Death （The Four Horsemen #4）
Laura Thalassa
To Dan
So it was fated.
When the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature saying, “Come!” I looked, and behold, an ashen horse; and the one who sat on it had the name Death, and Hades was following with him.
—Revelation 6:7–8 NASB
But [Death] has a heart of iron, and his spirit within him is pitiless as bronze: whomever of men he has once seized he holds fast: and he is hateful even to the deathless gods.
—Hesiod, Theogony
Part I
Chapter 1
Temple, Georgia
July, Year 26 of the Horsemen
The first time I meet Death, I am … not ready.
A trickle of sweat drips down between my shoulder blades as I look over the list of items I need to pick up for my niece’s birthday barbeque later today. There’s a dull drone of noise around me as people shop at our outdoor market.
Tomatoes—got it.
Leafy greens—got it.
Cantaloupe—got it.
I scan over the rest of the items. I think all that’s left are apples.
Stashing my list in my back pocket, I glance up at the open-air farmers’ market, scanning the tables for the one I’m looking for. As soon as I spot Tim’s stall, I start winding my way towards it. He’s a cantankerous old man, but he’s the only seller I know who regularly stocks produce that’s out of season.
I’m convinced witchcraft is involved.
I’ve just made it to Tim’s stall when the animals freak out. And they all freak out. The horses tied to nearby posts jerk against their restraints, dozens of birds take flight all at once, and the dogs in the area let out frightened, baying cries.
Old Bailey’s mule races down the highway next to the market, his horse cart still attached. And the sheriff’s steed throws his owner off his back before galloping away, saddle and all.
Still more creatures dash through the outdoor market, knocking over tables and baskets, scattering people and produce as they go. I can see the terrified whites of their eyes. They and their fear move like a storm cloud through the market.
Eventually, the stampede tapers off, leaving behind a hollow silence that raises the hair on my arms.
What … was that?
I glance around. Everyone else looks confounded as well.
“What in the hell?” someone says.
“In all my life, I’ve never seen animals act that way,” someone else says. But then the thought is punctuated by a laugh, and someone else joins in, and suddenly, it’s like the tension leaks out of the space.
People help right knocked over crates and chairs, the produce gets rearranged, and conversations resume. A group of men and women split off to retrieve the lost animals, and an elderly man helps the sheriff to his feet.
Everyone seems to be shrugging off the strange behavior like a bad dream.
I turn back to Tim, the stall owner, and then my eyes drop to the apples. I try to focus, though I haven’t shaken that unnerving silence that seems to ring in my ears. My attention drops to the apples.
I read the price, then I read it again.
“A dollar fifty per apple?” I say, astounded. That must be an error.
“You don’t like the price, then don’t buy them,” Tim says.
So it’s not an error.
“I didn’t even say the price was too high,” I respond, though it is. “The fact that you assumed it means you know it’s unreasonable.”
“Deal with it.”
He might as well steal my purse while he’s at it. Way to rob the customer blind.
“But it’s an apple,” I say slowly. This has to be a joke.
“You don’t like it, buy from someone else.”
Damn this man. He knows no one else has apples at this time of year. And my niece Briana was very specific that she wanted an apple pie for her birthday.
“A dollar,” I say. It’s still a ridiculously unreasonable price, but it’s better than a dollar fifty per apple. My God.
“No,” he states flatly. His gaze moves away from me, to another woman who is looking at a nearby crate of corn.
“A dollar twenty-five,” I try again, even as I’m trying to figure out if any other sellers would have apples in stock. Martha might …
Tim gives me an annoyed look. “I’m done talking about this.”
“This is ridiculous—you seriously want a dollar fifty for an apple? It’s an apple!” I say.
“They’re out of season,” he responds gruffly.
I guffaw. “I’ll pay”—this is so unbelievably stupid—“eleven dollars for eight of them.” These better be the best damn apples I’ve ever tasted; they better make me see God.