by Rhys Ford
MAL RETURNED to his room and sat on the couch, careful not to jostle the young man. Alone except for the sleeping Kismet, Mal burrowed down against the soft cushions, wondering what to do next.
“Hey,” Kismet said softly. Awake and pale, he blinked, trying to focus on his surroundings.
The human’s husky voice startled Mal, and he jumped, knocking his knees against the low coffee table. Kismet’s brown eyes were full of life again, and vivid bruises were beginning to rise on his cheekbone.
“Hello.” Mal pushed his glasses up the ridge of his nose. Reluctantly, he eased away from the young man’s welcome warmth, letting the cushions rise up and flatten under Kismet’s body. “How do you feel?”
Coughing, Kismet tried to turn, stopped by a wave of pain in his head. Resting back down, he blinked away the tears in his eyes. “Fuck, that hurts.”
“No, don’t move, Kismet.” Wincing in sympathy at the anguish on Kismet’s face, Mal reached under to pull at a cushion to straighten it. “How much do you remember?”
“I’m better than I thought I would be, considering I was eaten alive by a huge dog-thing.” Kismet winced as he shifted his legs, calves tight with contractions from being tucked under him. “I think it was trying to kill me. And I remember you guys coming. Then things started getting fuzzy. Oh, and I hurt.”
Sitting on the coffee table’s edge, Mal looked over the young man’s bruises. He’d not planned on the young man waking up before morning. Now his brain was scrambling as he tried to think about what to tell the human. “The monster didn’t do that much damage. It wasn’t as bad as it looked.”
“Did you tell me your name before?” Kismet asked suddenly. “I don’t remember.”
“Mal,” the Horseman said.
“Okay then, Mal, don’t lie to me. That thing ate right through me. I’m kind of more than banged up. That wasn’t a wild dog.” Every movement sent tingles of agony through Kismet’s body. Gasping, he drew short breaths in through his teeth.
“Hold still. Let me see how your injuries look.” Pulling up the other’s shirt, Mal examined a stretch of redness on the young man’s ribs, unsure if he should be happy or frustrated at the knitted skin. Most of the wounds were sealed, just a burr of raw flesh left open to the air.
“How’s your head?” Mal asked. He had little experience with serious injuries, other than the occasional stab by a supposedly well-intentioned Ari during weapons practice. There was nothing that could be done about the bruises, Mal reasoned. They would just have to fade on their own.
“I can’t see too well. I can see you okay but not behind you.”
“Probably loss of blood. Vision likes blood and oxygen. I think it’ll get better over time.” Mal reached over to wave his fingers in front of Kismet’s face, then spotted the needle marks on the inside of the other man’s arms. Touching at them lightly, Mal drew back when Kismet shook him off. “Did he bite you there too?”
“Nope. I bit me there.” Kismet fought with his body, trying to force himself off the couch, failing when his limbs refused to respond. He didn’t feel the burn of the heroin in his system, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before he started having the shakes. “Hang around a couple of hours. That monster scared the shit right out of me. I’m probably going to need to shoot again.”
“A gun wouldn’t have helped you,” Mal said. “Nothing fired or thrown can hurt one. A weapon has to be anchored to someone Veiled for it to work on something like a wraith.”
“Gun?” Kismet tried to focus on the face swimming just beyond his sight. He could make out a tousle of light blond hair and round glasses, the barest brush of stubble over a square jaw. “Wow, you’re serious. Where the hell am I?”
“You’re in my room.” Mal noticed the tremors in the young man’s fingers. They worried him. All of his experiences with humans inevitably led to them dying. Trembling wasn’t a natural occurrence in most humans; he was sure of it. “You just need some sleep.”
“Where? Narnia?” Kismet peered around, trying to make sense of the shapes and silence of the apartment. He strained to hear the whispering voices he knew lurked in the darkness. Nothing called to him, a slithering quiet that unnerved him. Resting back in the soft cushions of the couch, the silence became a comfort. Concentrating on the young man next to him, Kismet relaxed, letting the ache in his bones ease away. “And what the hell did you guys do to me? There’s no way I should be as healed up as I am. That thing ate me.”
