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Authors: Jackie Morse Kessler
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inside as she was outside.
Dizzy, she leaned against Midnight, praying once again for this to be a nightmare. "I can't do this," she whispered.
The horse nickered.
"Tell me," she said, tears stinging her eyes, "what am I supposed to do?"
Perhaps in answer to her plea, the air shifted, bringing with it a sharp smell that made Lisa grimace. It tasted like blood.
It tasted like fear.
"Ah, so
you're
the new one," a woman's voice said—cutting and cruel, a voice meant to stab and leave you bleeding.
Lisa whirled about to see a knight—a for-real
knight
, complete with armor—seated on a rust-colored horse. Sunlight gleamed off the naked sword in the knight's gauntleted fist.
Staring at that shining weapon, Lisa was suddenly very, very afraid.
"Hello, little girl," the knight said, and even though a helmet concealed the speaker's face, Lisa could sense the knight—the woman—grinning hugely. "I'm War."
Chapter 8
The woman loomed like a metallic beast, gleaming in silver armor from head to toe. A plume peaked the helmet's top, scarlet as a cardinal's feathers. Her tapered breastplate sported an image of a blood-red sword, its point aimed high as if to challenge God to a duel. Bits of mesh flashed beneath the plates on her shoulders and elbows and knees, winking crimson. Her boots looked big enough to kick down brick walls, and her hands in their gauntlets—one gripping the horse's reins and the other wielding the mighty sword—would have made lumberjacks feel unmanly.
Staring up at the Horseman (Horsewoman? What was the proper gender acknowledgment for a Rider of the Apocalypse?) seated on the massive horse, Lisa swallowed thickly. Dear God, the woman was enormous! It had nothing to do with physical bulk, either, even though she clearly was no lightweight. No, it was the knight's sheer presence. She radiated power like a miniature sun.
It took Lisa several seconds to find her voice. When she finally spoke, the word came out as a breathy whisper. "War?"
"The Red Rider," the woman agreed. Lisa found herself wondering what she looked like beneath the face-covering helmet. "Death's handmaiden," she added with a wry chuckle. "Among other things."
Other...?
Oh!
Lisa thought of some of the things that James did with her when the mood struck him to be amorous—and really, he was a normal seventeen-year-old boy, so that mood happened quite a lot—and she then tried to picture Death doing those things with the armored female knight.
Okay, ew.
The thought of Death and this Junoesque woman doing ... well,
anything
together was enough to make Lisa want to shower. A lot. Death was sexy (and God, did she need therapy even for thinking something like that; she wasn't even Goth, for goodness' sake) and sort of nice when he wasn't being scary. But
this
woman, doing it with Death? That was just nasty. For one thing, she looked big enough to break Death's back. Wrapping those legs around Death's waist would crush him like a walnut.
Maybe Death liked it rough.
Lots of therapy
, Lisa decided. Perhaps War had alluded to her relationship with Death to make Lisa uneasy or jealous. All it did was squick her out. And that, strangely enough, made her feel less scared.
Not quite as intimidated, Lisa remembered her manners. She took a step forward, offering her hand. "Hi."
Midnight bumped Lisa's arm away a moment before the red horse snapped at the space where Lisa's hand had been. Yelping, Lisa jumped back as War's horse tried to bite her again. Midnight stood its ground, baring its teeth. Sharp teeth, Lisa saw, trembling—very, very sharp teeth.
Her horse was
defending
her. A wave of gratitude—unfamiliar and overwhelming—washed over her. Softly she whispered to her steed, "Thank you."
She thought she saw Midnight's nostrils flare, but other than that, it stood its ground, unmoving, boring its white gaze at the red horse. Unafraid. Undaunted.
So unlike Lisa.
The red steed answered the challenge with a snort, its black
Dizzy, she leaned against Midnight, praying once again for this to be a nightmare. "I can't do this," she whispered.
The horse nickered.
"Tell me," she said, tears stinging her eyes, "what am I supposed to do?"
Perhaps in answer to her plea, the air shifted, bringing with it a sharp smell that made Lisa grimace. It tasted like blood.
It tasted like fear.
"Ah, so
you're
the new one," a woman's voice said—cutting and cruel, a voice meant to stab and leave you bleeding.
Lisa whirled about to see a knight—a for-real
knight
, complete with armor—seated on a rust-colored horse. Sunlight gleamed off the naked sword in the knight's gauntleted fist.
Staring at that shining weapon, Lisa was suddenly very, very afraid.
"Hello, little girl," the knight said, and even though a helmet concealed the speaker's face, Lisa could sense the knight—the woman—grinning hugely. "I'm War."
Chapter 8
The woman loomed like a metallic beast, gleaming in silver armor from head to toe. A plume peaked the helmet's top, scarlet as a cardinal's feathers. Her tapered breastplate sported an image of a blood-red sword, its point aimed high as if to challenge God to a duel. Bits of mesh flashed beneath the plates on her shoulders and elbows and knees, winking crimson. Her boots looked big enough to kick down brick walls, and her hands in their gauntlets—one gripping the horse's reins and the other wielding the mighty sword—would have made lumberjacks feel unmanly.
Staring up at the Horseman (Horsewoman? What was the proper gender acknowledgment for a Rider of the Apocalypse?) seated on the massive horse, Lisa swallowed thickly. Dear God, the woman was enormous! It had nothing to do with physical bulk, either, even though she clearly was no lightweight. No, it was the knight's sheer presence. She radiated power like a miniature sun.
It took Lisa several seconds to find her voice. When she finally spoke, the word came out as a breathy whisper. "War?"
"The Red Rider," the woman agreed. Lisa found herself wondering what she looked like beneath the face-covering helmet. "Death's handmaiden," she added with a wry chuckle. "Among other things."
Other...?
Oh!
Lisa thought of some of the things that James did with her when the mood struck him to be amorous—and really, he was a normal seventeen-year-old boy, so that mood happened quite a lot—and she then tried to picture Death doing those things with the armored female knight.
Okay, ew.
The thought of Death and this Junoesque woman doing ... well,
anything
together was enough to make Lisa want to shower. A lot. Death was sexy (and God, did she need therapy even for thinking something like that; she wasn't even Goth, for goodness' sake) and sort of nice when he wasn't being scary. But
this
woman, doing it with Death? That was just nasty. For one thing, she looked big enough to break Death's back. Wrapping those legs around Death's waist would crush him like a walnut.
Maybe Death liked it rough.
Lots of therapy
, Lisa decided. Perhaps War had alluded to her relationship with Death to make Lisa uneasy or jealous. All it did was squick her out. And that, strangely enough, made her feel less scared.
Not quite as intimidated, Lisa remembered her manners. She took a step forward, offering her hand. "Hi."
Midnight bumped Lisa's arm away a moment before the red horse snapped at the space where Lisa's hand had been. Yelping, Lisa jumped back as War's horse tried to bite her again. Midnight stood its ground, baring its teeth. Sharp teeth, Lisa saw, trembling—very, very sharp teeth.
Her horse was
defending
her. A wave of gratitude—unfamiliar and overwhelming—washed over her. Softly she whispered to her steed, "Thank you."
She thought she saw Midnight's nostrils flare, but other than that, it stood its ground, unmoving, boring its white gaze at the red horse. Unafraid. Undaunted.
So unlike Lisa.
The red steed answered the challenge with a snort, its black
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