Loss (25 page)

His stomach lurched, and Billy vomited noisily on the snow.

You can simply live your life.

Could he walk away now, knowing what would happen if he did? Could he go home and pretend that the world wasn’t about to be blanketed with a plague of Biblical proportion?

The world is always about to end, William Ballard.

Maybe. But if he didn’t do anything about it, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

He let out a croaking laugh as he wiped his mouth. Granted, he wouldn’t have to live with himself for very long, what with the world ending. Cold comfort, that. He stared at the silver circlet, which lay upon a bed of ice and snow. It looked tarnished, as if its contact with the Conqueror had stained it.

“Will you wear the Crown, Billy Ballard?”

Billy said, “A crown. Like a king?”

“This Crown,” said the Ice Cream Man, motioning to his forehead.

A spasm wracked him, and he shuddered violently. He didn’t want to do this.

“I don’t want to be Pestilence!”

“It matters little what you want. The Conqueror tricked you into agreeing to wear the Crown when the time came. That time is now.”

No, he didn’t want this at all. But it was his penance and his promise. He’d already made his choice—first when he was five and he let the Ice Cream Man tempt him with visions of white horses; and again the other week when he followed Death out of his house because the Pale Rider had asked for Billy’s help; and a third time, just a little while ago, when Death had once again come calling.

In the snow, the silver band winked.

“I can’t give you the White Rider’s Crown,” Death said, “because he wears it still. It would have made you the conqueror of health and sickness alike.”

No, Death couldn’t give him the Crown. But Billy could take it.

He pulled himself to his feet and stumbled over to the circlet that would change him forever. He wasn’t thinking of his mom or his absentee dad, wasn’t thinking of his grandfather—not the Gramps of the past, not the old man of the present. He wasn’t thinking of Marianne. No, Billy was thinking of a blue plush doll, worn with age and love, long
packed away in a crate in his attic.

Saying goodbye to his childhood for the last time, he took a deep breath and reached for the Crown. It was a plain silver band, thin and unassuming, and it was surprisingly light in his hands.

Diseased air pressed down on him, squeezing him, making him dizzy. The plague raged within and all around, fighting against its cage, ready to tear its way free.

Billy Ballard placed the Crown upon his brow—

—and the power sears him scorches him burns him alive it’s alive in him in all things it’s everything it’s light it’s light it’s the White and it hurts oh God it hurts him so much and he can’t think past the pain he can’t control it can’t wield it can’t use it and all he wants is to make the pain stop stop
stop
—

—and light erupted from his skin, fountaining from his pores, his eyes, his mouth. He couldn’t take it, couldn’t stop it, couldn’t hold it back, though he tried frantically; it was like trying to build sandcastles out of smoke as fire cooked his flesh. His body clenched and he threw his head back, giving voice to his agony as the White consumed him from within. He screamed until his throat was raw, and then he screamed anew. Only when his voice failed and his screams were nothing but excruciating silence did he hear Death whisper to him.

You wear the Crown, William. Don’t let the Crown wear you.

It hurts!
he cried out.
It hurts so much!

You’re fighting it
, said Death.
Stand tall, William.

I don’t know how!

Of course you do,
Death replied, his cool voice like balm.
Stand tall, and wear the Crown.

Billy struggled against the pain a moment longer, and then he stopped fighting and gave himself to the White. It wasn’t surrender as much as a leap of faith, the desperation of an atheist in front of a firing squad.

Billy Ballard stood tall.

The White still burned, but now it was a cleansing fire, a purifying flame that revealed his soul and the soul of all living things. He felt the light rush through him and he opened his eyes and saw the light of the world and saw disease starting to worm its way into the light, tainting what it touched, dimming the White and threatening to leech it pale. Billy reached for that infection, grasped it and held tight, but as he tried to destroy it the sickness squirmed out of his grip. He reached for it once more, but this time it eluded him, maneuvered around him as he flailed.

Focus.

