A Death of Music Page 3

  “You were always too pretty to be human,” War said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I should have known.”

  Zane stood across from her, just the two of them in the dark. A comet flamed past overhead. His wings flared out slightly before settling behind his back. “What’s your excuse, then?”

  The heat rose up inside her, breathtaking in its intensity. Her anger was a hungry, howling beast. “If you think you’re going to come sugar-talk me and apologize, I’m not interested.”

  “I’m not here to apologize.” His eyes were cold as he looked at her. Like they were strangers. “I had a task to perform, a holy mission, and I completed it. I can’t apologize for doing Heaven’s work.”

  “Completed your task. You mean sleeping with me? That’s Heaven’s work?” War smirked. “Interesting how they don’t teach that part in the bible.”

  Zane’s face tightened, and his whole body along with it. “A necessary evil. A step toward your transformation.”

  War circled him, the beast toying with her prey. Her red duster billowed slightly behind her. “Necessary evil? You seemed to enjoy that evil quite a bit.”

  The tiniest of flinches as her words struck. “I’m a good actor,” he said after a moment’s hesitation, a scowl marring his features.

  “Then or now?” She swished closer, so close that her shoulder brushed his as she passed, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. Her eyes burned into him.

  “Then, of course.” The scowl was still there but he sounded just the tiniest bit breathy.

  War stopped in her tracks. He turned his gaze to hers like a magnet, and she reached out and ran one fingertip along the edge of his jaw. “Then why is your heart beating so loudly right now?” she whispered.

  Zane stepped back, wings flaring out once again. He blinked. “I’m not here to verbally spar with you.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I’ve been sent to watch over you. All four of you.” It was his turn to cross his arms over his chest, as if he could deflect her.

  “We’re quite capable of getting the job done without you.”

  “On the contrary, you are newly minted Riders without full control of your powers. I’ll be stopping in here and there to make sure you stay on track.” A brief pause. “We cannot fail in this mission.”

  War was silent for a moment, absorbing this new wrinkle. “If you’re here to watch over all four of us, then why did you come to me alone?”

  Something shimmered in Zane’s eyes, some emotion she couldn’t read. “Stay on task, Willow. I will see you—all of you—again soon.”

  “Willow?” Her voice came out quiet and low, not in a soft way, but with the intensity of a distant roll of thunder. “That’s not my name anymore. She’s gone—you made sure of that.”

  Zane went still, his blue eyes on her green ones, sapphire and jade. “That’s true,” he said. “She is indeed.”

  And with that, he launched off from the ground, causing a faint tremor through the earth, and shot off into the black sky.

  Chapter Seven

  Pestilence/Penelope

  A new day rose, the first red dawn of the Apocalypse. It spread across the land: their discord, their poison, their hunger. And death. All of the endings and all of the beginnings.

  Pestilence could see the silhouette of Atsa riding ahead of them in the early rays of the sun. He reminded her of her old life, in both the best and worst ways. The clash of emotions felt like two trains colliding, over and over again.

  Atsa had guided her to her people. Had shown her the beauty of them, the beauty in herself. She found herself wanting desperately to know what he thought of her transformation. Did he fear her? Loathe what she’d become? She loathed herself for even caring what he thought. He, a mere human. Why did it matter?

  Because it mattered to Penelope.

  For a brief twenty-four hours or so, she’d been happy. And what she was now—powerful, magical, boundless—was not the same thing as happy. She cursed it and what it had taken from her. But then, if she hadn’t possessed this magic, she’d be dead. Both her and Domino, fallen beneath Roy’s bullets.

  The rage came then, and she held onto it, burned in it, because it felt better than regret and desperation.

  Beyond Atsa, Pestilence saw the outline of a town shimmer into view across the sands of the desert. He turned his paint horse and skirted to the north, but she kept straight as an arrow. War had told them of Zane’s visit the night before. They were being watched. The end of the world must go on.

