Ink and Shadows (15 page)

“I’ll go ask.” Mal knew he didn’t have any, but he knew the others sometimes took analgesics, usually after a long sparring round with Death. “Min might have something.”

“Thanks.” Kismet risked another movement of his arms, rubbing at his temple. The throbbing intensified, threatening to crack his head open. “My head hurts almost as much as my ribs do.”

Mal left his room and knocked on Min’s door. The sounds of a car chase barely whispered through the door, made louder when it suddenly opened. Mal stood there, nearly jumping back when faced with Min biting off the end of a peeled banana. Tires screeched loudly before she aimed a remote at the television she’d hung on the wall, condemning the action film to a temporary silence.

“Whatcha need?” she said around a mouthful of fruit. Her toes were separated by large wads of cotton balls, the smell of fresh polish fighting with the powdery tang of the banana. “Tell me he solved all of our problems by dying.”

“Nope. He’s awake, in fact,” Mal replied. “I was hoping you had aspirin. He’s asking for some.”

“Aspirin I’ve got.” Min waddled through her living space, walking around the wide-open staircase and into the upstairs bathroom. “Eternal life and still with the headaches. At least we don’t get colds. I’d have to kick your ass if I caught a cold, because it would have been your fault.”

“I didn’t come up with the cold,” Mal retorted. “You have to blame another Pestilence for that one.”

“It’s a legacy disease. All of you are responsible for it,” Min shouted at Mal through the open door.

Unlike Mal’s cluttered rooms, Min preferred clean lines and a nearly rabid neatness. The only sign of mess was a cracked-open nail polish bottle on a freeform glass table. The banana skin was nowhere to be seen. She made some sounds as she dug around in the medicine cabinet, bottles clattering against one another. Mal peered at her movie collection, mostly action flicks and Chinese epics, filed alphabetically. The shelf below held a few music CDs, also fanatically arranged by artist and release date.

“You’re kind of odd,” Mal said when Min came back in, checking an expiration date as she
walked. “In an everything-in-a-line kind of way.”

“You should talk.” She handed over a bottle, a few small white pills jangling at the bottom. “You’ve got stuffed animals shaped like diseases.”

“I thought they were ironic.” He sniffed, slightly put off by her laughing tone. “It seemed ironic to me.”

“Ironic would have been one of us buying them for you,” Min pointed out. “Pathetic is when you buy them for yourself. Go dose the kid up. With any luck he’ll survive the day, and we can return him to the wild. If you handle them too long, their mothers don’t take them back into the nest.”

“You think Death would mind if he stayed?” Mal was cut off by a shake of Min’s head. “I don’t think he’s human anymore.”

“Don’t even think about it. If you want a pet, go get a cat.” Min pushed Mal toward the open door. “Yeah, he’s pretty. But he’s not yours. He needs to go back where you found him. Some sad-faced girl is probably bawling her eyes out because the pretty little thing she cuddles with didn’t come home last night.”

“You’re mean,” Mal muttered, turning the bottle over to read the instructions.

“I’m Famine.” Min leaned against the frame of her bedroom door. “You don’t get to be Famine because you’re all sweetness and light. Takes some balls to starve people to death. Go. I want to watch my movie.”

Mal grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen, then returned to his suite. Holding a few of the pills in his hand, he slid between the table and the couch, staring down at the battered human. Kismet was fast asleep, the flicker of his eyelids faint beneath a blush of bruised skin. The morning light pinked the room, rays peeking up over the low mountains. Kismet shifted, mewling softly.

Turning onto his side, the young man flung one scar-dappled arm over his face, shutting out the dawn. The hem of his torn shirt rode up over his stomach, exposing a stretch of skin flushed with healed contusions.

“Probably better if you sleep it off.” Mal set the water glass down, making sure the aspirin wouldn’t roll off the table. Taking one final glance over at the young man, Mal turned off the lights and shut curtains. “Night, Kismet. Try to have only good dreams.”

A
RI
STRETCHED
out over Death’s bed, luxuriating in the softness of fine cotton sheets and plump
feather pillows. Of all the things mankind had created, Ari put bedding at the top of his list,
possibly even above a powerful engine. The linens smelled of Death, pungent overtones of green tea with
a delicate whisper of citrus floating just below. Turning his head, the immortal found a single black hair
caught on the pillow. Ari grabbed one end and held it aloft, tickling the edges of his
mouth.

