Imposter

Chapter 37

Gracie's face lingered over him, cold fingers brushing across his cheeks. "Wake up, Wessie," she whispered. "You don't get to die today."

Wesley jerked upright, blood pouring out of his mouth. He felt the bones in his body crunch and grind and rearrange themselves, to fix themselves.

The fall should have killed him. He had been choking on his own blood.

Wesley staggered to his feet when he was certain he could walk, looking around for a sign of Gracie. She'd been with him, he was sure of it.

He had seen her face, heard her voice.

But of course—some part of him wanted to live and that part relied on Gracie to keep him going. Of course, out of everyone he knew, it would be her face to drag him back from the dead.

"I win this one," a soft voice called out from behind him, giggling. "I win this one again."

But it wasn't a game, and Death was using his own sister's form to manipulate him.

Wesley clutched his fists, turning around in the direction of the voice. The ground beneath him was shaking.

"Leave me alone," he said in a trembling voice.

"But I won. You've lost again, Wessie."

"You don't get to call me that!"

What right did Death have to wear his twin sister like a coat?

"I won, Wessie. I win this one."

"Leave me alone!" he screamed, and the sun fell from the sky.

Wesley was covered in a cold sweat when he woke up again.

It was silent, and pitch-black out. There wasn't a single star in the sky, but he somehow found his way up to the top of the cliff he had thrown himself from.

Behind his eyes, he'd seen the rainbow when he'd fallen.

He grabbed his bag and rummaged around in it for matches. He lit one and let the tiny flame guide him through the darkness, back on his trail.

It wasn't until the sun rose again that he realized what had happened when the sun went out.

Dead animals were littered all over the forest floor. Birds of every kind lay on the ground, wings bloodied and broken, necks snapped nearly in half from their fall.

What animals weren't dead were dragging themselves across the ground, away from him.

Wesley froze at the sight of the dead and dying, and for a second, he was reminded of his time in the coma.

He'd done that. When he'd yelled at Death to leave him alone, he had done something terrible. He had unleashed something terrible.

For a moment, Wesley nearly propelled himself off the cliff again.

********

Whatever had happened in the forest had reached the nearest town, and Wesley's heart dropped when he heard the moans and cries of the dying.

It just like it was in his dreams, before he'd returned as one of the living.

But those weren't dreams. They were premonitions.

"Help us, please," a woman begged, clutching a deathly-white child to her chest and reaching out to him with one hand.

Her skin was covered in blisters, blood and pus oozing out.

"I-I'm sorry," Wesley stammered, jerking back. "I can't help you."

But you can end their suffering.

"We must send. . ." The woman's chest heaved and her head lolled back. "A rider. Warn the next town. . .the plague. . ."

Wesley quickened his pace, away from her and her dying pleas.

They had been living their lives, going about their day like any other. They had been innocent and he did not command Death.

Death had done this on purpose.

"Make it stop," Wesley whispered through gritted teeth as he walked through the town.

The moans and whimpers assaulted his ears, drowning out any other noise.

"Make it stop."

"Say please, Wessie." Death took on the shape of Gracie, flashing in front of his eyes. "Say please."

"Stop it!" Wesley roared, and the town fell silent.

Gasping, he staggered back, the last of his energy abandoning him. And everything was silent.

Death had left him for the time being, but it had also left him the murderer of dozens of people.

At this point, maybe he would never find his cousin.

Or maybe the blast he had sent out had also killed him.