  And so they rode.

  Behind Pestilence, ribbons of pure white crossed the earth where she bleached the color from it. The same blinding white as her horse, a cleansing in the truest sense of the word. A preparation for what came next, the poison she planted. She pulled forth her bow as they descended on the town, and the four Riders rode shoulder to shoulder as they reached the first building.

  Where War passed, people began to shout and shove.

  Where Famine passed, all things good and nourishing shriveled or spoiled.

  Where Death passed, skeletons ran in her wake, and her bone dragon let out a deafening shriek from the sky above.

  And where Pestilence passed, water turned toxic, diseases spread, and the air turned bad.

  They galloped down the main street. Screams of horror rose around them, townsfolk ran for cover. Pestilence accepted their fear. She did not thrive on it, but she felt a sense of purpose fulfilled. It was the way of things. The cycle of death and rebirth. A necessity.

  It was a small town, and as they neared the end of the street, Pestilence saw a figure standing in their path. Not a sheriff or a brave sharpshooter attempting to save their fellow citizens. It was a small girl, three or four years in age. She had raven hair, like Pestilence’s own, a yellow dress, something clutched in her hand, likely a doll. She did not move as the horsewomen bore down upon her.

  Penelope surged to the surface.

  It was only too easy. She and Domino had done trick riding for years. She hung off the right side of her saddle and scooped up the girl as they passed. Just a shift in balance, barely a touch of the reins, and Domino swung toward the boardwalk of the shops to their right. Penelope dropped the girl upright on the planks and rode on.

  She did not look back to see the state of the town behind them, though the screams continued.

  And so they passed the rest of the day, from the rising to the setting of the sun. Ever westward, cutting through towns, sowing destruction everywhere they went. Annihilation. Cleansing. Life. Death. It was all the same.

  When they finally paused for the night, for benefit of Atsa, Pestilence felt she’d lived an eternity in less than forty-eight hours. Or maybe that was Penelope. Pestilence knew all of time and none of it.

  She caught Atsa watching her as they sat around the fire. The other three Riders had left, though she knew they weren’t far. She could feel the frenetic burn of War’s emotions, the thrill in her veins; the pensiveness of Famine. Death stood a ways off with her horse and her dragon, her power pulsing like a supernova.

  “You’re afraid of me,” Pestilence said softly, her dark eyes meeting his. Next to him, his white wolf whined.

  Atsa shook his head. “Not afraid of you. Afraid for you.”

  She laughed. “Nothing can harm me now. Why would you be afraid for me?”

  “You are more than human now, that is true,” he said. The fire shone in his hair, turning it blood-red. “But there are many other things like you. Things you never learned about growing up with your mother. You are far from invincible.”

  Pestilence cocked her head to the side. “I’ve met the angels. And the Fallen. Well, one of them. I am not sure they can harm us.”

  “You would likely be wrong. But I’m not talking about them. Your upbringing was… limited.”

  She leaned back, her hair falling in a raven sheet down the side of her face. “Enlighten me, then.”

  “Spider Woman, for
one. You will meet her very soon. She is something more ancient than you can imagine. And there are hundreds of others like her. Thousands. Just within this land, not to mention all the lands across the oceans. Each has their own gods and goddesses. Each is incredibly powerful.”

  Pestilence contemplated this, a frown on her lips. “The Riders bring the Apocalypse,” she said. “What is more powerful than ending the world?”

  “You speak only of white man’s lore. White man’s Apocalypse.” He paused, as if to let that sink in. “There are other bringers of the Apocalypse. Other myths and legends of the end of time. All around the world they have these stories of creation and destruction.”

  “How do you know those stories are true?”

  Atsa’s eyes held hers. “Most of the stories are true.”

  Silence fell between them and the fire cracked and sparked. If all the knowledge and power she possessed was only from the angels, from the white man as Atsa said, then what else didn’t she know?

