Death, The Vamp and His Brother

by Lexxie Couper

  “The Disease!” Pestilence screamed, and another wrecking ball of illness smashed into him. “The Disease!”

  Patrick spat, swiped at his mouth and sent a red and yellow safe-to-swim flag straight for Pestilence’s head.

  The sand-crusted steel point pierced the First Horseman’s forehead, sank into his head and burst through the other side.

  Pestilence screeched. And his human form vanished in a shimmer.

  Long, skeletal arms reached up, claw-tipped fingers wrapping around the metal spike. “You think that will stop me, lifeguard?” The sound of metal on bone sliced the air as he pulled the flagpole from his skull. A soft, liquidy pop filled the air and blood, thick and black and stinking of decay, gushed from the hole in his forehead—followed by an equally thick, equally black fog.

  It shot across the beach, engulfing Patrick before he could move, turning the dusk to midnight and the air to a suffocating shroud.

  He lashed out, but to no effect. The blackness invaded his nose, his mouth. It seeped into his eyes, pooling at the corners, ice cold and scalding at once.

  “Did you really think a pathetic human such as yourself could stop me?”

  The black fog trickled into Patrick’s ears.

  “Did you really think a lowly mortal could stop the First Horseman?”

  It threaded down his throat.

  “I am the Disease.”

  Into his lungs.

  “Pestilence.”

  Choking him. Suffocating him.

  “He who destroys life in the world of man.”

  An image of his lifeless brother’s body flashed through Patrick’s air-starved mind.

  “He who brings the end with the beginning.”

  Damn, I’m really getting sick of his voice.

  The thought wasn’t Patrick’s, but he grabbed a hold of its familiar sardonic wit. Ven. Forever alive in his heart. A golden heat radiated through him and swelled into a tangible, potent force, almost an entity in itself. He threw back his arms and head, drawing the blackness into his being, devouring it, letting it permeate his core.

  A heatless world of illness and pain and abject misery consumed him. Tried to possess him. It turned his bones to chalk and his blood to water. It squeezed his heart still and turned his stomach inside out. But before it could render him empty, before it could undo him completely, he purged it from his being.

  In a blinding wall of light and warmth.

  The dark beach bleached white.

  Pestilence squealed. His arms whipped up to protect his face, his feet scurried backward. The flesh on his bones began to flay, as if scoured away by the golden heat pouring from Patrick’s being. His demonic form convulsed, twitched. He fell backward, thrashing in the pure light on the wind-whipped sand, eyes bulging, tongue bloating.

  That’ll teach the skinny bastard to mess with my brother.

  Again, the thought didn’t belong to Patrick. He jerked his stare from the convulsing First Horseman to Ven, expecting to see him sitting up, grinning at him with that same old sarcasm he’d counted on his entire life.

  His brother still lay prone on the sand. Lifeless. As still as a corpse.

  Aching hollowness exploded in Patrick’s core. The light flooding from his existence guttered and he collapsed to his knees. Drained. Exhausted. Sapped of all energy.

  Get up.

  He stared at Ven.

  Get up.

  “As…I suspected.” Pestilence’s hoarse snarl sliced into his desperate sorrow. He jerked his stare from his brother’s body, cold horror twisting around his heart as the First Horseman slowly rose to his feet. “The…Cure’s weakness…will be…his…end.”

  With a shudder, the Disease shook the grains of sand from his bleeding, flayed limbs and, as Patrick watched, the wounds in his flesh disappeared.

  Struggling for breath, Patrick drew on all he had within and threw it out.

  Pestilence laughed. “Is that it?” Healed and grinning with smug satisfaction, he strode across the beach, closing the distance between them. “Is that all? I am disappointed.”

  Patrick pushed himself to his knees, every muscle in his body trembling with fatigue. Every molecule of his existence drained. Empty. Breath ragged and shallow.

  The First Horseman lowered himself into a crouch before him and Patrick’s gut rolled as the demon’s stench assaulted him.

  “I have known of this moment for over a millennium,” Pestilence murmured. “True, I tried to prevent its occurrence, but I must admit I am glad I failed.” He tilted his head to the side, smiling. “Although killing your parents was quite enjoyable.”

