I don’t have time to argue.
“Done,” I say, feeling only a little ill at ease.
I’ll worry about the implications of this later.
The corner of War’s mouth curls just slightly.
“I didn’t agree to this,” Famine protests.
War’s gaze goes to the Reaper. “Do it, brother.”
Famine grimaces. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters.
His eyes cut to me, and I can see how much the Reaper dislikes me—or maybe it’s simply what I represent. But when his attention drops to Ben, his gaze softens.
Without asking, Famine reaches out and takes my son from me. He cradles Ben in his arms, and something sad and vulnerable peeks out from the back of the horseman’s eyes as he stares down at my son.
The Reaper places a hand on the side of Ben’s face. Taking a deep breath, his eyelids close.
No one in the room moves. I can sense Pestilence and War nearby, but they might as well be on another continent. All I have eyes for are Famine and Ben.
Nothing happens.
The seconds slip by, then it’s a minute. Then that minute bleeds into two, then four … longer and longer it goes, and no one speaks, no one moves. And yet the air is thick with—I would call it magic, except that makes it sound like whatever is happening is some sort of cheap trick. This is life and death. This is being born from clay and returning to the earth and the world turning and shifting. It feels like I am surrounded by the essence of everything.
The longer I wait, the more unsure I suddenly become. Shouldn’t it be faster? Death snaps his fingers and cities fall. Why is one act of creation—if you can even call it that—so much more drawn out?
But then—
Ben’s breathing seems stronger and his pallor looks healthier. He moves a little, and it doesn’t look weak or painful.
I’ve seen atrocities, I’ve seen despair and unimaginable horror.
I’ve never seen something as miraculous as this.
I’m choking on my own breath, on all my terror and despair and everything else that has beaten me down. And then it’s exiting my body.
Famine opens his eyes, and for a moment, as he gazes down at Ben, the horseman gives him a brief smile.
A sob slips from my lips.
The Reaper’s eyes reluctantly move to mine. “He’s healed.”
Chapter 36
Orange, Texas
July, Year 27 of the Horsemen
Healed.
Tears are slipping from my eyes as I take Ben from Famine. My son starts to cry again, and I shudder out a breath. He was too weak before to cry. As soon as he’s settled in my arms, his cries die down a bit.
I kiss and hug him until Ben is officially annoyed. He’s alive. Alive and healthy when he’d been marked for death. I can hardly fathom it.
War comes over with a canteen and offers it to me. “For your son,” he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “He looks thirsty.”
Grateful, I take the canteen from War and bring it to Ben’s lips. He drinks the water down as fast as he possibly can, choking—then crying a little—before drinking some more.
Pestilence quietly hands me a slice of bread and some raspberries, which are also presumably to give to Ben.
My emotions are a mess. These men who came to Earth to destroy humans saved my son, and now they’re nurturing him.
“Thank you,” I say softly, meeting each rider’s gaze as Ben takes the bread with shaky hands and begins devouring it. My eyes fall on Famine, who glances away, his jaw clenching.
“Thank you,” I say to him in particular. I reach out and touch his hand, only for him to withdraw it.
“I didn’t do it for you,” he says hotly, his eyes flashing.
“I don’t care, I’m still grateful.”
He gets up and, muttering something under his breath about insufferable humans, stalks away.
“Don’t mind him,” War says. “He’s starting to care for humanity despite himself, and he’s pissy about it.”
I nod absently, still holding onto Ben as the little guy devours the food Pestilence gave him. It’s quiet in the room around me, and though a million things should be crowding my mind, it’s oddly empty.
“Your son will have to come with us,” Pestilence finally says, shattering the silence.
My blood runs cold.
“What?” I must’ve misheard him.
Pestilence steps in close. “The only person besides us that Death won’t outright kill is you. Your son is not included on that list.”
“I can keep my son safe,” I protest.