The Four Horsemen 4 - Death (4 page)

Snarling, Death shook his head and tried to ignore the voice. He straightened his shoulders and met Lam’s intrigued gaze. “I’m taking him with me, and if anyone has a problem, they know where to find me.”

“True. Good luck. I think this one’s going to be very difficult for you.” Lam reached out to stroke his fingers over Pierre’s cheek. “He is rather pretty.”
Pierre shifted slightly, and Death noticed the man’s eyes were halfway open.
“Where’s the guy who smells bad?” Pierre asked, staring at Lam.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lam patted Pierre’s cheek before stepping away. “You should probably get him out of here. I’m sure the hotel will be around at some point to make sure he’s still alive.”
“And they’ll panic when he’s not here.” Death curled his lip in disgust. “They don’t care what he does as long as he pays his bill. They don’t care about the drugs being delivered or shot up. Why doesn’t anyone care about him, Lam?”
Lam blinked, probably amazed Death would even ask the question. “Oh, there are people who care about him, Death, but he doesn’t know them yet. Maybe, if he were to live, he’d have met them eventually. Of course, if you’re taking him, he might have a chance to find someone who loves him.”
Death rolled his eyes and walked over to the balcony. He shouldered the doors open, making sure Pierre got through without getting scraped. Whistling loudly, he eased to the corner, knowing there would be enough space for his horse to appear. The pale grey stallion shimmered as he materialised onto the balcony.
“Wow. I don’t usually hallucinate horses appearing out of thin air,” Pierre murmured.
“Guess the shit you shot up was worse than you thought,” Death said as he waited for Lam to join them. “Here. Hold him for me.”
Lam took Pierre while Death mounted his stallion. The horse snorted as Death accepted Pierre back into his arms. Lam chuckled.
“Even your horse is amazed you’d do anything like this.”
“Shut up, Lam. If you truly have a problem with me taking him, then just say it or do something about it.
You
can stop me.” Death drew Pierre close to his chest. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. I didn’t see anything here, so I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Lam turned his back and started to walk into the room. He paused at the doorway and said, “Be careful with him, Death. He’s far more fragile than you think. His problems stem from more than just the drugs.”
“It’s always more than just drugs,” Death muttered as he took a tighter hold on Pierre before he nudged the stallion’s sides with his heels.
The horse tossed his head up and down for a moment, then whirled on its hind legs. It took one giant leap over the railing, but instead of falling, it raced across the sky, flying without wings. Death didn’t touch the reins or grab a handful of mane. He was used to the way his mount travelled. He cupped the back of Pierre’s head and pressed the man’s face into his chest. He didn’t want Pierre looking around, which could cause Pierre to freak out, though Pierre might just assume he was still high and tripping with the bad heroin.
“Have I died yet?”
Pierre’s question blew by Death’s ears on the night breeze. Death shook his head, not bothering to look down at Pierre.
“If I haven’t died, then where are you taking me?” Pierre started to move, but Death stopped him.
“You probably shouldn’t look down, or move for that matter. I’m taking you someplace where we can wean you off the drugs. Hopefully, you’ll stay clean this time.”
“Oh, so you’re taking me to a rehab centre?” Pierre shrugged. “I guess I could give it another try. It obviously didn’t take the first two times.”
“How are you feeling?”
Why did he ask? Why was he doing any of this? It wasn’t like he knew Pierre or even cared what happened to the human. He should have just walked away and let Lam take the man’s soul. Yet he couldn’t guarantee Lam would do the job, plus Death could get into trouble for not doing what he’d been chosen for.
Death snorted softly. He’d never turned away from anything asked of him. He’d been furious when he’d woken up and realised he wasn’t dead, but stuck in some kind of neverending limbo.
He reminds you of me, and you want forgiveness for your failures.
Oliver’s voice skipped through his thoughts.
“No.” Death gritted his teeth. “I can’t get forgiveness from you because you’re dead.” “Who are you talking to?”
As the last word escaped Pierre’s mouth, the human stiffened again, and this time the seizure was severe. It took all of Death’s considerable strength to keep Pierre in his arms and on the horse. The stallion huffed in annoyance but landed on the roof of the building Death owned. Death dismounted as quickly as he could, unconcerned with grace or appearances.