  Patrick screamed. Hate and fury ripped through his body, charging him with new life. He lunged for Pestilence.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  He collapsed face first into the sand.

  “Oh, how glad I am I failed.” Pestilence laughed again. “This is so much more fun.”

  “You…” Patrick struggled onto his hands, pushing his body from the beach, so weak he could barely draw breath. He lifted his head, just, and glared up at the grinning First Horseman, “fucking…bastard.”

  Get up, Patrick. Get up.

  Pestilence lowered his head closer, his yellow eyes glowing. “That may be, but I am not the one on all fours, am I?” His grin stretched wider and he raised his hand, fingers hovering near Patrick’s mouth. “The one about to be filled with all the disease of the world.”

  And then suddenly he blinked, surprise flashing across his face. “Is that…” He drew his head closer, eyes narrowing, tongue flicking at the air. “By the Powers, it is!” A chuckle bubbled up his throat, the sound cold and furious and ripe with mirth at once. “The Fourth Horseman.”

  An invisible fist slammed into Patrick’s gut. He cried out, recoiling from the brutal blow, his stomach boiling with agony and burning vomit.

  Pestilence rose to his feet. “You have been fucking the Fourth Horseman!” He shook his head, eyes yellow fire. “And they accuse me of reaching above my station.”

  Another invisible fist smashed into Patrick, snapping him backward in a violent somersault. The world spun, a blur of darkening sky, emerging stars, dying sun and never-ending sand.

  Pestilence followed him across the beach, fury turning his eyes to yellow pits of hate. Thick fingers of sickness wrapped around Patrick’s throat, pushed at his lips, into his mouth. He gagged, struggling against the assault. He needed to get up, get up. Goddamn it, get up!

  “You have been sticking your tiny, pathetic human dick into the Fourth Horseman’s cunt!”

  An image of Fred filled Patrick’s head. Fred in jeans and a Bob Marley t-shirt. Fred in a flowing black hooded robe. Fred in nothing but her sublime, pale skin.

  For fuck’s sake, Patrick, get up!

  With a roar, he forced himself to his feet, sucking in breath after breath, body screaming in agony, core screaming in rage. He glared at Pestilence, letting the rage and agony fuel him.

  It’s not enough, Patrick. It’s not what you need. You need—

  The First Horseman stumbled backward, eyes widening a fraction, fear shimmering in their depths for a split second before his lips curled into a sly, smug smile. “You know what, lifeguard?” he said, recovering the ground he’d lost with one defiant step. “So have I. Often. I too have sunk my cock into her cunt. I fucked her regularly, pumping her cunt so full of my diseased seed it looked like she was drowning in come. And as soon as I am finished here, as soon as I destroy you and rend the world of man asunder, I will return to the Realm, flip the Fourth Horseman onto her stomach on my bed and do it again. And again. And again.”

  Sound disappeared.

  So did the sense of touch. Taste.

  All that Patrick could see was Pestilence standing before him on the empty beach, speaking vile words he didn’t hear.

  All that Patrick could smell was Fred. The secretive scent of her body, the soft musk of her pleasure.

  Her pleasure for him. Her love for him. Pure an
d real and untainted.

  Golden heat consumed him.

  He reached out for Pestilence and enclosed him in an invisible grip so fast and tight the demon could not move. Sickness seeped into his mind from the contact and he accepted it, drew it from the First Horseman’s existence, letting it fill him. The only way to beat a disease was to know it.

  Pestilence screamed, eyes wide, thrashing in the invisible hold. “No! No! Let me go!”

  Swarms of insects surged through Patrick’s mind, filled his core. He took them all, their furious energy like black electricity. Fogs of darkness folded over him, and he pulled them into his being.

  He took it all from the Disease, milked him of his existence and understood what he was.

  A pest. Just a pest. And what was the cure for pests?

  Eradication.

  He smiled at the First Horseman. Lifted him high from the sand and tore open the ground beneath him.

  “No!” Pestilence squealed, bucking in Patrick’s hold. His eyes bulged, his pale face drained of color. “No, I beseech you! Not there! Not there!”

  Patrick raised his eyebrows. “Nobody fucks with Death but me, Horseman. Remember that.”

  The chasm in the sand roared. Black light poured from its mouth.

  Pestilence screamed.

