieving, he was still Death. And he freaking terrified her.

She did her best not to think that last part too loudly.

The scarlet bundle floated toward the saddlebag. Death glanced down and saw the scattered objects on the ground. His mouth twisted into a rueful smile as he squatted to retrieve the fallen items. The wrapped Sword, meanwhile, disappeared inside the sack. From all appearances, the sack was empty.

Lisa blinked.
That's absolutely impossible.
But then, the Horsemen and their accoutrements of office seemed to operate outside the realm of physics—or metaphysics.

She glanced over at Death and was somewhat embarrassed to see him stroking the orange-red feather that had fallen from the saddlebag, a faraway look on his face. He tucked it into the saddlebag and murmured something Lisa couldn't hear. Feeling as if she'd just spied two lovers in a stolen embrace, she turned away. The red and black horses, she saw, were still bowing. The pale horse watched its brethren, its glowing red eyes impossible to read.

Staring at the pale steed, Lisa felt horribly out of place. And surprisingly homesick. She missed her father calling her Princess. She missed James holding her. She admitted that she missed Suzanne terribly, that she longed to talk to her again. She missed her stupid pink bedroom.

She even missed her mother.

Lisa asked herself if she could she take the reins of the black steed, knowing what that meant—knowing that she would forever be Famine. Could she do it, and accept the responsibility that came with it? The very notion made her head spin.

An idea flitted across her mind as she looked at the steeds, as she darted glances at Death. Lisa's thoughts chased one another like drunken hummingbirds, and her breath came in quick bursts as the idea formed fully.

Was it that simple?

As she wrestled with the possible implications, Death walked over to the pile of fallen armor. He crouched down and touched the helmet, lowering his head as if in prayer. Then he plucked the filthy plume and twirled it between his fingers. The mud and soil spun away, leaving the feather the fiery red of a dragon's breath—different from the feather that had fallen from his saddlebag, yet incredibly similar. Standing tall again, Death gazed upon the armor.

The ground beneath him trembled.

Death didn't lose his balance; on the contrary, he cocked his head and said something that sounded like soil eroding, or maybe like a leaf turning brown.

And then the earth swallowed War's armor.

Lisa was thrilled and amazed and terrified and in wonderment. She felt larger than a mountain and smaller than a flea—connected to everything and yet separate from all things. She was part of the fabric of the universe; she was a speck. In the face of the sublime, unable to give her feelings a voice, all she said was, "Wow."

"Wow indeed." Death chuckled as he added the red plume to his saddlebag. He pulled the drawstrings taut, the sound like a coffin sliding home. Finally, he turned to face Lisa. "Well now," he said. "Off to find a new War."

I can do this.

It wasn't the Thin voice, but the voice of Lisabeth Lewis, seventeen and so very afraid. But for the first time in a long time, she wouldn't let the fear stop her or control her. That didn't make the fear go away, but it did make it bearable. Sort of.

Lisa took a deep breath and said, "Wait."

And amazingly, Death waited. But then, Death was patient. He had no reason to rush.

"I figured something out," Lisa said quietly, "just before War and I fought. And I've been thinking about it now."

"Oh?"

Lisa lifted her chin and met Death's fathomless gaze. "I want to live."

A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. "Do you now?"

Softly, she replied, "Yes."

Death's eyes sparkled with mirth and secrets. "What are you telling me, Black Rider?"

In barely a whisper she answered, "That I don't want to be Famine anymore." No, that wasn't quite right. "That I'm not Famine anymore." There, she'd said it. Stronger now: "I want to live my life."

"Are you certain?"

She nodded.

"Well then." Death motioned to the black horse. "Climb up. We'll finish this conversation at your house."

Of all the possible reactions Lisa had expected, that wasn't anywhere on the list. "At my house?"

"Sort of a schlep to get from this part of the world to your home. I figured you'd prefer to ride your steed one last time." Death grinned. "In another era, I would've made you walk."

Lisa gleeped, then scrambled to her steed.

"Lucky for you," Death said cheerfully, "I've mellowed out in my old age."

***

They landed in the garden beneath the girl's bedroom window; two Horsemen and three steeds. When Death and Famine slid off their mounts, the red horse made as if to bite the black one. Famine's steed would have defended itself, of course, but the pale horse flicked its ears back and whinnied softly, the warning all too clear.

Abashed, the warhorse ducked its head.

Death's steed swished its tail—both an insult and a dismissal. The black horse pretended not to notice.

The warhorse looked up, its eyes filled with rage. Snorting, the red steed clomped off to tear into the remaining rhododendrons, using teeth and hooves to batter the flowers into scented pulp.

Famine's steed exchanged a look with the pale horse, and both shrugged in their equine way. The black horse hoped the red would get a rider soon, and then go far, far away; it detested how the warhorse played with its food.

But then the Black Rider was saying farewell, and all thoughts of food were banished from the steed's mind.

***

Lisa stroked Midnight's neck, her fingers lingering over the warm flesh. Even standing right in front of the steed, she could barely see him—it was a dark, dark night, and no star shone above. The moon, too, had hidden its face, giving the Horsemen their privacy.

"Thank you for letting me be your rider," she said softly.

The horse blinked at her, as if the notion of it allowing her to do anything was rather funny. Then it rubbed its muzzle in her hand.

"I'll miss you, too. I hope your next rider remembers to get you more pralines."