The Four Horsemen 4 - Death (7 page)

Death stared at the man lying on his guest bed. Whimpering, Pierre scratched at his arms. It was time to give the man the next baggie of heroin, but Death didn’t want to do it. Maybe he should just let Pierre quit cold turkey. He’d be there to keep an eye on him, and if things were bad, he’d take Pierre to a hospital.

“Man, I’m dying here. Where the fuck is the stuff? You fucking promised you’d give it to me when I needed it. Well, I sure as fuck need it now,” Pierre snapped.
It seemed Pierre lost all his politeness when he was going through withdrawals. Death managed to hide his smile as he crossed the hallway and went into his bedroom. He pulled out a small wooden box, unlocked it, and retrieved the next baggie, plus all the paraphernalia Pierre would need to shoot up. He locked the box, returning it to the back of his dresser. It wasn’t the ideal hiding spot if Pierre were capable of wandering around the apartment, but at the moment, it worked. When Pierre became more lucid, Death would consider moving it somewhere less obvious.
“Here.” He strolled in and tossed the stuff on the blanket next to Pierre. “It’s your next hit. It won’t be as much, so the high won’t last as long, but we’ll make sure you go a little longer on the other side of the high.”
Pierre lunged for the bags like a cobra after a mouse. Death shook his head and left before Pierre could get anything opened. He wasn’t going to sit around and watch the man shoot up.
After going to his study, he sat at his desk and fired up his laptop. Unlike the other Horsemen, he embraced modern times and conveniences. Why not? There weren’t any rules stating they had to remain in the dark ages when it came to their living arrangements. He never really understood why Aldo, Baqir, and Kibwe had chosen to live apart from mortals.
Death hardly mingled with people, but he didn’t totally cut himself off from them and the marvellous modern inventions they’d created. His home screen popped up, and he clicked on his web browser. It was time to do some research on his guest. Death needed to see if anyone was looking for Pierre and whether it was someone Death needed to hide the man from.
He didn’t know Pierre’s last name, but he did a search of Paris newspapers and found several articles pertaining to the disappearance of hotel heir Pierre Fortescue from his hotel room two days ago. Death frowned. How had they determined Death took him two days ago? Impressive, considering no one had checked on Pierre for several days before Death came for him, or at least, that’s what Pierre seemed to believe.
Pierre’s step-father, Jameson Robertson, offered a reward for any information on the whereabouts of his step-son. Death snorted softly and rolled his eyes. If the man had been so concerned, maybe he should have done more to ensure Pierre stayed off the drugs. Death read more articles and scanned several pages of images of Pierre at all the jet-set hot-spots around the world.
He noticed the same older blond man in many of the pictures. In some, it seemed like Pierre and he were together. In others, the man stood with his arm around a woman while Pierre gazed on with longing in his eyes. Pierre wore his heart on his sleeve about the man, yet Death had a feeling the older man was simply playing Pierre, probably using the younger man for his money and connections.
He found an announcement for the wedding of Lars Holden and some woman set for a week or two earlier. Could this be the catalyst for Pierre’s drug binge? It certainly looked like Pierre wasn’t expecting Lars to marry a woman and leave him high and dry in Paris, the city for lovers.
Death shook his head and closed the browser. After standing, he wandered over to the windows and stared out at the Paris skyline. The sun peeked over the buildings, flooding the streets with early morning sunshine. Death smiled, remembering how he’d loved to ride in the parks as the fog burned off the grass. So many sunrises met in such a manner, and he’d never realised how much he’d taken them for granted until he couldn’t do it anymore.
Well, he had ridden for a while after becoming the Pale Rider, but slowly, as more buildings were built and there were fewer parks to ride in, he’d stopped. He watched as the France he knew tore itself apart during the Revolution, and so many of his peers ended up being escorted to the gates. He never stuck around to find out where they were being sentenced to, because he knew where he’d send them.
“You judge them so harshly, simply because you were never one of them. If you had grown up with money and a title, you would have been just like them.”
Death shook his head. No, he didn’t believe that. He’d never understood the inherent belief those in the upper levels of society had in their own supremacy over those less fortunate than them. He’d seen it while living in India and China before he came home to launch Emilia into society. The ones with money always seemed to believe God meant for them to have it, and there had to be something wrong with those who didn’t have any or they’d be rich as well.
“Yet not all rich people were terrible human beings. Some of them were nice, like the man your sister married. He loved her, even though she wasn’t a virgin.”
“He loved her money,” Death muttered, not wanting to admit Oliver’s voice was right.
