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She stepped away from Duncan, ignoring him, trying to pick up any hints of Kronos, the faintest sensation. There was nothing. He was gone.
The waiting was not over yet.
Duncan insisted she come with him to his loft, and she finally agreed, planning to ask Duncan for suggestions about where to look for Kronos in Seacouver. She drove her rental car carefully as she followed his T-bird, for groups of children in garish costumes scampered from house to house and sometimes dashed across the streets. It was almost dusk, and candle-lit pumpkins shone from many porches and windows. She had forgotten about the American custom of Halloween, that peculiar adaptation of the Celtic Day of the Dead, where trick-or-treating for candy had replaced food offerings for wandering souls.
In the loft, Duncan offered her a drink, then poured himself one. She had asked him a few questions about where to look for Kronos while they were in the elevator; now he had his own questions for her. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
“I’m wasting time.” Cassandra did not want to sit and chat over a friendly drink, she wanted to kill Kronos. She started for the door, but Duncan stood and took her by the arm as she walked past him.
“Then waste it,” he said firmly.
“I can’t!” Cassandra had stiffened under his grasp, and he let go of her now, but she knew she had to make Duncan understand so he would not stop her again. “He’s getting away. I shouldn’t even be here!”
“This is exactly where you should be,” Duncan corrected, as she backed away from him in case he tried to grab her again. “You’re in no shape to fight anybody, Cassandra.”
“I’ll take the chance!” she said defiantly.
“Then you’ll lose.” His voice was flat and certain.
She paced between the leather couch and the coffee table, but did not look at him. He was right, and she knew it, and she hated it.
Duncan sat down again on the chair, but he was still trying to convince her to stay. “Cassandra, I know Koren. I know how dangerous he is.”
She faced him then, her arms tight across herself, her eyes narrowed. “You don’t know him at all.” Duncan had no idea just how dangerous he was. Duncan did not even know his real name. “Long before he called himself ‘Koren,’ he went by another name.” She took a deep breath before she said the word. There was power in names. “Kronos.”
Duncan merely looked confused and shrugged. He had obviously never heard of him, but Cassandra was certain Duncan had heard of Kronos’s little band. “And he was one of the Four Horsemen.”
“The what . ” Duncan said in disbelief, then shook his head. “He can’t be.”
“No?” she challenged.
Duncan came over to her and protested, “If the Horsemen were alive at all, they existed ages ago, maybe thousands of years. They can’t exist anymore.”
Had Duncan forgotten he was an Immortal? She had existed for thousands of years, and she was still alive. So was Kronos. The Four Horsemen had existed, too.
“I’d give my life to believe that.” She sat down on the edge of the coffee table, and reached for the hourglass that sat next to the chess board, the smooth curve of glass cool under her fingers, the sand shifting, sliding. She might indeed give her life for that, to see the last of the Horsemen destroyed. It would be worth it.
“But it’s not true. One lives.” Kronos lived, and so did she. She turned the glass over, and the sand started to cascade over itself, wave burying wave. Cassandra knew sand. She had been raised in a desert, a land of fierce beauty and awful emptiness, where the night sky was black silk with powdered diamonds, and the day was harsh sunlight and scouring wind. She knew the grit and taste of sand in food, the rasp of sand underfoot, the hot scent of sand dust in mouth and nose, the roughness of sand against cheek upon waking. Sand was endlessly solid and fluid, each single grain angular and distinct as it danced along the surface of the dunes, while the dunes themselves flowed and rippled and cascaded, burying everything in their path.
Cassandra had seen sand bury houses, temples, cities, entire civilizations. Sand had buried her tribe, too, but the sand that had buried her people had been soaked and darkened with their blood. She had not been able to arrange their garments and anoint their bodies, to say the final prayers that would set free their souls. The Four Horsemen had taken that from her, too.
“I can still see them,” she said, watching the sand, remembering. She had seen them almost every night for these last four months in her dreams, her nightmares. “They were monsters. They rode across the world we knew and brought terror and death.” They were Terror and Death. She had known the Four Horsemen by their real names, but the apostle John had named them well enough in the Christian Bible—Famine, War, Pestilence, Death.
“Where they were, life ceased.” Cassandra saw again her childhood playmate Ashiz, her skull split open, her face and breasts covered in blood, her belly ripe with the child who was never to be born.
“They were without mercy.” Little Taliq, barely old enough to walk, screaming in terror as the horse thundered down upon him. The Horseman with the face of the skull, the Horseman she later knew as Methos, bending slightly, cutting Taliq in half with a casual swipe of his sword, then galloping on. Methos not even watching as Taliq’s head and shoulders went flying through the air, the little boy’s mouth still open in a silent, frozen scream. The boy’s mother screaming as her son’s severed head struck her in the face, spattering her with her son’s blood, screaming incessantly until she too was beheaded, and her own blood fountained forth upon the sand.

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