  “Did Nascha know this would happen to me?” Pestilence asked at last. “Did you?”

  Atsa shook his head. “She knew of the coming darkness, as she discussed with you. But she did not know the exact form it would take.” He fell silent for several moments. “I wish we had had more time. That you’d been able to stay with the clan a little longer.”

  Pestilence let out a grunt. “The irony of it all is that I left you and Nascha and the clan to try to save Roy. But he died anyway.”

  “He never recovered from his illness?” Atsa’s eyes widened.

  “Oh, no, he did.” Pestilence stared into the fire. “He recovered quite well, in fact. Enough to shoot my horse, kill my mother, and try to kill me.”

  Atsa went silent, his eyes locked onto her. Then he said, “I’m so sorry.”

  “No need. He got what he deserved. It was a necessary part of my transformation.” She shook her head. “But none of that matters now. That’s not who I am anymore.”

  “You will always be Haséyá,” he said. “No matter what happens.”

  She flinched at the sound of her Navajo name. “Will I? Will the clan not shun me after everything I’ve done?”

  “Nascha will not allow it,” Atsa said. “And neither will I.”

  They watched each other across the fire, saying nothing for several minutes.

  Finally, Atsa spoke again. “We will reach the realm of Spider Woman soon. Don’t underestimate her,” he continued at last. “She does not take kindly to insolence.”

  The white wolf whined again, and from behind Pestilence, Domino nudged her with his nose.

  “That’s why I’m afraid for you,” Atsa said. “And if you’re wise, you’ll fear her, too.”

  Chapter Eight

  Famine/Felicity

  They reached the realm of Spider Woman early the next day. Famine could smell the nearby rivers, feel the water racing along the channel in the earth. She could sense the roots of the red buttes surrounding them, how they stretched down into the ground. Created by wind and time in another age. Something she could never truly fathom until now.

  “We’re almost there,” Atsa said. He stopped his horse and turned to look back at them.

  They stood in the shadow of a giant butte that jutted up from a canyon floor. A landscape of slashes carved into the earth, puzzle pieces strewn apart. Atsa urged his horse forward again, leading them closer to the rock face. As they neared it, a silvery fog enveloped them. The morning light faded abruptly to darkness.

  Magic encircled them, riding on the mist. Famine could taste it, a strange earthiness with a metallic tang at the back of her throat. She heard sounds like the pattering of light feet across the sand, the giggling of small children or sprites. Not a friendly laughter, but the kind that sent a shiver up the spine. Her eyes scanned the thick fog, but she could see nothing. She couldn’t even see the sky or the top of the butte anymore.

  They nearly collided with a boulder at the base of the rock, so thick was the fog. Atsa turned his horse at the last moment and tracked north. He peered off into the thick mist, his eyebrows scrunched, looking for something. Famine could feel her fellow Riders, tension connecting them all like taut string. Not fear, but alertness. The sounds of running and the malicious snickers continued to whip past, closer and closer.

  “There,” Atsa said, raising his arm. His voice came out soft, a whisper, but it echoed unnaturally through the mist.

  A gaping hole in the stone stared at them like a serpent’s eye. Big enough for them to walk upright, unmounted, two across. Famine couldn’t see beyond the opening, but she could tell it went down. The cold air seeping out told her, the earth told her. Around the circumference of the tunnel mouth, spider webs glistened like quicksilver.

  “You will stay here,” Pestilence said to Atsa.

  Famine watched their dark eyes meet, felt the command, not just in the Rider’s words, but in the push of magic she sent at the boy.

  “No.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and Famine felt a flare of magic come off him. It was different than Pestilence’s power, but magic nonetheless. “I go where you go.”

  Pestilence pointed toward the tunnel. “That leads to a place not of this earth. You are but flesh and blood. It’s not a place you can follow.”

  Atsa took a deep breath, let it out. “The ways of the Diné will protect me.”

