could she have forgotten who—no,
what
—he was? She'd turned her back on Death, had all but insulted him, all because she was enamored of her warhorse—the horse
he
had given her, along with her Sword. Death had come calling, bearing gifts, and she had repaid him with casual contempt.
She remembered, suddenly, how she had slammed the door in his face.
Oh God.
Missy swallowed thickly. Her head was too light; her bladder, too full. Her world tunneled down to a series of don'ts:
Don't scream, don't pee, don't pass out.
Death leaned in and Missy arched back, coming to rest against Ares' side. She tried to speak, but her words caught in her throat, strangling her. Now Death was nose to nose with her, and she breathed in the smells of fresh earth and old paper, and beneath that, something primal that had no name. It was a heady mixture, that combination of power and comfort and age, and Missy found herself breathing too fast ... and not entirely due to fear.
Is this a death wish?
she wondered, and then she fought back a nervous giggle.
A touch like frost as Death stroked her cheek, once, his cold fingers tracing the curve of her face.
"This is why I've always liked you," he murmured, dropping his hand. "You're saucy."
His words tripped along her spine, making her shiver. "Me?"
"You. War." Something in his gaze softened. "The others who have ridden before you."
"There've been others?" she blurted. "Like me?"
"Oh, yes," he said, a knowing smile teasing his lips. "War and Death have always worked well together."
Worked?
Oh.
A flush of warmth crept over her face where Death's fingers had been ... and that warmth reached lower, making her knees buckle. If not for Ares, she would have crashed to the ground.
Unless, of course, Death would have caught her.
Still gazing at Missy, he reached over to pat the warhorse. Missy felt Ares shudder beneath his touch. "Treat thy steed well," said Death, "and it will repay you in kind."
That sounded more like a command than advice. Her reply came out in a choked whisper: "I will."
"Well, then. Saddle up, Red Rider," Death said, stepping back to give her space. "Time to earn your keep."
She struggled to get her heartbeat down from its rocketing speed to something less likely to put her in cardiac arrest. She breathed, and breathed again, and slowly her body calmed. Her mind, though, was a mess of thoughts and feelings—confusion, primarily, with snatches of embarrassment and, inexplicably, jealousy. Of course there had been others who had been War. The notion shouldn't bother her. "What am I supposed to do?"
"Thou art War," Death replied. "Go thee out unto the world."
Missy waited, but no explanation followed. She took a deep breath as she sheathed her Sword, this time noticing how the blade simply vanished. Missy blinked, then blinked again, and finally turned to face Ares. "Want to go for a ride?"
The horse knelt low enough for Missy to pull herself onto its back. As she settled down, she realized that there was a saddle beneath her and reins in her hands. She had no idea if she had magicked up the gear or if Ares had—or, for that matter, if Death had—so she just took it in stride. One thing she was quickly learning this night was to roll with the supernatural punches.
And touches.
Shivering in her seat, she saw that Death, too, was astride a horse—one that had, apparently, stepped out of nowhere. Or maybe it had been invisible until now. Or maybe she simply hadn't noticed it before this moment. Or maybe none of those things. Atop his pale steed, Death grinned.
Roll with it, Missy.
She rolled with it. "Okay," she said aloud. "Let's go."
Ares reared back, and Missy clutched the reins for dear life. She hung suspended, her thoughts tumbling together—
—I'm in the air oh God don't let me fall don't oh God I can't breathe my chest hurts my heart oh God my heart is pounding through my ribs and I'm still holding on still holding and I'm not falling and look and me
what
—he was? She'd turned her back on Death, had all but insulted him, all because she was enamored of her warhorse—the horse
he
had given her, along with her Sword. Death had come calling, bearing gifts, and she had repaid him with casual contempt.
She remembered, suddenly, how she had slammed the door in his face.
Oh God.
Missy swallowed thickly. Her head was too light; her bladder, too full. Her world tunneled down to a series of don'ts:
Don't scream, don't pee, don't pass out.
Death leaned in and Missy arched back, coming to rest against Ares' side. She tried to speak, but her words caught in her throat, strangling her. Now Death was nose to nose with her, and she breathed in the smells of fresh earth and old paper, and beneath that, something primal that had no name. It was a heady mixture, that combination of power and comfort and age, and Missy found herself breathing too fast ... and not entirely due to fear.
Is this a death wish?
she wondered, and then she fought back a nervous giggle.
A touch like frost as Death stroked her cheek, once, his cold fingers tracing the curve of her face.
"This is why I've always liked you," he murmured, dropping his hand. "You're saucy."
His words tripped along her spine, making her shiver. "Me?"
"You. War." Something in his gaze softened. "The others who have ridden before you."
"There've been others?" she blurted. "Like me?"
"Oh, yes," he said, a knowing smile teasing his lips. "War and Death have always worked well together."
Worked?
Oh.
A flush of warmth crept over her face where Death's fingers had been ... and that warmth reached lower, making her knees buckle. If not for Ares, she would have crashed to the ground.
Unless, of course, Death would have caught her.
Still gazing at Missy, he reached over to pat the warhorse. Missy felt Ares shudder beneath his touch. "Treat thy steed well," said Death, "and it will repay you in kind."
That sounded more like a command than advice. Her reply came out in a choked whisper: "I will."
"Well, then. Saddle up, Red Rider," Death said, stepping back to give her space. "Time to earn your keep."
She struggled to get her heartbeat down from its rocketing speed to something less likely to put her in cardiac arrest. She breathed, and breathed again, and slowly her body calmed. Her mind, though, was a mess of thoughts and feelings—confusion, primarily, with snatches of embarrassment and, inexplicably, jealousy. Of course there had been others who had been War. The notion shouldn't bother her. "What am I supposed to do?"
"Thou art War," Death replied. "Go thee out unto the world."
Missy waited, but no explanation followed. She took a deep breath as she sheathed her Sword, this time noticing how the blade simply vanished. Missy blinked, then blinked again, and finally turned to face Ares. "Want to go for a ride?"
The horse knelt low enough for Missy to pull herself onto its back. As she settled down, she realized that there was a saddle beneath her and reins in her hands. She had no idea if she had magicked up the gear or if Ares had—or, for that matter, if Death had—so she just took it in stride. One thing she was quickly learning this night was to roll with the supernatural punches.
And touches.
Shivering in her seat, she saw that Death, too, was astride a horse—one that had, apparently, stepped out of nowhere. Or maybe it had been invisible until now. Or maybe she simply hadn't noticed it before this moment. Or maybe none of those things. Atop his pale steed, Death grinned.
Roll with it, Missy.
She rolled with it. "Okay," she said aloud. "Let's go."
Ares reared back, and Missy clutched the reins for dear life. She hung suspended, her thoughts tumbling together—
—I'm in the air oh God don't let me fall don't oh God I can't breathe my chest hurts my heart oh God my heart is pounding through my ribs and I'm still holding on still holding and I'm not falling and look and me
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