Free Loss by Jackie Morse Kessler Page B

too short and thin to be a bow—more accurate, he thought, to call it a walking stick. It was black and polished to an opulent sheen, its ends tapered to narrow points. It was beautiful to look at, almost hypnotic, like fire. It couldn’t have been carved from an ordinary tree, not something that marvelous, that radiant.
    “The tree it hails from, the Wattieza, is long extinct,” said Death. “But even when its siblings filled the land, this particular wood was already ancient.”
    “No string,” Billy murmured. “No arrows.”
    “It requires neither of those trappings,” said Death. “As you already know.”
    And he did. Billy didn’t know how he knew it, but he understood it to be true—just as he understood that it belonged in his hand. He found himself walking over to it, reaching out to touch it before he could tell himself otherwise. His fingers stroked the polished wood once, lightly.
    A shock of power jolted him, searing every nerve. With the pain came a burning clarity: The Bow was an extension of the White Rider, a tool that would bring disease to the world.
    Among other things , Death murmured in his mind. But as with the other Riders, you will learn as you go.
    With a yelp, Billy jerked his hand back, knocking the Bow to the ground. It landed on the linoleum floor with an unceremonious thump.
    “That’s no way to treat such a relic,” Death commented.
    Billy slowly backed away from the fallen staff. Death, and flying horse/cars, and the Ice Cream Man, and the Conqueror, and an unstrung bow that would let him spread sickness through the world. He shut his eyes and wrapped his hands over his head. Enough. He was done. He could barely handle his own life, such as it was; he couldn’t also cope with the supernatural.
    “I thought you wanted to escape your life, William.”
    He did, but not like this. He whispered, “Take me home.”
    A touch of frost on his shoulder, and then a popping sensation in his ears.
    “Jiggety-jig,” Death said, sounding terribly chipper.
    Billy opened his eyes to find himself standing on the steps outside his front door. Thank God they hadn’t had to get back into the horse/car.
    “Usually,” said Death from behind him, “Riders prefer to ride.”
    Billy’s hands squeezed into fists. “I’m no Rider.”
    “Thou art the White Rider, William Ballard. Thou art Pestilence, Bringer of Disease. Go thee out unto the world.”
    “I don’t want to be Pestilence!”
    “It matters little what you want. The Conqueror tricked you into agreeing to wear the Crown when the time came. That time is now.”
    No , Billy thought desperately. No. No. No . In his mind, he saw the Ice Cream Man with his waxy brow, saw the silver circlet winking around the folds of skin and lanky hair. Desperate, he said, “But he’s still wearing the Crown.”
    “True,” Death agreed cheerfully. “But as you have seen, he’s fallen down on the job. It’s up to you to pick up the slack. Or, if you’d rather, you can convince him to get out of bed.” A chuckle, like the sound of soil eroding. “Either way works for me.”
    “No,” Billy said through gritted teeth. After having denied Death once—no way would he ever ride a horse, especially Death’s horse—doing so again was slightly easier. Perhaps facing his mortality (or, more accurately, everyone’s mortality) helped him put things in perspective. “I don’t care what you say,” Billy insisted. “I’m not doing it.”
    With that, he dug out his house key and jammed it into the lock. The knob turned, and he stormed inside.
    “Don’t forget your Bow,” Death called after him.
    Billy slammed the door and jerked the locks in place, then tore down the hall to his room. Buds secure in his ears, music blasting on the iPod, he buried himself in his blankets, his clothes and shoes still on, and he hid himself from the world.
    ***
    Famine stepped out from the shadows, black separating from black. The echo of the front door slamming