He laid Pierre on the rooftop, kneeling next to him with a frown on his face. He didn’t know how to fix the problem. Well, he did know one way, and he wasn’t going to do that. He wasn’t going to go and buy drugs for Pierre. Not when the reason he took Pierre in the first place was to help him get off the heroin.
Why didn’t you do this for me? You promised me you would be there, and you weren’t. Why weren’t you there?
Death shook his head. Why was Oliver haunting him now? Why hadn’t the man come to him right after he’d died? What was causing him to imagine Oliver’s voice in his head? It wasn’t like he’d taken any of Pierre’s drugs. He doubted he could get high, even if he did shoot heroin.
There was no response he could give to the imaginary Oliver. He had no good reason why he wasn’t there when Oliver needed him all those centuries ago. Of course, at the time, he hadn’t realised what Oliver meant to him, and how much Oliver’s death would come to damage an essential part of his soul.
“Here.”
A baggie of syringes and what looked like heroin dropped to the roof next to his knee. Death looked up with a snarl to see Day standing beside him. Surging to his feet, Death made sure he put himself between Pierre and Day.
“You don’t get him,” Death warned.
Day lifted his hands and took a step back. “Trust me, man, I don’t want him. I brought you some stuff because, if you’re not going to take him to the hospital, he’s going to die. You need to give him some more, and then figure out how to wean him off the shit.”
“Why do you care?”
“Why do you? I’ve never seen you go out of your way to help any of the souls you take for judgement.” Day shrugged and turned to walk to the edge of the balcony. “I have my reasons for doing this, and none of them are to get this human’s soul. I have millions trying to become my best friend. This skinny druggie doesn’t even hit the top of my list.”
“Get out of here.” Death took a threatening step towards Day. “I don’t want your tainted ways around here. Isn’t it bad enough you’ve corrupted a messenger angel? Do you wish to stain someone else who might not be destined for your world?”
Day straightened, anger flashing in his dark eyes, and pushed into Death’s personal space. He stuck his finger into Death’s chest with a vicious growl.
“Don’t ever assume you know me and why I do what I do. If I wished, I could wipe you off the face of this earth and not think twice about it. You aren’t untouchable or invincible, Pale Rider. Remember that.” Day motioned to Pierre with a dismissive wave. “Do with him what you want. I’m done wasting time.”
Within in a blink of Death’s eyes, Day was gone, and Death had the strangest feeling that he’d hurt the creature. Yet Day was the most reviled being in the entire universe, being the fallen angel who had defied God. How could anything Death said or did hurt Day in any way? It didn’t make sense.
A rasping cough and strangled scream brought Death’s attention back to Pierre. Dropping back down to the man’s side, Death ground his teeth when he realised Day was right. Pierre’s body wasn’t strong enough for him to go cold turkey and quit the drugs at once. They risked it being too big a shock to his system. Since his entire goal was to keep Pierre alive, he had to do something quick.
He reached out and shook Pierre’s shoulder. The human flopped like a dead fish, and Death wrinkled his nose. Christ! Was he going to have to get the heroin ready for him? When Death was human, people smoked opium or snorted tobacco, but they didn’t inject anything into their veins. With his inexperience, he could end up killing Pierre purely by accident.
“Come on, Pierre. You need to wake up a little. Do you want more heroin?”
At the mention of heroin, Pierre’s eyelids fluttered.
Should have known the prospect of more drugs would get Pierre moving.
Death inhaled sharply. He couldn’t do anything if he continued to complain about it.
He slapped Pierre hard, rocking the man’s head back. Death grimaced as a red handprint appeared on Pierre’s face, but it must have worked because Pierre opened his eyes and stared up at Death.
“What?”
The word sounded like it had crawled out of Pierre’s throat, tearing flesh as it went. Death picked up the bag and tossed it on Pierre’s chest.
“Here. If you want the pain to stop, you’re going to have to cook the shit up for yourself. I don’t ever want to know how to get the heroin ready for you.” Death scooped Pierre up in his arms. “Let’s get you inside before you do this. I would prefer you not trip out on the roof, in case one of my fellow apartment dwellers chooses to come up here for some night air.”
Pierre blinked so fast, Death thought his eyelids might fall off. Obviously Pierre wasn’t processing Death’s words quickly enough. Death wanted to slap himself upside the head. Did he really think a strung-out junkie would be able to put words together enough to understand anyone?
