It’s quiet for a long moment, and I can tell the men are uncomfortable with everything I’m telling them.
“Fuck it,” the chief of police says, threading his hands behind his head, his chair groaning as he shifts his weight. “If the lady wants to cut herself to prove a point, I say she does it.”
I don’t want to do anything.
The fire chief stares at me for a long moment, then nods his head.
“Really?” The mayor blows out a breath. “Fine, whatever.”
I begin rolling up one of my sleeves as the mayor mutters something under his breath.
“Just what exactly are you planning on doing?” the fire chief asks, his eyes narrowing.
I glance over at him. “I’m not going to kill myself, if that’s what you’re worried about. I heal unnaturally fast—I was planning on demonstrating that.”
“How exactly is one little cut supposed to prove that you can’t die?” the mayor says, somewhat hostile.
I blow out a breath. “Should I just go?” I ask. I feel defeated. “I want to help, but if you think I have malicious intent, I can go.” Bile rises at the thought. I don’t want to leave, but I also need to know when to fold.
I think I know what road the horseman will take into Lexington. If I leave now, perhaps I can cut him off …
“If you have malicious intent,” the mayor says, “you won’t be going anywhere.”
The chief of police holds up his hand. “Nobody is asking you to leave,” he says, giving the mayor a sharp look. “Do what you need to, to prove your claims.”
I exhale. Okay, I can do this. I haven’t scared off these officials yet.
I point to my bag. “Can I grab my knife?”
The men in the room tense as though I haven’t been saying for the last several minutes that I need a knife.
The fire chief eventually nods. “That’s fine.”
Slowly, I pull the blade out from my bag.
“One wrong move with that knife, miss, and I won’t hesitate to take you down,” the chief of police warns.
“I understand,” I say softly, unsheathing my blade.
This isn’t the worst situation I imagined. I assumed this gathering might fall apart at the seams and we’d never get this far. But we live in the time of nightmarish miracles. Defying death isn’t quite as insane as it might’ve been thirty years ago.
Baring my left forearm, I bring my knife to the exposed skin. I hesitate, drawing in a deep breath. I’ve never actually done this before, and my stomach turns at the prospect.
Before I can second-guess myself, I drag the blade down against my forearm. My flesh parts disturbingly easy. The pain comes a split second later, and even after all I’ve endured, it’s still a shock to feel that sharp sting.
I suck in a breath as my blood drips from the wound, and I drop my knife on the table.
Across from me, the fire chief stands, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket.
“To staunch the blood,” he explains. “It’s clean.”
Giving him a grateful look, I take it from him, wiping the blood away. A moment later, I round the table, heading over to the men, my arm extended.
“I figured you’d want to see the wound up close,” I say. “Just so that you all know it’s not a trick.”
I wipe the blood away, even as more wells up in its place. Around me, the three men do take a good look, the fire chief even going so far as to grasp my forearm and move it this way and that.
“How long will it take to heal?” he asks, releasing my arm.
I shake my head. “An hour, maybe two.”
“Two hours?” The mayor raises a hand as if to say, what was even the point of this?
And I agree—two hours is too long to wait.
“If that’s a problem,” I say, “then put me in a cell, lock me away for two hours, and begin making evacuation plans. If I’m lying, you can keep me there,” I say. “But I’m not,” I add, steel in my voice, “so you best start prepping.”
I’m not taken to a cell, but I am led to an interrogation room where I am kept for the next two hours, the door locked from the outside.
The time passes glacially slow, but eventually the doorknob turns, and an officer opens the door. Behind him the chief of police and the mayor file into the tiny interrogation room.
“Hank’s busy at the moment,” the chief of police says as the door closes behind them, “so he couldn’t be here.”
I assume Hank is the fire chief, and I have to hope that he’s busy evacuating people.
The mayor nods to my injury, which is now wrapped in gauze. “How’s it doing?” he asks, his eyes guarded. I think he’s still sure this is some prank.
Looking at both men, I begin unwrapping the bandages until the last of the linen falls away. Beneath it, there’s still a smear of dried blood where the wound once was. Taking the cup of water I was left in here with, I pour a little over the blood staining my skin, then use my bandages to wipe it away.
Beneath it, the flesh has stitched itself back together. There’s not even a faint scar left to indicate that there was ever a wound to begin with.
“I’ll be damned.” The chief of police’s words are hushed, almost reverent.
His eyes flick to me. “Who are you?”
Those were the very same words Death asked me, and at the reminder, a chill runs down my spine.
“Do you believe me now?” I say.
The interrogation room is quiet.
“Because if you do,” I say softly, taking their silence for a yes. “Then there’s a lot we should do to prepare, and not much time left to do it.”
Chapter 9
Lexington, Kentucky
October, Year 26 of the Horseman
I crouch inside the attic of a trading post that sits on the edge of Lexington, the smell of tobacco and beeswax wafting from the crates around me. My bow and arrow are poised over the open window, the late afternoon sun hanging low in the sky. I have a view of the I-64, the highway I’m betting the horseman will use to enter this city.
I adjust my grip on my bow. I’m a decent shot, but not great. I glance across the street, where a handful of other archers lie in wait behind and on the roof of a horse stable. One of them is Jeb Holton, the chief of police. He was adamant about being posted here, on the road that I felt most certain Death would be traveling.
The rest of the streets in and out of the city are being guarded as well. The horrible truth is that no one has any idea if or when or from which direction the horseman will ride through.
I roll my shoulders and crack my neck. My muscles are stiff from sitting still for so long.
I worry my lower lip. It’s been over twenty-four hours since I first met with Lexington officials, and I’ve sat up here for almost half that amount of time, taking shifts sleeping alongside Kelly Ormond, the officer posted up here with me.
Outside, the road is fairly busy as people flee their homes. Evacuation orders have been given, and over the last day many have packed up and left.
Many have also stayed.
At the window next to mine, Officer Ormond waits, her own bow poised.
Distant animal calls break the silence. My body tenses as I notice the thick, moving darkness on the horizon and the distant, shocked cries of travelers on the highway below us. As I watch, that dark mass moves like a wave towards us.
I hear bleating and howling and cawing and a hundred other animal cries over the shouts of frightened evacuees. Creatures flood the highway, overturning bikes and carts and barreling through the people on the road.
Once the animals are gone, an eerie silence follows in their wake, raising the hair on my arms.
I strain my eyes, searching, searching …
“Think the horseman’s coming our way?” she asks.
“Yes.” I’m certain that in a matter of minutes I’m going to see Death face-to-face once more. At that, unease pools low in my belly. Even after everything he’s done to me and my family, I’m not sure I’m ready for what I’m about to do—what I have already set in motion.
I can hear the beat of my own heart. I steady my breath.