“I cannot gratify you and the universe, kismet,” Thanatos says. “But I don’t want this. I don’t want to do it at all.”
A building in the distance goes down.
BOOM!
The earth shakes violently, and if it weren’t for Thanatos’s grip on me, I would’ve been thrown to the ground.
I cast a wild glance around us. The world is about to be unmade stone by stone, and Death is responsible.
Death, who held me close at my worst moments. Who has agonized over my suffering, even when we were enemies.
“So this is how it all ends?” I say. “This is how I end?”
Death cups my face. “Life and Death are lovers, Lazarus. There is no end for us, no me without you, and no you without me. You are the one exception to all of this. My one exception. I can reap the world … but I cannot—will not—take you with the rest. I will not leave you at all.”
I can’t wrap my mind around what Death is saying, but what I do understand is that I’ll be left behind. Everything else will go, but not me.
The mere possibility of that future is terrifying.
The horseman’s expression turns distant, and I can see Death as he must appear to others—remote, remorseless, and uncompromising.
My heart beats madly. He’s really going to do this. I can see he is. Dear God.
Thanatos moves away from me, his attention turning to his brothers. “The time for talking is over,” Death says. “Join me or fight me, but the Final Judgment is now upon us.”
Chapter 71
Los Angeles, California
October, Year 27 of the Horsemen
It’s a clear day, the day the world ends.
The trembling ground shakes more violently than ever, making one of the wheels of the nearby overturned bike start to spin. Rocks and other debris skitter along the highway.
I back away from Death as he spreads his wings.
With a leap, the winged horseman surges into the sky. His face is all sharp edges. Solemn, tragic beauty only tempered by his fierce purpose.
He spreads his arms out. “Come for me, brothers—come for me if you dare!” he challenges.
At his words, several buildings explode around us. Glass and wood, drywall burst like fireworks before raining back down to earth. All the while, Death looks like the dark angel he is.
The wind whips about, lashing my hair against my face.
“Thanatos, please, stop!”
He ignores me.
I turn then and rush back to the other horsemen, who are all grimly reaching for their weapons, preparing for battle.
“Do you know how to stop him?” I ask them when I reach their side.
War glances up at me from where he’s strapping a leather harness filled with blades across his chest.
“You mean, is there a way to strip him of his powers?” War says. He gives his head a shake, his eyes blazing as he studies his airborne brother. “Nothing can do that except God or Death himself.”
Well, fuck.
Death
I can feel Lazarus’s life burning like a flame as my power whips out. Her spirit doesn’t feel like Pestilence’s or War’s—those two are mortal, their souls easy offerings. I spare their lives only because, willing or not, they will see this to the bitter end. Famine’s spirit is a bit trickier. He’s still immortal, but it would be short work to strip him of his mortality, if I so desired. And from there, I could claim his soul as well.
Lazarus, however, her unending life is still beyond my reach, and though I would not take it regardless, I am absurdly grateful that the choice has been lifted from me.
It was always meant to be this way. That’s clear enough.
After it is all over, I will make Lazarus see that it had to be this way, and I will win her love back. Because, unlike everyone else, she and I have all the time in the world.
Lazarus
I stare up at Death.
War’s gaze follows my own. “Every minute that passes is another mile of death he’s spread,” he says solemnly.
My heart bottoms out, and I imagine that all of us—Pestilence, War, Famine, and myself—are doing the math.
Just how many miles lie between here and Vancouver Island? How much time do we have until Death destroys the humans we care about above all others?
Pestilence removes bundles of arrows from one of Famine’s saddle bags, setting them near his feet. He pulls another arrow from his quiver and nocks it while Famine spins his scythe as though he’s loosening up his wrist.
A warm hand falls on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. I glance over at War, just as the massive horseman withdraws a massive dagger from one of the sheathes criss-crossing his chest. He presses it into my hand, his red glyphs glittering against his knuckles.