The sheets were cold next to him, the linens dimpled from the weight of Death’s body. A glance at the clock on the nightstand showed only a few hours had passed since he’d fallen asleep, much too soon for Death to be awake, in Ari’s opinion. He slid from the bed, pulled on a pair of sweats, then went upstairs to search for the other Horseman.

Balboa Park glimmered below, expanses of trees punctuated by strings of white lights along the boulevards intersecting the greenery. The Museum of Man’s ornate tower rose into the night, illuminated from within. In the daytime the long stretch of windows displayed a serene view of the park. At night it transformed into a dazzling panoramic pageant of lights, spots of white highlighting the museum’s architecture. With morning just an hour or two away, the spire was dusted with the oncoming dawn’s pink light.

Ari liked Death’s study, a mishmash of old, comfortable furniture, soft couches set around low tables. A mug of cold tea kept company with stacks of old books and sheets of loose papers dotted with Death’s scrawling handwriting. The deep red walls were lined with bookcases dotted with art pieces that Ari didn’t understand and wasn’t sure if he liked.

Death kept very little of his past around him, shutting artifacts into boxes before putting them away. The few things he kept were intimate, little tidbits of the life he shared with Ari. A tiny scrimshaw spinning wheel shone gold under the light, the worked ivory a gift Ari had left on Death’s pillow when they lived in Shanghai.

Ari pushed aside the glossy leaves of a large dieffenbachia, studying the Asian sitting crouched over his books.

“What are you doing up?” Ari asked. “You should be asleep, not looking over dusty books.”

“I never let books get dusty.” Death barely looked up when Ari approached him, his attention fixed on the scattering of pages in front of him. “What are you doing up? And half-naked no less.”

“I came looking for you. Maybe I was hoping I could entice you back into bed. You’re tired, Shi.” Ari sat down. He wanted to pull Death into his arms, telling the other man to shut up, let go, and sleep. It was an old argument, one Ari never tired of fighting, because once in a great while, it was one that he won. “I can see the bags beneath your eyes. They’re not pretty.”

“I feel like there’s an answer here.” A flip of a page waved the distinct fragrance of old paper into the air, a sweet, pungent smell Death loved. “I just needed to do something.”

“Yeah, I get like that too. Neither one of us likes being helpless.” A flicker of black ran across Death’s notes, a single sentence moving slowly from right to left. Picking up the page, Ari attempted to make sense of the scribbles. “The infamous ‘They’ decided to speak up about something? What’s it say?”

Death pursed his mouth, nearly a kissable pout to Ari’s eyes. He turned the page around, then returned to his reading. “Try that.”

“I still can’t make this out.” Ari returned Death’s moue, mocking the other Horseman. “I learned to read after this crap became archaic, remember? Did someone behind the curtain actually cough up some information for a change? Do we look for a big neon arrow that flashes Stupid Magus Here?”

“Nothing that helpful.”

“The moving text is a nice touch. Got to give them that.” Ari touched the page, expecting to feel movement under his hand. The paper remained smooth, despite the shifting letters. “Might give you a headache if you stare at it long enough.”

“I wish it would stop. I think I wrote something important there that I want to check against this,” Death said, tracing a line of text in a book. “It only says that things will get worse for this world if we don’t stop this thing, whatever it is.”

“Oh yes,” the blond shot back. “We didn’t know that. Maybe we should just let them all die. I mean, sometimes, don’t you just wish humans would clean up their own messes?”

Death glanced at his hijacked notes, hoping the moving text had stopped so he could reference a passage against what he wrote. “When did you of all people become judgmental?”

“Maybe I’m jealous. I like being the center of your attention.” Ari stroked Death’s bare arm, the back of his hand warmed by the contact. “Tell me you found something useful in the books at least. Or should I just drag you off to bed?”

“Only bits and pieces.” Death’s heavy sigh rattled in his chest. As he rubbed at his face, fatigue spread through his body, numbing him down to his bones. “I don’t know what I thought I could find. I guess I hoped there was someone in the past who did the same thing and I could find something solid.”

