“What do you think of that?” he said, his voice cold and brittle. “The three other Horsemen are gathered right now, plotting against me.” “How could you know that?” Xander asked, trying to ignore the way his heart was racing. “I see everything. I’m connected to them, more so than to anything else. Part of me animates them, makes them what they are. I feel the wind on their flesh, the sun on their heads. I smell their sweat. I hear their accusations. Oh, the things I hear.” “What . . .” Xander’s voice cracked. “What do you hear?” “True things. Painful things.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s how they would help me, Xander. They use their words to flay me.” “But they’re your companions,” he said desperately. “Your friends.” Death leaned forward in a sudden motion, startling Xander into taking a step backward. “Friends?” Death hissed. “You mean the people who talk behind your back, who say things about you? Who betray you? Are those friends, Xander Atwood?”