  And Patrick released him. Watching him fall, screaming, into abyss.

  The chasm roared again, a silent sound vibrating though Patrick’s body, and then it was gone. Bondi Beach was again perfect and empty and bathing in the young moon’s growing light.

  Patrick stood still, looking at it all, looking at the smooth, unmarked sand. Completely calm. Completely composed.

  “That was probably the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

  He spun about, the surreal calm evaporating with the first note of Fred’s voice.

  She stood behind him, dressed in black jeans, black biker boots and a black Midnight Oil t-shirt, her black hair tumbling about her face, her brilliant blue eyes shining in the pale moonlight.

  He was scooping her up in his arms before he knew he’d even moved, his mouth crushing hers, kissing her even as he laughed and cried.

  Her fingers tangled into his hair and she kissed him back, the cool warmth of her body like a salve, healing him, nourishing him. He plunged his tongue into her mouth, needing to taste her. He pulled her glorious scent into his being, letting her fill him.

  She was his five senses—she was his life, his existence. She’d saved him. Just the mere thought of her had saved him. Saved the world, in fact.

  A chuckle rumbled in his chest and he dragged his mouth away from hers, grinning at her.

  “What?” She grinned back, her hold on him not relaxing a bit.

  “If it wasn’t for you, Pestilence would probably be knee-deep in bodies by now.” He nudged her forehead with his. “You do realize, my sexy-arsed Horseman, that Death just kept every creature in this world alive?”

  She looked at him, eyes twinkling. “Shhhh. You’ll ruin my reputation.”

  He laughed, kissing her again and spinning her around. Everything was right in the world. Everything was as it was meant to—

  “Can you pair…get a room?”

  The whispered grumble, barely audible, shattered Patrick’s joy. Shit. Ven.

  He dropped Fred, a cold knot twisting in his gut. He sprinted to his brother, falling to his knees beside him in the sand. Guilt squeezed his chest. Jesus, how could he forget his brother?

  “Ah, shit, Ven.”

  Ven looked up at him with sunken cloudy eyes, his grey, lacerated skin weeping pus and blood. A shudder wracked his body and he coughed, bubbles of bright red blood splattering his lips. “I take by the expression on your face…” he wheezed, fresh blood trickling from his nose. “…I’m not…looking my best.”

  Patrick shook his head, not knowing what to do. He’d never seen someone so badly brutalized. “I can’t lie, brother,” he laughed, the raw sound desperate and harsh. “I’ve seen you better.”

  Ven coughed again, the tip of his tongue—ashen grey and covered in sores—scrapping over his cracked, bleeding lips. “Could still…pull the girls…better…than… …you.” A weak chuckle fell from his throat and his body went limp, his eyes fluttering closed as his head rolled to the side.

  “Ven?” Numb terror seized Patrick. He grabbed his brother’s shoulders and shook him hard, grief destroying rational thought and years of first-aid training. “Ven?”

  Nothing.

  “Steven!”

  “Bloody…hell…mate,” Ven slurred, head lulling on his shoulders, eyes barely opening. Blood continued to ooze from his nose and ears. His body twitched, as if something tried to escape it. “Can’t…a…bloke…get some peace…around here?”

  He is going, Patrick.

  Fred’s voice slipped through Patrick’s head. He turned, glaring at her. No. He wasn’t going to go through all this shit to lose his brother. He wasn’t.

  Turning back to Ven, he shook his head. “I’ve spent thirty six years putting up with your shit, Ven.” He took his brother’s hand in his, holding it as firmly as he dared, dismay taking huge bites from his hope at how fragile Ven’s bones felt in his grip. “I think it’s time you put up with some of mine.”

  A small, wavering grin pulled at Ven’s lips and his head lolled to the side again. “Annoying…little pain…in the…arse, aren’t…you?”

  The words faded away to barely a whisper and Patrick choked back a sob. No. No.

  “Stop being a lazy bastard, Steven, and get up. Who the hell is going to do my ironing if you die? Again.”

  His brother chuckled, a soft, liquidy hiccup of a sound that made Patrick’s heart ache. “Fuck…off.”

  Fred’s cool palm touched Patrick’s shoulder and he dragged his stare from Ven’s ashen face.