“Shame on you, Gatian. You know he loved her, or you would never have let her marry him, even if it meant breaking the rules and contacting her to inform her you didn’t approve.”
“She would have freaked out,” Death pointed out. “Considering I was supposed to be dead. I’ve always wondered if they found my body or if I was pulled through whatever wormhole the Horsemen come through, body and all.”
The silence in his head told him Oliver had nothing to say. The feeling of being watched made him turn, and he spotted Pierre propped up in the doorway. The glazed eyes and vague smile told him Pierre had managed to shoot up.
Pierre grinned at him. “Wow, man. You managed to score some top-notch shit. It must have cost you a good penny.”
Somehow Death doubted Day paid for the stuff. He didn’t say anything, though. He stood in front of the window and watched as Pierre staggered his way across the floor to hit his knees in front of Death.
“I know I have to pay you for this stuff, but unfortunately, I can’t find my wallet or my credit cards. So I guess I’ll pay you back the old-fashioned way.”
What was Pierre talking about? Death hadn’t said a word about any kind of payment. Hell, he didn’t want any money exchanging hands, or he really would feel like Pierre’s dealer. Pierre reached up and fumbled with Death’s belt buckle, trying to get it open.
“Wow…hold on there, Pierre. You’re not paying me back that way. I don’t want sex from you.”
He caught Pierre’s wrists in his hands and shoved Pierre away from him. Pierre sprawled on the floor, making his bottom lip plump out in a tempting pout. Death clenched his hands, not giving in to the urge to grab Pierre from the floor and kiss the man within an inch of his life.
Using the shower and changing out of his sweaty clothes helped Pierre regain some of his good looks, but it didn’t take care of the underlying smell of decay. Death wasn’t sure he could overlook the scent. He dealt with death every minute of his life; he didn’t want his lover to be dying inside while he fucked him.
“Don’t you think I’m attractive?” Pierre fluttered his eyelashes before dropping his gaze to look at the bulge growing in the front of Death’s pants. “Ah, but I think you do want to fuck me.”
Death jerked out of the way as Pierre reached for him again. “Wanting to fuck you doesn’t mean I will fuck you. I can control myself, and I don’t think you should be whoring yourself out for drugs.”
Pierre rocked back on his heels like Death had punched him in the face. Tears flooded his eyes, and he dropped into a ball. Sighing, Death crouched just out of reach of Pierre’s grasping hands. He didn’t want the man to get a hold of him because it had been a few months since Death had had sex, which was a long time for him. Maybe once he got Pierre settled, he’d go out and look for a quick fuck. Maybe it would ease the lust he felt for the mortal currently sobbing on his floor.
“Stop it. I know you’re high, and probably have no control over yourself, but at least try to have some dignity. Don’t sell yourself so cheap. Being given drugs isn’t a good reason to sleep with someone.” Death wanted to bite his tongue off.
“Who the fuck are you? My therapist?” Pierre glared at him. “I can fucking do whatever I want with my body. You don’t own it. I do.”
“I think the heroin owns it, actually,” Death commented while he dodged the wild punch Pierre threw at him.
“Fuck you, asshole.” Pierre fought to his feet and stumbled out the door into the hallway.
Death winced when he heard a crash as Pierre ran into something. Pierre didn’t seem to take rejection well. Not much he could do about that, though. Death wasn’t about to compromise his own morals by fucking Pierre while the man was high. It had taken centuries for Death to develop ethics of some sort; he didn’t want to toss them out the window at the first challenge.
Another crash, and this time it sounded like glass broke as well. Death straightened and headed out to the living room. He had to keep an eye on Pierre to ensure the man didn’t hurt himself too badly.

Pierre stared up at the ceiling of his prison. It had been the third or fourth day since Death had kidnapped him from his hotel room and moved him here. It was Death’s apartment, and Pierre assumed they were still in Paris, but other than that, he hadn’t been allowed to leave since they’d got back from visiting that doctor.

He was coming down from his high, but he had gone longer the last time before he couldn’t take it any more and Death gave him another baggie full of heroin. Shit! Could this process be the right way to help him get clean? Weaning him from the stuff a little at a time instead of cutting him off without warning?

A knock sounded on his door, and he rolled onto his side while he called out for Death to come in. Pierre watched as the grey-haired man pushed open the door with his shoulder, carrying a tray of steaming food. Pierre’s mouth watered, and he realised he was eating more than he had been before. He could feel his body growing stronger. Maybe this time he would beat this addiction.

