Loss by Jackie Morse Kessler Page B

Death’s words, Billy saw a woman in black holding her arms high as a mountain of water loomed over her. He blinked and the image was gone, leaving him lightheaded and gasping for breath. He stammered, “What point?”
    “That you people are worth saving.” Death was no longer smiling. “And yet here you are, demanding that I take back the Bow—which, by the way, does not appreciate being bludgeoned against the table.”
    Suddenly queasy, Billy repeated, “Appreciate?”
    “Would you like it if someone tried to break you into splinters?”
    Eddie’s boot, slamming into his side and nearly cracking a rib.
    Billy’s throat went very, very dry. “No,” he said hoarsely.
    “Of course not. So treat the Bow with respect.”
    He held the weapon at arm’s length, wanting to hurl it away but afraid to let it go. “You said yesterday you needed my help. If this is it, then I’m not helping you. Get someone else to be Pestilence, someone who’s okay with making people sick.”
    “Usually, I’m rather open-minded about who stays a Horseman. If those chosen decide not to wield their symbols of office, I find someone else. But your case is different, William. You were chosen by the White Rider. Behind my back, which I don’t appreciate, but I understand why he picked you.” He wagged a finger in a no-no-no gesture. “Never antagonize kings. Their memory is long for grudges.”
    The words made no sense. The only kings Billy knew were names in his history textbook.
    “As for your help, well, I already told you what I need you to do. Either be Pestilence, as you agreed to be when you were five, or get the White Rider out of bed and back on his steed.”
    “That’s not me helping you,” Billy shouted. “That’s you forcing me to make a choice I don’t want to make!”
    “I suppose it’s a matter of perspective.” Death shrugged, the perfect image of slacker-may-care whatevertude. “I don’t want to make the choice, either. I find the entire situation distasteful. The White Rider played us both, but you’re far too caught up in your own drama to be mindful of that.”
    Billy felt his cheeks flush.
    “I had this notion that you’d spare me from choosing your fate by doing it yourself. Foolish of me.” Death grinned, showing far too many teeth. “No good deed, and all that. Let’s be clear. If you don’t help me by making the choice yourself, I will choose for you.”
    Of course he would.
    “Decision time, William Ballard. You stand at a crossroads, and now must choose your path. Will you wield the Bow of the White Rider? Or will you call the Conqueror back to duty?”
    It didn’t matter; whichever path he chose was paved in White.
    Billy squeezed his eyes shut and shook as emotions surged through him—anger, first, searing every nerve; on the heels of that, resentment, slathering over him like balm.
    He took a deep breath, and with the air came a quiet focus, a sense of quietude, of clarity. He breathed, and he opened his eyes, and then he turned to face the Pale Rider. Locking his gaze on to Death’s empty blue eyes, Billy Ballard made his choice.
    ***
    The hospital room was no different from last night: small and stale, with machines scattered haphazardly and a single, narrow bed with crisp white sheets. At first glance, the bed was empty. But as Death closed the door behind them, Billy saw the unmistakable form of the Ice Cream Man, a white blanket covering him from chin to toe. His ruined face was all too visible in the harsh florescent light.
    Staring hard at those waxy, pox-ridden features, Billy swallowed thickly. “What’s wrong with him?”
    “All manner of things,” Death said idly. “The White Rider houses all diseases. There are any number of things wrong with him.”
    “So you don’t know why he won’t get up?”
    “Oh, that. Easy peasy. He’s not home.”
    Billy frowned at the Pale Rider, who was leaning casually against the door.
    “He’s not here,” Death said, tapping his