Billy felt the White connecting him to all life, blood to blood, and he felt his own blood responding to the disease around him, felt white blood cells swarm and strike. He urged them on and led them to battle, and as they fought he reached deep within himself and summoned more cell soldiers, threw them at the infection that tried to eat the world.

And slowly, the disease weakened.

Strengthened by his success, Billy created more and more cellular warriors and fueled them for their surge. They rushed forward, surrounding the plague and attacking it, fighting until the infection trembled and began to die. If disease had a voice, it would have begged for mercy—and it would have discovered that Billy Ballard was no longer a boy with a silver circlet sloping on his brow; he was the Conqueror, wearing the Crown that gave him control over sickness and health.

Dying, the infection launched itself at its enemy.

Billy absorbed the blow and broke it down until there was nothing but White. It flared brilliantly, blinding the sky, and then the White settled into Billy, wrapped itself around him and clothed him, covered him with a shirt and coat and pants and boots, girding him to face the world.

He was the White Rider, and today the Apocalypse was just a word.

***

He’d done it. He’d stood tall and saved the world.

Drained, Billy sank to his knees. So much for the “standing tall” part. A manic laugh bubbled out of him, and the sound filled the air, taking up the space that just a moment ago had been filled with plague. Billy laughed with relief, with joy, with the pride of a job well done.

And then he saw the black horse nudging the still form of Famine.

His elation faded as he watched the steed nose its way into her coat pocket. It rooted there for a moment, then pulled back, revealing a sugar cube between its teeth. It gently placed the cube on Famine’s mouth, then stepped back and waited. The white confection sparkled like snowflakes in winter starlight, and there it stayed on the Black Rider’s lips, uneaten. The black horse chuffed, then it lowered its sleek head, its mane tangling in the arctic wind. Near it, the white horse nickered softly, but the other steed didn’t respond.

Billy tried to get up, but he couldn’t summon the energy. “Please,” he said, his voice cracking. “Please bring her to me.”

The black horse flattened its ears.

The white steed approached the other horse and blew out a quick burst of air, then nuzzled against the black’s neck. Famine’s steed swiveled to look at Billy, who saw such pain and loss in those glowing white eyes that it stole his breath.

“Let me try,” he pleaded.

The black horse sighed, in the way that horses do, and then it took one of the Black Rider’s sleeves in its mouth, and the white horse took the other, and together the steeds dragged Famine to where the Conqueror knelt in the snow.

He murmured a thank you as he gazed upon the Black Rider’s face. It was woefully gaunt and pale, and purple splotches stained her mouth and jaw. He whispered, “Plums,” and he didn’t know if that was his voice or Mita’s. He reached for the White, coaxed it to spark enough for him to sense the plague contaminating Famine’s body. She must have been dying even before he’d put on the Crown. Now there was almost nothing left to her but disease. He’d saved the world, but he’d been too late to help the Black Rider.

Mita’s daughter took one last strangled breath, and then she breathed no more.

Billy’s eyes narrowed, and his hands ball into fists. No. He refused to watch her die. He was exhausted, spent, too tired to even stand, but this was Famine, Lady Black, the one who had fascinated the White Rider for eons—the one who reminded Billy of a girl in black who waited for him at home.

He placed his hands upon her head and closed his eyes. And then he stoked the White into a blazing fire, and with it he burned away the disease that had eaten her body from within. It left her desiccated, wasted, and Billy told himself that was wrong, she was supposed to be healthy, and he heard Mita whisper to him, telling him how to turn a battle into a breath, how to stop fighting sickness and start nurturing the body left behind. Billy listened, and with the last of his strength, he dove into the Black Rider’s soul—

***

—and he’s hovering over the floe, looking down at himself working to save the woman in black, and he turns to face the Black Rider floating above him.
Do you want me to heal you?
he asks in a voice of smoke and spirit, and she gazes at him with black, black eyes and she says,
Yes,
and so he opens his arms wide and she moves into his embrace, and they merge, Black and White, swirling together until the world is filled with shades of gray—

***

The Black Rider took a shuddering breath, and then she opened her eyes.