Pierre wasn’t stupid enough to believe he’d stop craving the drug, because once an addict always an addict. Yet he was smart enough to understand if he was given the right tools, he could find other ways to fight the need, and Death gave him options. Well, options that didn’t involve leaving the apartment.

Death held the tray while Pierre pushed himself up to lean on the pillows. He watched while the man set the tray over his lap, and grinned at the heaping plateful threatening to take over the entire bed.

“I’m not sure I can eat all this,” Pierre joked when he picked up his fork. “Just do your best. Cutting back on the heroin has helped you regain your appetite. You’ve put on a few pounds so far.” Death propped his hip against the dresser while watching Pierre eat. “I meant to bring this up earlier, but I think you might want to call your mother or stepfather. Seems he’s started a big search for you. He thinks someone kidnapped you.”
“Well, you did kind of kidnap me.” Pierre waved his fork around, almost tossing the bite of chicken across the room. “Have you sent a ransom demand? I don’t think he’d pay it.”
Death tilted his head, studying Pierre with those strange black eyes of his. “What makes you think he won’t pay for you? He looked really torn up on the TV when they interviewed him. Your mother hasn’t been able to leave the house since they discovered you were gone.”
Pierre frowned. Those descriptions didn’t sound like the parents he knew. They’d ignored him since he’d turned sixteen.
“I don’t want anyone’s money. Hell, I have enough of my own, and I’m adding more to it every day. How old are you? Aren’t you a little old to be rebelling against your parents?”
A laugh burst from Pierre’s mouth, causing him to choke on his food. He waved Death away when Death moved to pound on his back.
“Isn’t it a little late to ask? I’m twenty-five, not that it matters.”
“I didn’t think you were a minor, considering how often your picture appears in the tabloids, especially once you’d hooked up with Holden. Figured if you were underage he’d been nailed as a paedophile.”
Pierre stiffened at the mention of Lars. He didn’t want to think about his ex-lover and how he’d ended up with his heart broken.
“You were in love with him,” Death remarked.
He kept his gaze focused on his dinner. “In love with Lars? Hell no. He was just a casual fuck. Didn’t mean anything. He got married a week or two ago, didn’t he?”
Death strolled across the room and sat on the bed, resting his knee next to Pierre’s hip, his hand on Pierre’s arm for a moment.
“You know very well he did. I think your binge coincided with Holden’s marriage. I think the bastard led you on because you gave him access to your stepfather’s money. I did a little research on your on-again, off-again lover.”
Pierre didn’t want to hear what Death had found out. He’d gone into his affair with Lars with blinders over his eyes and heart. All the warnings from his friends about Lars breaking his heart had bounced right off him because he’d wanted Lars to be his hero, to be the man he could spend the rest of his life with. He should have known it wouldn’t work out.
Death fidgeted with the blanket, surprising Pierre who thought the other man could never get nervous about anything. He looked up to see Death staring across the room with an expression on his face like he was listening to something else.
“So will you call your mother? If you want, I’ll even let you go home. I don’t know what I was doing, thinking I could help you kick this habit of yours. The only way it’ll work is if you want to stop getting high, and I’m not sure you want that.”
Fear shot through Pierre. As much as being here annoyed him, he didn’t want to go out into the world on his own yet. He wanted to hide out and lick his wounds a few days more. So he didn’t get as much drugs as he wanted to numb his hurt. At least he didn’t have to worry about Death using him for money or sex.
The no sex thing confused Pierre, since he was used to letting men fuck him in exchange for sleeping in their beds and crashing at their houses. Twice Death had refused blowjobs from Pierre, and Pierre wondered what was wrong with the man.
“Are you not gay?”
Death shot a glance at him. “What does that have to do with you calling your mother?”
Pierre shrugged. “Nothing. I just got thinking about something.”
“Sex?” Death raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah. I mean, I’m not ugly. In fact, I’ve been called handsome, gorgeous, or cute all my life. What is it about me that you don’t find attractive?”
Okay. The question hadn’t come out right. In fact, it had come out rather whiny or childish. He didn’t need reassurance of his looks from a stranger. Yet as silly as it sounded, he did want to hear Death say he wasn’t ugly or Death was attracted to him. How pathetic did that make Pierre?
Death sighed and shifted on the bed like he didn’t know exactly what he should say. Pierre didn’t want Death to lie to him. He wanted and needed the truth.
“Please, tell me the truth. Don’t say what you think I want to hear. I’ve had too many people kiss my ass over the years. It’d been nice to hear from someone who didn’t want something from me.” Pierre stabbed at the chicken on his plate.