“I told you, my room. At home,” the Horseman replied. “In my home. Where the Four of us live.”
“Four?” Kismet asked softly. “You’ve got a group thing going? Shit, I can’t keep one person going, and you’ve got three others. Damn.”
“A group thing?” Mal wasn’t certain if the disconnect in his mind had to do with Kismet’s speech patterns or his lack of knowledge of the human world. “The Four of us are a group, I suppose.”
“Mal, no offense, but you’re kind of dim. I don’t think you’re getting what I’m saying.” Kismet tried to lift himself up, moaning in pain as his muscles protested. “Sweet and cute but dim. A group thing. Sex and love. Poly something or other? More than two people?”
“Oh!” The red started under Mal’s skin and burned to the surface of his face. “No, it’s not like that. We’re… I’m not… we’re not a group like that. There’s nothing wrong with that… we’re just not….”
“It’s okay.” Kismet grinned despite the ache in his face and neck, the tightness of his healing skin pulling with the motion. “You don’t have to explain anything to me if you don’t want to. Well no, I do want to know what you did to make me better.”
“I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea about….” Mal swore under his breath, finding words Ari used quite satisfying in this situation. “I’m not sure what kind of idea I want you to get. I should probably start over.”
“Okay, start with why my guts aren’t all over the sidewalk of the motel.”
“I don’t know,” Mal admitted. “We just found you. Maybe someone took you to a hospital.”
“Dude, you are the world’s shittiest liar.” Kismet plucked at the torn clothes stretched over his body. “There wasn’t a hospital, and I’m still wearing what I had on when the monster attacked me.”
“Okay, Ari and I took you home after the wraith bit you.” The youngest Horseman worried at his lower lip with his teeth. “I don’t know what else to tell you. Sit still for a moment. I need to see about something.”
Mal took a deep breath, stretching his soul out. When he was around the others, he felt the press of their callings on his, linked together into a single strong unit. The other immortals avoided the Four, but the few times Mal had been around one, he felt their presence on the Veil, a soft beacon he could respond to. Despite the healing of Kismet’s body, Mal felt none of that in the young man they’d rescued, a blankness where a calling should have been. Whatever Kismet was now, he certainly wasn’t human anymore, but he wasn’t an immortal like Mal.
“You’re not one of us.” Disappointed, Mal sat back. He’d wanted so much for Kismet to be a part of their world. “Shit.”
“You okay?” Kismet reached for Mal’s leg, his arm trembling with the effort. His body refused to respond quickly, each movement leaving him weak.
“I’m fine,” Mal said. He felt the burn of a blush on his face again. Kismet’s hand on his thigh disturbed what little calm he’d mustered up. Contact with someone other than the Four was rare. The last intimate touch he’d had was when Ari dragged him to Vegas and paid for a woman to show him pleasure. “I’m just not sure how much to tell you.”
“You tell me as little or as much as you want to,” he replied. “You don’t have to explain anything. Hell, you dragged me out of that thing’s mouth. I don’t have any complaints about anything. I just don’t understand what the hell is going on.”
“I feel like I need to at least tell you what we are,” Mal said. He touched the back of Kismet’
s arm, stroking at the warm flesh, marveling at the feel of a fine down on his fingertips. “You might not believe me. I don’t know much about what people believe.”
Looking down at his hands, Mal tried to decide what he should share. Other than the Four, Mal had never had someone to speak to before, someone open to the Veil and free of any preconceptions of the Horsemen. With the sloe-eyed young man nestled back into the couch’s cushions listening intently, Mal found himself talking on about how the Horsemen lived, hidden from the world and saddled with the unenviable.
“So, you guys are kind of like angels?” Kismet asked after Mal finally wound down, his thoughts swimming. He’d often thought he was crazy, but the blond sitting next to him had him beat. “You want me to believe you’re angels?”
“No, not angels. I’m not explaining this well.” Mal knew he’d muddled things, going over what he’d said in his mind. “We’re just the Four Horsemen, like in the Bible. Sort of.”
