of the Realm. “Do you think the First Horseman will play fair?”
Patrick rubbed at the white-hot pain throbbing through his body. When it came to Death, the pain always seemed to be white hot. “I don’t think Pestilence is going to attack me with the scent of your sex. At least, I hope he’s not. That would be just wrong.”
She folded her arms, her face serious. “No, Pestilence will use much nastier tricks to distract you.”
A sudden shimmer on the air beside her became Patrick’s mother.
His stomach dropped and his throat slammed shut. He stared at the tall, slim woman with the laughing green eyes and dark red hair. “Mum?”
The woman smiled—the same smile she’d given him every night of his childhood before kissing his forehead and tucking him into bed. “Heads up, Pat.”
The wrecking ball hit him again, this time harder. He smacked against the far wall, a kaleidoscope of agonizing colors detonating behind his eyes on impact. But before he could drop to the floor, the ball crashed into him again and again and again, his mother watching the brutal assault, her smiling green eyes crinkling with mirth and joy. “I always said you were the weaker of the two.”
He screamed, the ball mashing him into the wall with blow after blow, his mother’s words crushing him far deeper. “Oh, God, Mum!”
Focus.
The single word whispered in his head, barely penetrating the white agony engulfing him.
Focus.
“And to think I had the choice of aborting you,” his mother went on, her smile growing wider. “What was I thinking, letting a pathetic joke such as you live?”
“No!” Hot tears stung his eyes. “That’s not true.”
He reached out for his mother, numb with grief, on fire with pain. The ball smashed into him, again, again, again, pummeling him with such force he could no longer draw breath.
“Mum,” he croaked, staring at her through a black fog. “Mum.”
Focus, Patrick.
“It is for the best that you will die.” His mother nodded, her green eyes calm, her face soft with maternal love. “You really are just a disappointment to me and your father.”
“Noooo!”
Fury poured through him and he lashed out with his mind.
But the ball kept hitting him.
Again. Again. Again.
He was going to die.
He was going to—
Focus.
A ripple of control ran through him. He pulled in a long breath. His heartbeat slowed. Thump thump, thump thump…thump…thump…thump…thump…
The ball struck him, smashing him harder to the wall.
His heart slowed further still.
Thump… Thump… Thump… Thump… Thump… Thump…
He pulled a deep breath, stare locked on his smiling mother.
Thump…
Thump…
Thump.
She shimmered as the ball smashed into him.
He absorbed the blow, stare fixed on the smiling woman before him. “You are not my mother.”
His core erupted with golden fire, and existence shuddered. He struck out, a tsunami of composed force aimed straight for the apparition.
And then it was just Fred standing before him, her eyes glowing white, tears streaming down her face. “I’m sorry, Patrick. I’m sorry, but I had to.”
He stared at her, his heart rate returning to normal, his heart squeezing in misery. “That was not fair.”
She studied him, eyes unreadable, tears unchecked. “I know.”
He turned his head, unable to look at her. What she’d done was unforgivable. What Death had done was—
Prepare you.
The voice reverberated through Patrick’s anger. He blinked, feeling as if someone had punched him in the gut. Dragging his hands through his hair, he let out a sharp sigh and turned back to Fred.
She watched him, expression pinched and on guard.
He crossed the room to stand before her. “I get your point.” His body and soul felt like he’d been put through a shredder, and he was surprised he was still on his feet. “It’s not going to be pretty and I’m completely unprepared. I just wish I had more time.”
She shook her head, the training room around them shimmering back into the small, intimate library in which he’d first arrived. “I don’t think you need it. I threw everything at you then and you beat me.”
He studied her for a moment, the thought both terrifying and…and…what?
She smiled. “Amazing?”
He chuckled, the lighthearted sound surprising him. “Well, yeah, that’s one word for it.”
“I think it’s a very good word.” Standing up on tiptoe, she pressed her lips gently to his. “You are amazing, Patrick Watkins.”
A soft blanket of warmth folded around him. Sliding his arms around her waist, he smiled down into her face. “So, I guess I’ve just destroyed the notion held dear by hundreds of philosophers for thousands of years.”
She raised her eyebrows. “And what’s