“Hey.” Billy offered her a tired smile. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice gruff. She propped herself onto her elbow and faced him, gazing deeply into his eyes, then at the silver circlet on his brow. “You stopped him.”

He nodded.

She sighed and bowed her head.

In that wordless sigh, Billy heard her sorrow, her bitterness, felt the pain of her loss. “He wasn’t always mad,” she said quietly. “When he’d forget that he’d been anything other than the White Rider, he did his job well.”

Billy knew this; he’d seen it in the White, and he felt it now, stirring in the back of his mind as Mita whispered to him. “I’m so sorry,” he said softly. “I just wanted to stop him. I didn’t mean—” His voice broke, and no more words would come.

She looked up at him, her face unreadable. “King White is dead, but the Conqueror lives on.”

He hissed out a breath, half denial, half apology.

Famine slowly pulled herself to her feet. Her steed appeared by her side, and she leaned heavily against it, stroking its neck and murmuring something Billy couldn’t hear. The horse snorted softly, and it knelt so that the Black Rider could climb atop its back. Now seated upon her steed, she looked down at Billy, who was sitting in the snow because he was too tired to stand. Her voice clipped, she said, “I look forward to working with you, White.”

And then the black horse leapt into the sky and the Black Rider was gone.

From behind him came the sound of a girl’s laughter. “Don’t mind her. She believes in an economy of words. Actually, for her, that was practically a soliloquy.”

Billy turned and looked up to see a girl in red, standing over him and grinning fit to burst.

“Hello, Pestilence,” she said, offering him a hand. “I’m War.”

Chapter 23

Billy Had a Moment of Dejà Vu . . .

. . . as he stared at the offered hand, not surprised that the leather glove was a dull brown instead of red.
It should be red
, he thought as he took her hand; everything about the girl should be red.

“The red belongs to the office,” said the girl, pulling him to his feet. “The gloves are mine.”

He blinked at the casual display of mind reading. When Death had done it, that had been . . . well, not acceptable, exactly, but understandable. Having War flit about in his head was just obnoxious.

She squeezed his hand once, playfully, then let go. “I’ve been called worse.”

His mouth pulled into a humorless smile. “Me too.”

War was older than he was, maybe by a year or two, but he was taller. Except for her head and her hands, she was covered in red—not the lush red of cherries or the cheerful red of strawberries but volcanic red, hot red, the red of fast cars and dangerous intentions. He looked down at his own clothing, at the startlingly white leather coat and pants, the boots that nearly blended with the snowy ground—Mita’s uniform, but cleaner. Purer. And, happily, a bit more modern. Maybe before he’d accepted the White, Billy would have felt ridiculous wearing it. But not now. Now the outfit seemed—no, felt—exactly right, as if it were meant for him.

“You wear it well,” said War, smiling wickedly.

He felt his cheeks flush. “Um. Thanks.” Belatedly remembering that she’d introduced herself, he said, “I’m Billy Ballard.”

She looked at him, this girl who was carved from fire, and she asked, “So, Billy Ballard, do you know yourself yet?”

After a pause, he replied, “I’m learning.”

War grinned. “Good answer.” She walked over to a red horse waiting near the far side of the floe, its coat like spilled blood against the backdrop of snow and ice. It looked at Billy—no, it
glared
at him, glared so fiercely that Billy took an involuntary step backward—and then the horse snorted as War petted its side. She murmured something to it, and then she climbed up in a fluid motion.

Billy blinked again as she settled into the saddle that absolutely hadn’t been there a moment ago. One of her brown-gloved hands now held a pair of reins, and ditto on the not-being-there-before thing.

Okay. That was a neat trick.

“There’s more where that came from,” War called out. “Pleasure to meet you, Billy Ballard!” And then the horse launched itself across the sky in a streak of red, taking the Red Rider far away.

He watched War’s fiery path cut across the horizon, and only after it faded to an afterthought did he say, “How long have you been here?”

A quiet laugh, the sound like snowfall, and then a cold voice replied, “Since before the first living thing took its first gasping breath.”