“The Bible isn’t on my summer reading list, man. The only thing I know about the Four Horsemen is what people bring in to get inked on their bodies,” Kismet replied. “Maybe you are crazier than me.”
“I’m not. This is real. I don’t know what else I can do to convince you.”
“So it’s just the four of you, then. Here to save mankind.”
“There are others like us, but they don’t have much to do with us.” Mal saw the doubt in Kismet’s face. “No really, there are. Not just the Horsemen, people like Luck and even the Vices are real. Sort of real, anyway. And we’re not here to save mankind, not really.”
“Got to tell you, man,” Kismet admitted. “You sound insane. Cute but really fucking nuts.”
“Funny, that’s what they keep saying about you.” Mal laughed, a hearty, free sound. “Ari’s sure you’re crazy, and that’s why you can see us.”
“Oh, I’m definitely a bit on the crazy side. That’s already been proven.” Kismet groaned, his insides pounding to get out. He felt the back of his skull, mewling when his shoulder muscles screamed in torment. “God, that hurts. My head really hurts too.”
“Maybe you need to get some sleep,” Mal said, unsure of what to do for the young man stretched out on the couch.
“Do you have some aspirin?” Kismet beseeched him. The pain burned, hotter than the need ever had. It came in waves, ebbing at times, then flaring again, riding into his vision and nerves. His intestines twisted, a knotting pain chewing outward as the tangled cords attempted to right themselves. “Damn, I’ll take anything right now.”
“I’ll go ask.” Mal knew he didn’t have any, but he knew the others sometimes took analgesics, usually after a long sparring round with Death. “Min might have something.”
“Thanks.” Kismet risked another movement of his arms, rubbing at his temple. The throbbing intensified, threatening to crack his head open. “My head hurts almost as much as my ribs do.”
Mal left his room and knocked on Min’s door. The sounds of a car chase barely whispered through the door, made louder when it suddenly opened. Mal stood there, nearly jumping back when faced with Min biting off the end of a peeled banana. Tires screeched loudly before she aimed a remote at the television she’d hung on the wall, condemning the action film to a temporary silence.
“Whatcha need?” she said around a mouthful of fruit. Her toes were separated by large wads of cotton balls, the smell of fresh polish fighting with the powdery tang of the banana. “Tell me he solved all of our problems by dying.”
“Nope. He’s awake, in fact,” Mal replied. “I was hoping you had aspirin. He’s asking for some.”
“Aspirin I’ve got.” Min waddled through her living space, walking around the wide-open staircase and into the upstairs bathroom. “Eternal life and still with the headaches. At least we don’t get colds. I’d have to kick your ass if I caught a cold, because it would have been your fault.”
“I didn’t come up with the cold,” Mal retorted. “You have to blame another Pestilence for that one.”
“It’s a legacy disease. All of you are responsible for it,” Min shouted at Mal through the open door.
Unlike Mal’s cluttered rooms, Min preferred clean lines and a nearly rabid neatness. The only sign of mess was a cracked-open nail polish bottle on a freeform glass table. The banana skin was nowhere to be seen. She made some sounds as she dug around in the medicine cabinet, bottles clattering against one another. Mal peered at her movie collection, mostly action flicks and Chinese epics, filed alphabetically. The shelf below held a few music CDs, also fanatically arranged by artist and release date.
“You’re kind of odd,” Mal said when Min came back in, checking an expiration date as she walked. “In an everything-in-a-line kind of way.”
“You should talk.” She handed over a bottle, a few small white pills jangling at the bottom. “You’ve got stuffed animals shaped like diseases.”
“I thought they were ironic.” He sniffed, slightly put off by her laughing tone. “It seemed ironic to me.”
“Ironic would have been one of us buying them for you,” Min pointed out. “Pathetic is when you buy them for yourself. Go dose the kid up. With any luck he’ll survive the day, and we can return him to the wild. If you handle them too long, their mothers don’t take them back into the nest.”
“You think Death would mind if he stayed?” Mal was cut off by a shake of Min’s head. “I don’t think he’s human anymore.”
