Around me, the other horsemen lay dying. There’s no more lightning, no more arrows, no more knives. I see kind Pestilence, and fierce War, and mercurial Famine twisting on the ground, their bodies aging before my eyes.
“You’re killing them!” I shout. Two tears slip off my cheeks. When did I start crying?
“They cannot truly die, Lazarus,” Death says, his voice emotionless. “None of us can.”
Using my dagger, I saw at one of the trees, but with every passing second, its trunk seems to thicken. I give up cutting it down and start to climb up it. I slip over and over again as I climb, and when I finally do get to the top, the plants are woven inward, amongst themselves, creating a domed ceiling of sorts that is frustratingly impenetrable.
I still saw at it with my blade, my heart beating frantically.
Faster, faster.
There can’t be much time left.
My dagger slides from my slick palms, and I make the mistake of reaching for it. That knee-jerk reaction throws me off-balance, and I lose my grip. I slip, then fall to the ground, a groan slipping out as I land hard on my back.
I roll to my side, my body feeling brittle and bruised. Through my makeshift cage, I catch sight of Famine’s own enclosure. It’s no longer needed, now that the revenants have fallen back. Inside it, the Reaper lies curled up in a fetal position, his caramel-colored hair hanging lank about him. His skin has taken on a grayish hue, and it sags from his bones. One of his hands is pressed to his chest, and his face is set in a grimace.
A small sound slips from my lips at the sight of the once fearsome man brought to the brink of death.
At the sound, Famine eyes snap open, and they find mine. The terrible, moody horseman and I share a long look.
Finish this, his eyes seem to say.
Famine reaches out a hand towards the plants that imprison me, his arm shaking. The trees caging me in part just enough for me to pass through.
Famine lowers his arm, giving me a slight nod—one that I return to him.
Grabbing my dagger, I force myself to my feet and lunge free of the enclosure.
Death begins to turn to me when Famine calls out, “You fucking fool!” His voice is weak despite the fact that I think he’s trying to shout. “You held the entire world in your arms and you squandered it for what? This?” He gives a hollow laugh that turns into a cough. “You can rot for eternity, Thanatos. You’ll regret this moment until the end of your shitty existence.”
Eerily slow, Death turns to him. He looks mythical, his silver armor unblemished, his dark wings looming behind him.
Famine bought me this moment. Silently, I move towards Thanatos. Right now, Death has eyes only for Famine.
Thanatos takes a step forward, his boot crunching over bone, his wings dragging through the rot on the ground.
“You wanted your mortality, brother?” Death says. “You have earned it. Once this is all over, you will die alongside your beloved humans.”
A choked sound slips from Famine’s lips. As I watch, his bronze armor disappears from his body. At his side, the scythe he once put against my neck fades away until nothing remains.
Then, all at once, Famine goes limp. I think he’s dead for a second, but then I hear his shallow pants. With Death’s gaze still fixed on him, I take several more steps towards my horseman, all but holding my breath.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Famine put a hand to his chest.
He lets out a weak laugh. “You bastard,” the Reaper wheezes out. “You bastard.”
I fear War and Pestilence are already dead. I fear that if I waste any more time being subtle, Famine will die too.
I step over the scattered bones and corpses, not bothering to muffle my steps. The world around us is quiet, so painfully quiet.
Achingly slow, Thanatos turns his attention to me.
He’s just as beautiful and tragic as the first time I laid eyes on him. Only now, I see that he was shaped for this moment.
“I can’t let you do this,” I say.
Those strange and lovely eyes of his—the ones that seem to hold the entire universe—take me in.
“What is there to fear, kismet?” he says softly. His hair is rippling with the immensity of his power. “You will not die, and I will not leave you behind.”
“Damn you, Thanatos, this isn’t about me.” It’s never been about me.
Death spoke of God watching—meddling even.
Surely in this moment I have Her ear.
Let me stop this. Whatever role I’m supposed to play, let me play it. Let me end this.
There’s a sound like the crack of thunder and a blinding light that seems to come from behind my eyes.
I stumble, unable to hear beyond the ringing in my ears or see past the light clouding my vision.
Slowly, the ringing in my ears turns into the sound of my pulse pounding. Th-thump—th-thump—th-thump.
I blink several times, the world coming back into focus.
“Lazarus.” There’s a hand on my back, and I glance up into Death’s unearthly eyes. Those silver freckles in his irises seem to shine brighter than before, and they’re full of the concern I’m used to seeing on Thanatos’s face.
Solemn, tragic Thanatos, who is not afraid of death, but hates suffering. Thanatos, who is universally hated, even by his own brothers. He who is forever chained to his awful task. Forever misunderstood. Forever alone.
Except when we’re together.
Do you really think any of it was random?
Tightening my grip on my weapon, I lift the blade, my eyes meeting Thanatos’s. It’s just us. The other horsemen are as good as gone. The city lays in ruins, and its inhabitants are scattered around us.
The hand holding my dagger trembles as I point it at Death’s chest, the tip of it hovering over those chthonic images hammered into the metal. I’m petrified as my gaze lifts to the horseman’s. What I’m about to do goes against everything I believe in.
For an instant, Death’s eyes flicker with betrayal. I take a deep breath, my entire body quaking.
“You would hurt me?” he says softly.
I swallow as I stare at him.
His mouth forms a grim line as he takes in my expression.
Thanatos squares his chest. “Do it,” he dares. “This is the only chance I’ll give you.”
I draw in a shaky breath. Give me strength.
There are two ways to stop Death: kill him—
Or kill me.
I turn the dagger on myself and drive it into my chest.
Chapter 73
Los Angeles, California
October, Year 27 of the Horsemen
I’ve read stories about people falling on their own swords. They always made it seem noble and tragic.
Fuck all of that. This hurts like shit.
“NO!” Death roars like a wounded creature.
I barely hear it over the rushing sound of blood pounding in my ears. The strange way my heart spasms makes it clear that I hit something important.
I choke on the pain as I glance down at my chest. The blade is still sticking partway out, but it hurts so damn bad I don’t think I can push it in any deeper.
I reach for the wound, slicing myself on the exposed blade. Blood slips between my fingers, and it’s coming out … fast. Real fast.
Then Death is there, his body enveloping mine. He lowers us both to the ground, cradling me in his arms.
“Why, Lazarus?” he says, his voice breaking, “Why?” No longer is he remote and larger than life.
It takes effort to move my eyes to his.
“Someone … needed … to stop … you.”
Death’s wings come around us. The battle has been forgotten. Humanity and Judgement Day has been forgotten. All of it has been sidelined as he stares down at me.
He’s shaking his head. “You cannot stop me.”
I slump against him, a ragged sound slipping from my lips.
He presses a hand to my wound, and I gasp at the pain it elicits.
“I need to get this out,” he says, wrapping a hand around the hilt of the dagger.
I shake my head, but he isn’t listening.
Grimacing, I see his face grow resolved. Then— He pulls the blade from my chest.
I scream—or at least I try to. It comes out as an agonized moan, and blessedly, I black out.
“Kismet …”
I stir, pulled to wakefulness by that lamenting voice.