  “Tell me how to fix this,” he ground out. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t know, Patrick.” She shook her head, eyes unreadable. “I don’t know the cure.”

  Patrick’s throat squeezed and he sucked in a swift breath. The cure. He was the cure. Did that mean…?

  The same surreal calm that possessed him during Pestilence’s last moments flowed through Patrick again. He extended his arm from his body, hand open and fingers spread, and then closed them around the shaft of the Fourth Horseman’s scythe as it materialized in the air beside him.

  Fred gasped but he ignored her. A prickling wave of heat rolled through him and he turned back to Ven, lowering his lips to his brother’s ear. “I think it’s time you had a feed, brother.”

  Ven didn’t respond.

  Patrick straightened a little, brought the tip of the scythe to his neck, pressed it directly above his pulse and sliced open his flesh.

  White pain ripped through his neck and down into his shoulder. He hissed through his teeth, biting back a sharp shout. Warm fluid oozed from the clean wound and trickled down his neck. He opened his hand, releasing the scythe back to the Realm and moved, repositioning himself over Ven’s lifeless form, an inferno of hope burning in his chest.

  Please. This has to work.

  Blood flowing from his torn vein, he lowered himself closer to his brother and pressed his wet neck to Ven’s cracked, parted lips.

  Nothing happened.

  And then, it did.

  Ven’s mouth opened. A gentle pressure nuzzled Patrick’s neck, like the innocent kiss from a young child. There was a soft moan, and then Ven’s tongue touched the bleeding wound and his fangs punctured Patrick’s flesh.

  Sizzling heat shot through Patrick. Exquisite agony and terrifying joy. His lips parted, a cry catching in his throat. Ven sucked gently at his neck, and Patrick could feel his blood drawing through his veins, flooding his brother’s mouth. With every swallow Ven took, Patrick’s heart smashed against his breastbone. With every explosive beat, his blood pumped faster into Ven’s mouth.

  He closed his eyes, feeling his life force drain from his body, feeling his soul erupt in golde
n existence.

  Ven’s hands gripped his arms. His nails sank into his biceps. A growl sounded in Ven’s throat, low and wild and suddenly—after an eternity—he yanked his mouth free of Patrick’s neck. “Bloody hell, brother.” Flopping backward, he wiped at his mouth with his hand—his large, strong, healthy hand. He gave Patrick a look of comical distaste. “That was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever done.” He looked up at him, his face once again belonging to a perpetually twenty-seven-year-old surfer, his eyes glinting with green mischief, his skin smooth and pale and almost luminescent. “Don’t ever, ever do that again.”

  “That’s the thanks I get?” Patrick grinned and, before Ven could move, gave him a damn good punch to the arm.

  “Ow!” Ven curled himself up into a ball, tucking his head under his arms. “This is no way to treat your brother! After everything I’ve just been through. Help! Help!”

  Rolling his eyes, Patrick climbed to his feet, shaking his head at Ven’s dramatics. “Fair dinkum, Ven. Remind me again why I just saved your life?”

  Stretching onto his back, hands behind his head, Ven gave him a grin the Cheshire cat would have envied. “Because you love me and your life would be boring without me.”

  “Yeah, right, that’s it. Now I remember.” Patrick snorted, shaking his head again as he reached out for Fred and slid his arm around her back, pulling her into the side of his body to hold her close.

  Ven chuckled, turning his attention to Fred. “Guess you missed me again, Death. That’s twice I’ve denied you.”

  Fred pulled herself closer into Patrick’s embrace and smiled. “I’m getting the feeling it will be impossible to miss you, fang face. You’re now the third constant in the universe.” She arched an eyebrow. “Me, taxes and Steven Watkins.”

  With a wide smirk, Ven leapt to his feet and brushed the sand from his arse. “Well, you know what they say? You can’t keep a good vamp down. Or should that be a good Principatus?” He gave them both a puzzled look. “What the bloody hell is a Principatus anyway? Pestilence kept carrying on about it. Figured it must be something important.”

  Fred laughed. “As you have pointed out before, Steven, a Principatus is an Agent of the Order. A hunter—of sorts—controlled by the Powers, who gets to kick the shit out of…how should I put this…otherworldly scum who step out of line. I’m afraid your bad-boy days are behind you.”