He shut up and carried Pierre into the living room and set him on the couch. Pierre slowly slumped to his side, not having the strength to keep himself upright. Death helped him slide off the couch, onto the floor where he sat, propped up against the furniture. He handed Pierre the bag and started to walk off.
“What? Where are you going?” Pierre tried to lift his arm, but it dropped like it was made of lead.
“I’m not going to sit here and watch you shoot up. Also, I’m not going to cook your drug of choice for you. I have been many things during my long life, but a drug dealer isn’t one of them.” Death nodded towards the stuff in Pierre’s lap. “I’m sure everything you need is there.”
“But wait. I can’t get the bag open.” Pierre did look like he was struggling.
Death stomped back and snatched up the baggie. There was a spoon, lighter, syringes, and smaller baggies of brown heroin. There was a white piece of paper in with all the things. Death pulled it out and unfolded it.
“Make sure to give him the heroin marked ‘A’ first. All the drugs are labelled, and the amounts decrease as you go along. He’ll still have withdrawals, but don’t let him do more than one hit a day,” he read aloud. Death imagined Day snickering as he’d written the note.
“This still doesn’t seem like a good idea, but we’ll give it a try.” He gathered up the heroin, except for the one marked ‘A’. That one he tossed at Pierre. “I guess you use this one first. I’ll hide the rest of them so you’re not tempted to use them all at once.”
“But shouldn’t you take me to the hospital or something?” Pierre asked.
Something in Pierre’s tone, even under the haze of the fading heroin high, told Death the human didn’t really want to go to the hospital. Shaking his head, Death stood and glanced around his flat.
“What? Your accommodations not fancy enough for you? I would think you wouldn’t want to go to a hospital or rehab centre. They’d ask too many embarrassing questions and expect you to get clean the hard way, cutting off the heroin altogether.” Death held up his hand, holding the rest of the drugs. “At least here, you know you’ll be getting some more at some point.”
He glared down at Pierre. “You won’t have to worry about me asking questions you don’t want to answer. I’m not your psychologist or therapist. I don’t really care why you do what you do, whether it’s the drugs or selling yourself when you don’t have to. There are millions of humans in the world with your exact same story.”
Death’s chest hurt when Pierre managed to rasp out a harsh chuckle.
“I was always told I wasn’t anything special. I guess everyone was right.”
Death bit his tongue and turned away while he suppressed the overwhelming urge to deny Pierre’s words. He couldn’t think Pierre was anything more than a druggie too weak to deal with the world around him.
Is that what you thought of me?
“You weren’t a druggie. You were simply a boy who made some choices so you could live,” Death mumbled under his breath when he walked away from Pierre. “He has the means to live without destroying his soul.”
Really? Just because he has money, his life should be perfect? You were a shining example of how untrue those thoughts can be.
“I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t understand why you’re talking to me now, when I’ve never heard you in all the centuries since you died.”
He stalked into his guest bedroom and made the bed. Pierre would be taking a shower before Death let him touch anything else in his flat. After finishing in the bedroom, he went to the bathroom and hesitated before he started the shower. If he wanted Pierre to clean up, he probably should have done it before the guy shot up.
Shaking his head, he went back into the living room where Pierre sat, hunched over, holding the spoon in one shaking hand and the lighter in the other. Death whirled around and went into his bedroom, stripping his clothes off and throwing them towards the corner. Pierre could just stay in the living room for the night. Death wasn’t going to be around while the mortal pushed more poison into his veins.
Standing naked in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, he stared out at the Eiffel Tower shining, a bright beacon in Paris. The Latin Quarter where Death lived bustled below him, even during the latest hours of night. He smiled, remembering a time when there wasn’t much here, and what had been here were pleasure houses.
After he’d died, it had taken a little bit of manoeuvring to get his wealth. He’d managed to get most of it, leaving some for his sister, but he’d kept an eye on her. Emilia had done well for herself. She married an English lord and got out of France before the Revolution. At least he didn’t have to escort her soul to the gates for judgement. It was difficult to do that with some of the others he’d known during his living years. None of them recognised him, and he thanked the higher powers for that.
Why were you worried about them knowing who you were? You never liked any of them when you were alive. I remember you lying in bed with me, and how you sneered at the aristocrats, even though you were one of them.
“I was never one of them. I had money but no title, so I was considered less than they were.” He thumped his forehead against the cool glass. “Why am I answering the voice in my head? You aren’t even real.”