“Don’t worry. You have nothing I need or want. At least money-wise or influence-wise. Trust me, I don’t run in the world you do. I have no place there except to take the ones who die up to the gates for judgement.” Death turned to meet Pierre’s gaze.
“I’m still not clear on what you do. You said you were the Pale Rider. Are you really one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse? I didn’t even think you were real.”
“We’re not supposed to let the mortal world know we exist. I’ve broken a lot of rules helping you. I’m still waiting to see how it’ll all play out. But to answer your question, yes, I’m the leader of the Four Horsemen. Death, who rides the pale horse.”
Pierre took a bite and chewed while he thought. He swallowed before he spoke. “Are we in the end times then?”
Death stood and grabbed one of the armchairs placed in front of the fireplace. He pulled it over beside the bed and sat down. After crossing his legs, he steepled his fingers and rested the tips against his lips as he studied Pierre.
Fighting the urge to duck his head, Pierre continued eating. He didn’t know what Death searched for, or even if he’d find it in Pierre. No one else had ever found something worth staying for in him. Why would this stranger?
“Some people might consider these to be the end times, but while things aren’t particularly good, they aren’t as worse as they could be. Though we are known as the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, we are always around. We exist to keep the world in balance.” Death focused his attention on the window across the room. He seemed lost in his thoughts for a moment.
Pierre took the time to stare at Death. There was something very old-fashioned about the man, even though he dressed like a
GQ
model in linen pants and a silk button-down shirt. Pierre glanced down at the clothes he wore. Death must have bought them at some point, but Pierre didn’t see the man ever wearing them himself. With his grey hair caught at the nape with a leather thong, Death had a rakish air, and Pierre wondered where Death was originally from. The tailored clothes couldn’t hide his muscular build, so the man must work out sometime. He was taller than Pierre, and definitely took better care of himself.
“Can you die?” The question popped out of his mouth before he even realised he was going to ask it.
Death shrugged. “I’m not sure. I can be injured, but I can’t be killed or get sick. I’ve never been a position where I might die. I think the only person who could end my existence is the one who created me.”
“What does being Death mean? Do you touch someone and they keel over dead? How does it work?”
Death chuckled. “If it worked that way you’d be dead by now. I’ve touched you several times since I found you in your hotel room.”
“True. So how does it work?” Pierre set the empty tray on the table next to the bed.
“Pestilence carries diseases and plagues in his hands. His very touch could kill a person in seconds. War has a dagger, and when he stabs someone with it they start battles or wars. Famine wears a medicine bag around his neck filled with salt, and as he travels the world he sows the ground so nothing can grow, causing droughts and famines in his wake.” Death held up his hands for Pierre to see. “I follow in their footsteps, picking up souls as they die and taking them to the gates for judgement. My power is simply to extract a soul from its human host, like taking oil from the ground. When a person dies, I touch their forehead and the soul comes out.”
Pierre frowned. “Doesn’t seem right. You should have a prop like your friends do. Why don’t you carry a scythe, or whatever those curved things are? I mean, in all the pictures of Death, he’s wearing a hooded cloak and carrying one of those.”
“Overly dramatic,” Death commented. “I don’t need theatrics to do my job.”
“Do you ever get tired of it?” Pierre settled back against the pillows and rested his hands on his stomach. “I would think it’s pretty depressing, dealing with dead people all day.”
“If I really cared, it probably would be, but I don’t. They’re dead, and nothing I can do would change that fact. I do my job and give the other Horsemen their orders. To be honest, I don’t usually do individual deaths. I tend to go for the big massacres or events like that. I was here for the Revolution and had to cart so many souls to the gates I lost count.”
Something in the tone of Death’s voice told Pierre the Revolution bothered Death more than he’d like to let on. He realised they’d been speaking French without hesitation since he became coherent enough to speak. French wasn’t his birth language, but he spoke it like a Parisian.
“Are you French? How long have you been Death? Who were you before you became the Pale Rider?”
Death stood and paced to the other window, hands clasped behind his back. “I am French, and I have been Death for four centuries since before the Revolution. Who I was isn’t important in the grand scheme of things because I’m not the same person I was before I was killed.”
“You were killed? How did that happen? Why did someone kill you?”
Pierre was intrigued. What had Death done to end up being murdered? He found his curiosity growing about the mysterious man who’d saved him from an overdose. If Death didn’t care about the souls he retrieved, why was he going to such lengths to get Pierre clean and help him kick his addiction?
