On A Pale Horse by Piers Anthony Read Free Book Online Page B

his situation.
    She screamed “Mr. Z! You're hurt!” She hurried to inspect the corpse, running right past Zane as if not seeing him. “In fact—you're dead!”
    “So it seems,” Zane said, somewhat wryly. Now the shock of what he had done was washing back across him, animated by the neighbor's reaction. He had set out to suicide—and instead had killed another man. He was a murderer! The immediately following events had been so surprising that much of the horror had passed him by. Now it was clarifying, and he was appalled. He had done many unfortunate things in his life, and today had been the worst, for never before had he killed another human being.
    Well, technically he had killed. But that had been a special case, and his mother— He cut off that thought. He had guilt, and he was indeed somewhat hardened to the evils of the world. Still—
    The neighbor woman turned. Now she saw him. “Oh, officer!” she said. “I'm so glad you're here. Mr. Z is dead! I fear it was suicide! I heard the shot, and he didn't answer—”
    Why had she waited so long before investigating? He had fired the gun half an hour ago. It must have taken her that long to work up her curiosity sufficiently. “Yes, thank you,” Zane said gravely. “I will take it from here.”
    “Oh, that's a relief!” The woman fluttered out.
    Zane relaxed slightly. So it was true: he was mostly unrecognizable while in the Death cape. The woman had seen him neither as himself nor as Death; she had taken him for a policeman, the kind of reassuring person she expected. Soon she would have the whole building informed.
    He walked out himself, traveling along the narrow hall and down the stairs toward the waiting vehicle. As he did, he realized in a random revelation that the Deathstone in the Mess o' Pottage shop had been technically correct, but significantly wrong. It had signaled his encounter with Death, but had not advised him that he would in fact assume a new office and become immortal. That was the problem with omens; they suggested the fact without suggesting the implication.
    He paused. What waiting vehicle? He had no car of his own, and no one had told him of one. Yet he had somehow assumed—what?
    Well, how had Death traveled here? Did he flap his arms and fly through the air, or did he drive a car? Whatever it was, that was what Zane had to do.
    He stepped outside, peering about, letting his eyes adjust to the night. There was a vehicle: a pale limousine, parked sedately in the landlord's parking space. The landlord would have had the intruding car towed away—but the man was coincidentally absent. Probably coincidence favored the operations of the—what had Fate called them?—the Incarnations. After all, how could Death handle his rounds if his car kept getting towed away by irate mortals?
    Zane thought it was the Death car, because its parking lights were blinking at him. The things of Death made sure Death did not neglect them. Zane would have been pleased, if the whole thing were not so grim.
    He walked up to it and around the rear. The license plate said MORTIS. That explained Fate's reference to the name; he had somehow thought she referred to a person, but obviously it was the machine. There was a bumper sticker: DEATH IS NATURE'S WAY OF TELLING YOU TO SLOW DOWN. Just so. He opened the door and climbed onto the plush driver's seat.
    This was as elegant and comfortable an automobile as he had ever encountered. Somber quality emanated from every part of it. The upholstery was genuine alligator leather and the metalwork was solid chrome. It was probably worth thirty-five thousand dollars in stock condition before the expensive options were added. He wasn't sure he dared try to drive it.
    His watch flashed, calling attention to itself. It was mechanical, but it had a magic way about it. The glowing hands indicated 8:05 P.M., the correct time of day. But the red sweep hand was moving. It hadn't been before; the seconds were marked by a