“Is there nothing else we can do?” I ask, lost.
“Pray,” she says. “There’s always hope in prayer.”
“Pray?” I echo.
To whom? God? I nearly let out a bitter laugh. God is not going to help us. God is rooting for the other side. The one that’s hunting me and everyone in this town.
Dr. Patel moves to the door, unaware of my tumultuous thoughts. “We will continue checking on Ben and making sure that his body is as healthy as it can be to fight this.”
With that, she leaves, and I’m left alone with Ben and my despair.
The night churns by, and Ben seems to only be getting worse and worse. Deep in the witching hour, he wakes up, his eyes glassy. The sight of those unfocused eyes has me picking him up and cradling him in my arms, careful not to disturb his IV line.
I stare down at him. “You’ll be alright,” I whisper to him. “You’re just like me. You can’t die.”
That’s never been proven, a small voice in my head whispers.
But I’ve gotten sick before. Hell, I’ve died before. Perhaps Ben is like me … perhaps—perhaps things will be okay.
I cling to that possibility as I gaze down at my son. He’s gone eerily quiet. All I wanted throughout the day was for him to stop crying, but not like this, when sickness and exhaustion are what have stolen his cries away.
I didn’t realize you could love something so thoroughly so quickly. I didn’t give birth to this boy and I’ve known him for less than a year, and yet if—if something happens to him, it will crush me worse than all of the deaths I’ve already endured.
I do pray—damn that doctor—I pray to the god the people in my hometown both loved and feared, even though that god killed my parents and then all the rest of my family and friends. Even though that god has let me die so many times only to force me to live. Even though that god is primed to take my son.
I’m so consumed by my own fear and grief that I don’t hear the animals off in the distance, nor do I notice the unnatural silence that falls over the hospital like a shroud. I don’t hear the ominous footfalls drawing closer and closer nor the slick sound of wingtips brushing against the floor.
I only glance up when the door opens, assuming it’s a nurse.
Instead, my eyes land on Death.
Chapter 33
Orange, Texas
July, Year 27 of the Horsemen
I suck in a gasp at the sight of him.
“No,” I whisper low, the word like a prayer, clutching Ben tighter to me. I had prayed for God to spare my son, not to hand-deliver Death to me.
Thanatos stares at me in equal astonishment. “I didn’t believe it,” he says, his voice hushed. “Not until now.”
I force my gaze away from Death. The trick with him is to not look too long or too hard. Otherwise, I might see something beyond my opponent, something real and human.
He steps into the dim, lamp-lit hospital room. “Months I have searched for you,” he says.
Despite myself, my gaze is drawn back to him.
Death’s dark eyes are fevered. “You stopped coming for me,” he accuses.
I don’t have an answer for him. He wants to talk about something that feels like a lifetime ago. But all I can focus on is the terrible situation that’s consumed me for the past day.
As though he can read my thoughts, Death’s eyes dip to the baby in my arms.
“You’re a mother?” Thanatos says, and the surprise is back in his expression.
My heart pounds in my chest. It’s about now that it’s actually sinking in: Death is inside Ben’s hospital room—Death who kills everyone.
I glance down at Ben, so afraid of what I’ll see. He’s frighteningly still, but I hear his faint inhalations.
Thanatos hasn’t killed my son. Has the horseman ever gotten this close to another living soul besides me without taking its life?
“Why are you here?” I demand.
His gaze is fixed to Ben. “I sense every living creature,” he says. “They open their souls to me when it’s their time to go.”
Death’s gaze rises to mine. His ancient eyes are sad—so, so sad.
“No,” I say again, my voice broken, my hold on Ben tightening. My son doesn’t let out so much as a whimper.
“The boy in your arms is very, very sick, Lazarus,” Thanatos says gently, taking a step forward.
I shake my head, trying to banish his words. “He’ll be fine,” I say, trying to reassure both of us.
“No,” Death says softly, taking another step towards me, “he won’t be.”