“Don’t even think about it. If you want a pet, go get a cat.” Min pushed Mal toward the open door. “Yeah, he’s pretty. But he’s not yours. He needs to go back where you found him. Some sad-faced girl is probably bawling her eyes out because the pretty little thing she cuddles with didn’t come home last night.”
“You’re mean,” Mal muttered, turning the bottle over to read the instructions.
“I’m Famine.” Min leaned against the frame of her bedroom door. “You don’t get to be Famine because you’re all sweetness and light. Takes some balls to starve people to death. Go. I want to watch my movie.”
Mal grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen, then returned to his suite. Holding a few of the pills in his hand, he slid between the table and the couch, staring down at the battered human. Kismet was fast asleep, the flicker of his eyelids faint beneath a blush of bruised skin. The morning light pinked the room, rays peeking up over the low mountains. Kismet shifted, mewling softly.
Turning onto his side, the young man flung one scar-dappled arm over his face, shutting out the dawn. The hem of his torn shirt rode up over his stomach, exposing a stretch of skin flushed with healed contusions.
“Probably better if you sleep it off.” Mal set the water glass down, making sure the aspirin wouldn’t roll off the table. Taking one final glance over at the young man, Mal turned off the lights and shut curtains. “Night, Kismet. Try to have only good dreams.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
ARI STRETCHED out over Death’s bed, luxuriating in the softness of fine cotton sheets and plump feather pillows. Of all the things mankind had created, Ari put bedding at the top of his list, possibly even above a powerful engine. The linens smelled of Death, pungent overtones of green tea with a delicate whisper of citrus floating just below. Turning his head, the immortal found a single black hair caught on the pillow. Ari grabbed one end and held it aloft, tickling the edges of his mouth.
The sheets were cold next to him, the linens dimpled from the weight of Death’s body. A glance at the clock on the nightstand showed only a few hours had passed since he’d fallen asleep, much too soon for Death to be awake, in Ari’s opinion. He slid from the bed, pulled on a pair of sweats, then went upstairs to search for the other Horseman.
Balboa Park glimmered below, expanses of trees punctuated by strings of white lights along the boulevards intersecting the greenery. The Museum of Man’s ornate tower rose into the night, illuminated from within. In the daytime the long stretch of windows displayed a serene view of the park. At night it transformed
into a dazzling panoramic pageant of lights, spots of white highlighting the museum’s architecture. With morning just an hour or two away, the spire was dusted with the oncoming dawn’s pink light.
Ari liked Death’s study, a mishmash of old, comfortable furniture, soft couches set around low tables. A mug of cold tea kept company with stacks of old books and sheets of loose papers dotted with Death’s scrawling handwriting. The deep red walls were lined with bookcases dotted with art pieces that Ari didn’t understand and wasn’t sure if he liked.
Death kept very little of his past around him, shutting artifacts into boxes before putting them away. The few things he kept were intimate, little tidbits of the life he shared with Ari. A tiny scrimshaw spinning wheel shone gold under the light, the worked ivory a gift Ari had left on Death’s pillow when they lived in Shanghai.
Ari pushed aside the glossy leaves of a large dieffenbachia, studying the Asian sitting crouched over his books.
“What are you doing up?” Ari asked. “You should be asleep, not looking over dusty books.”
“I never let books get dusty.” Death barely looked up when Ari approached him, his attention fixed on the scattering of pages in front of him. “What are you doing up? And half-naked no less.”
“I came looking for you. Maybe I was hoping I could entice you back into bed. You’re tired, Shi.” Ari sat down. He wanted to pull Death into his arms, telling the other man to shut up, let go, and sleep. It was an old argument, one Ari never tired of fighting, because once in a great while, it was one that he won. “I can see the bags beneath your eyes. They’re not pretty.”
“I feel like there’s an answer here.” A flip of a page waved the distinct fragrance of old paper into the air, a sweet, pungent smell Death loved. “I just needed to do something.”
“Yeah, I get like that too. Neither one of us likes being helpless.” A flicker of black ran across Death’s notes, a single sentence moving slowly from right to left. Picking up the page, Ari attempted to make sense of the scribbles. “The infamous ‘They’ decided to speak up about something? What’s it say?”