Death whirled around, and Pierre caught the phone he tossed at him.
“Call your mother. Tell her you’re fine, and if you want to go home to her, I’ll let you know where they can come to pick you up. I have some work to do.”
Smiling slightly, Pierre watched Death stalk from the room. There was a story there, and Pierre was going to have fun digging it out of Death. After the door shut behind Death, Pierre stared down at the phone for a moment.
Did he want to go home? He didn’t believe his parents were worried about him. They’d never shown any concern for him when he’d gone on trips and didn’t contact them for weeks. Why would they worry about him now?
Yet Death was right. He needed to call and let them know he was okay. He didn’t want them to get carried away and call out the army or something. Pierre imagined the security company his stepfather hired to keep track of him had been fired, since Pierre had lost his bodyguard shortly after landing in Paris.
Pierre cringed. The poor guy had probably lost his job, and Pierre felt bad about that. It wasn’t the guy’s fault Pierre lost his shit when he heard about Lars’ marriage. He’d have to talk to Jameson about getting the man hired back on.
Taking a deep breath, he dialled his mother’s cell phone number and waited for the hysterics to begin.
“Hello?” His mother’s voice held caution. He remembered he wasn’t calling her from his own phone.
“Hey, Mom, it’s Pierre.”
Pierre held the phone away from his ear as she screamed. She sobbed, and he couldn’t get her to talk to him.
“Mom, is Jameson there?”
“Yes,” she gasped out.
“Then give the phone to him and go get a drink.”
Rustling in his ear told him his mother was doing as he told her. He waited for Jameson to start yelling at him. They didn’t talk to each other. Mostly Jameson yelled at him for being a selfish spoilt brat, and Pierre tuned him out.
Maybe you should listen to him this time. He might not be as bad as you think.
Death’s voice invaded his mind. Why wasn’t Pierre surprised he’d hear Death talking to him in his head? Yet what Death said was true. Maybe it was time for Pierre to grow up and accept his actions affected other people besides himself.
If Death hadn’t decided to help him, he’d be dead, and he’d never get a chance to tell his mother how much he loved her, or thank Jameson for everything he did, even when Pierre was being a pain in the ass. Pierre was so surprised by those thoughts; he didn’t hear Jameson speak right away.
“Pierre, are you all right? Pierre, come on, you can’t scare your mother like that and then not talk to me.”
Was that a hitch in Jameson’s voice? Could Death have been right about his parents being concerned about him?
“Sorry, sir. I was just choked up at hearing Mom’s voice. I’m sorry I haven’t called sooner.”
“Are you okay? No one’s holding you hostage or anything?”
Pierre shook his head before remembering Jameson couldn’t see him. “No, sir. I’m fine, sort of. Just completely lost my mind there for a while. I’m really sorry I worried you all.”
Jameson swore softly. “When I get a hold of you, Pierre, I’m going to shake some sense into you. Then I’m going to give you a huge hug. Thank God you’re okay. Your mother has been out of her mind with worry. We thought for sure someone had taken you.”
Pierre swallowed the lump in his throat. “Were you really worried? You never worried before when I left for weeks on end.”
“Because your picture always popped up in some tabloid or entertainment show. We knew where you were. This time, once you ditched your security detail at the airport, we had no idea where you went.” Jameson cleared his throat. “I fired them, by the way.”
“Oh no. Please, hire them back. It’s my fault, and they shouldn’t be punished for shit I did. I promise, once I get back, I won’t try to get rid of them.” Pierre closed his eyes and took another deep breath. “I’m sorry, Jameson. Just some shit happened, and I wanted to get away from everything for a while.”
“Did you get high, Pierre? Are you using again?”
The disappointment in Jameson’s voice hit Pierre hard. Anger swelled in him at the way his stepfather judged him. So much for caring and being worried about him.
“You don’t understand what I’m feeling, Jameson.” He gripped the phone tight, fighting the need to throw it across the room.
“I saw the pictures of Holden’s wedding, Pierre. I know how much you cared for him, but I warned you he was just using you for your money. You didn’t listen to me. I’m sorry you got hurt, but if you’d listened to me, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Pierre shot out of bed and paced the room, ignoring the twinges of muscles he hadn’t used in a while. The overwhelming feeling of not being good enough swamped him. It was a feeling he was used to, ever since his mother had married Jameson Robertson. Nothing he did was ever good enough for Jameson, and Pierre never understood why he tried. His real father hadn’t wanted anything to do with him either.