Free Breath by Jackie Morse Kessler Page B

plague had decimated his village.
    Pestilence laughed softly. It was a pleasant memory, even if it wasn’t truly his own.
    A murder of crows fell upon the acacia tree, and the birds jabbered and cawed as the White Rider fished for malaria. Just as the volunteer convinced the villagers to take the mosquito nets, the opening chords of “Mad About You” filled the air. The birds squawked disapproval, but none of the women reacted. Everything about the White Rider went unnoticed by them, or maybe they just weren’t Sting fans.
    He gave his steed a final pat, then took his cell phone from his pocket and glanced at the number. Smiling, he took the call. “Hey.”
    “Hey! What’re you doing?”
    “Working.”
    “I’ll keep it quick. Free for dinner?”
    “Sure,” he said, glancing at his wrist, which was covered by a white glove and therefore a completely pointless gesture, but some habits were hard to break. “When?”
    “An hour from now? You bring the pizza, I’ll take care of dessert?”
    “Is that a euphemism?”
    A smoky laugh, and then: “One way to find out.”
    His smile transformed into an infectious grin that spread warmth through his body. “It’s a date.”
    “You, me, and a deluxe pizza.” A happy sigh, punctuated with a giggle. “This is love!”
    Still grinning, he murmured, “Is that what this is?”
    “It is if you order the pizza with extra olives.”
    “For you? I’d order extra anchovies. I wouldn’t eat them, but I’d order them.”
    “What a guy. See you in an hour. Love you.”
    “Love you too,” he said warmly, then put his phone back in his pocket.
    “In sickness and in health,” said an amused voice from behind him. “Which, in your case, pretty much covers all the bases.”
    The white horse lowered its head and backed away, blowing nervous puffs of air.
    Pestilence frowned over his shoulder. “You’re scaring my steed.”
    Death was leaning against the acacia’s trunk, wearing the form of a dead rock legend in green and white pajamas. His mop of dirty blond hair shrouded his face, casting his eyes in a sky of empty night. He nodded at the white horse.
    “My sincerest apologies, noble steed,” Death said in perfect Horse, which Pestilence understood. Pestilence understood all languages. Another side effect of being a Horseman of the Apocalypse. You haven’t lived until you’ve been cursed out by a pigeon while speeding over the Hudson River on a flying horse.
    The white steed shivered, but it accepted Death’s apology. It was a nervous horse, not a stupid one.
    The village women suddenly dispersed, as if they were fleeing to escape a squall. The volunteer hastily packed her things and drove away from the clearing like there was no tomorrow.
    Two Riders of the Apocalypse stood beneath the shade of an acacia tree, with a trembling horse and a murder of crows bearing witness.
    “I like your pajamas,” said Pestilence.
    “They’re not mine. I just borrowed them. It’s all I can do. I borrow. I rummage.” He smiled. “I steal. I’m not a Rider. I’m a pirate.”
    “Maybe you should trade your steed for a parrot.” Pestilence paused. “Say. Where’s your steed?”
    “Not here.”
    Pestilence’s mouth suddenly, inexplicably, went dry. “Why not?”
    “I need a steed that leaves me to my own affairs, without the benefit of commentary.” Death’s voice, never warm, now was laced with frostbite. “Good help is so hard to find. But not as hard as finding true love. That’s what you think you have with her, don’t you? True love.”
    Pestilence felt his stomach cramp and twist.
    Stomach pain. Gastroenteritis,
said the Elder.
Lactose intolerance. Anxiety.
    Fear.
    “What happened to your steed?”
    If Death heard the question, he ignored it. “You and your girl sound so cute on the phone. Love as conveyed through pizza. War would be sickened by the notion, but Famine, I’m sure, would be amused. Or maybe bitter. She’s not exactly stable when it comes to