  “No doubt they will. But someone needs to watch the horses.” Pestilence dismounted, handed Domino’s reins to him.

  The horses, of course, wouldn’t leave their mistresses, and they all knew it. But it was an honorable out. Famine knew that Pestilence could make the boy obey, if only she increased the push of power, but she seemed to harbor sentiment for him. Famine could feel fear and pride battling within Atsa, but after several moments, he nodded.

  “Thank you,” Pestilence said, and she turned and walked into the darkness beyond. It seemed not so much that she disappeared into it, but that it reached out and met her, swallowed her.

  War went next, and as she approached the mouth of the tunnel, the flames surrounding her went out like a candle snuffed. She stiffened, and Famine caught the flash of her green eyes as she rotated her gaze, casting it about the entrance to the mountain. Then she, too, vanished within.

  Death turned to look at Famine. Her bone army had dropped behind about a mile before they reached this place, as if stopped by an invisible wall. She had been silent ever since. Her blue eyes cut into Famine.

  “Remember when we spoke of immortality?” she said softly.

  Famine nodded. “Of course.”

  “This place makes me think that we are not endless after all. That we are not the only great powers in this world.”

  “And does that bother you?”

  Death ran her fingers through the mist climbing her thighs. “I enjoyed being invincible. At least for a short time.”

  “I won’t let any harm come to you,” Famine said, her voice knife edged. She reached out and wound her brown fingers through Death’s pale ones. “Fear is nothing new to me.”

  And together they stepped forward and descended into the darkness.

  Chapter Nine

  Death/Dynah

  The fog fell behind them, and all was black. Not the black of the night sky, or the black of tar, or the black of a raven. Color still existed within anything in the natural world, if only a little. This was a complete absence of light or color. A void. A bridge to another place.

  Death couldn’t see the walls of the tunnel. She couldn’t even see Famine, who walked at her side. But she felt the warmth of Famine’s fingers in her own, and she focused her attention on it. She heard the soft echo of their boots on the rough stone floor, which sloped ever downward. She smelled the rock and the roots of the earth.

  Time passed slowly. They walked for what seemed an hour, then two. Death still couldn’t see a thing. Had the tunnel widened, or was it getting smaller? She tried to tell, based on the air and the presence of the earth around them, but
she couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried.

  As if sensing her thoughts, Famine said, “The tunnel is widening.” They were the first words either of them had spoken since they’d gone beneath the ground.

  Death remembered that first night, when she’d helped Famine taste the stars, how they’d discussed their different connections to the world. Famine felt the earth, and Death felt the cosmos. She wondered what the other two sensed. War seemed to have a kinship with fire. But her sister—Pestilence—what was hers?

  At some point she realized they weren’t on the earth plane anymore. It was something in the atmosphere around them. Something in the way their feet touched the ground. Everything felt lighter, as if they walked on layers of gossamer. As if the air were clouds. Her breath made puffs of white in the darkness surrounding them, and it was the first thing she’d seen in a long time. How long had it been now? Three hours? Half a day? She couldn’t tell anymore.

  The only thing tethering her to any form of reality was Famine’s hand in hers. It still held warmth, despite the icy chill surrounding them. Her skin was soft. Soft except for tiny callouses on the joints of each finger; skin toughened from playing the harp. Death could imagine the metallic strings that had etched their mark on each soft piece of flesh.

  So focused was she on Famine’s hand that when her grip tightened on Death’s, she felt it almost in slow motion. As if the skin grew taut, then the joints, the pressure increasing until it felt like a vice on her own fingers. She had only a moment to wonder what was happening, and then she heard it.

  A voice, booming across the darkness.

  “Come ‘ere, girl!”

  Footsteps, pounding across the stone, shaking the whole mountain.

  “I won’t take any backtalk, you hear?”

  She felt a shiver of terror, and then knuckles colliding with her cheekbone. Her head whipped back, and she fell to one knee.