“And the wraiths that seemed to want to eat us?” Ari asked. “There’s not a lot of accidental in that.”

“No,” Death admitted. “That definitely wasn’t an accident. I don’t think I have the right books or maybe even the proper translations. Reading through these is like trying to grab at a ghost. Just when I
think I have something solid, it whispers out of my mind. The closest reference I can find is about a thirteenth-century sorcerer that disappeared into the shadows and never came out.”

“If he never came out, how do they know it happened?”

“His apprentice was tasked with keeping track of his experiments.” Death leaned into the curve of Ari’s body, cradling a book between them. “This is a translation of the student’s original journals. He says that his mentor worked on an elixir for decades, testing it on criminals.”

“How did that go?”

“The text says most of the test subjects died. A few went insane.” Turning a page, Death pointed to an illustration of a man parting a curtain. “He then wrote that the sorcerer took the potion himself and stepped through a lake of mercury. As far as the apprentice knew, no one ever saw the man again.”

“So, the same things that happened then are happening now?” Ari reached for Death’s cup of tea, making a face at the cold, bitter brew. “Walking through a lake of mercury. That sounds like the Veil.”

“It does,” Death agreed. “If the apprentice could see the Veil, he might have been a Seer and not have known it. The journals don’t say much beyond that. I think Peace might have an original text. He gave me this one.”

“Surprisingly generous of him.” The next sip of tea was more palatable, Ari decided, the bitterness edged out by a light verdant taste behind it. “Let’s get you back into bed. We can go talk to Peace about lending us what he’s got. Maybe take a couple of goats and a basket of eggs in trade.”

“He’ll think you’re offering him a dowry.” Death allowed himself to be pulled from the couch, Ari’s hand closed around his fingers. Ari turned the lights off, then led Death downstairs, back to the bed they’d shared. As Ari shed his sweats, Death shut the curtains, hiding the waking cityscape from view.

Joining Ari, the eldest Horseman tucked himself under the sheets War held up for him. They’d gotten no real guidance, and while Ari didn’t expect any, Death hoped for at least a clue on where to start looking for the human.

They lay together often, sometimes for comfort, other times for warmth. Death slid into the hollow of Ari’s body, easing against the other immortal’s side. The blond’s right shoulder cupped Death’s cheek, Ari’s hand sliding down to stroke at the Asian man’s back, tracing the dip of his spine before following the bone line up to the winged jutting of blades beneath the brush of Death’s black hair. The elder slid his arm over Ari’s belly, the bend of his elbow just striking the edge of the other’s hip bone.

Shifting, Death moved to free the loose ends of his drawstring pants, trapped between them.

Finding the edges of sleep just beyond his grasp, Death let his mind wander, his fingers finding the scar on Ari’s rib cage and tracing the edges lightly. As the Horseman settled, Ari waited, naked and silent under Death’s body, their breathing falling into sync.

“Mal will probably have to head to Hong Kong in a bit.” Death spoke, his breath a whispering heat over War’s chest. A lamp burned low on the table, giving him just enough light to see Ari’s stomach muscles bunching under his touch. “I think there are things brewing for him in the burned remains of that slum I was called to.”

“Let’s leave work outside of this room for right now.” Ari bent his head down, murmuring into Death’s hair. “If you need to talk, I have things we can talk about.”

“I’m too tired to revisit old arguments, Ari.” Death knew he should remove himself from War’s hold, but the seductive warmth of the other’s body eased the weariness in his flesh.

“I have a new one, actually.” Ari exhaled, finally releasing the knot of apprehension that grew in his belly. Death shifted as if to move away, but Ari stopped him with a firm hand against the rise of his backside, holding the Horseman against him. “Listen to me, Death.”

There was no anger in War’s voice, just a cold flatness edged sharp by the overwhelming fear he’d cut his throat on every time he swallowed. He was surprised to find a calmness in his soul. His emotions, which were normally at odds with his heart, were serenely in agreement with the decisions he’d made, a far cry from the chaos that ruled his mind. Death heard the change, staying quiet against Ari’s body, his face still pressed on the ridge of the other man’s collarbone.