The Cavalry is Dead

"What are you doing?" Sally snarled.

The mother of monsters stalked forward. She looked pissed as hell. Or at least, one half of her face did, which was all Jax could see from his position beneath Percy, who looked startled to be holding a sword to Jax's throat. A pancake struck Jax on the wounded shoulder, and he hissed out a breath.

Sally threw another pancake. "You were meant to stab him, idiot!"

"I'm not killing my cousin," Jax said stiffly.

Sally planted her hands on her hips. "Well, no. He's dead already, obviously." She waved a hand. "Although one more stab wound would have really finished him off."

Jax turned back to his cousin. "Do it, Perce."

Percy's eyes were anguished. "Jaxy—"

"It's okay." Jax swallowed, guiding the sword to his throat; the blade nicked the skin. "I love you. It's okay."

Hot tears welled up, and Jax squeezed his eyes shut. He was trembling; he could feel it. But he wasn't a hero, Jax thought with some relief, and he didn't need to die like one.

No.

He wanted to die like himself. Jaxon Blackwater. Immense coward, unpublished writer, part-time vegetarian, and flower shop owner. But a good friend, and an okay person; perhaps that was all there was to life, in the end.

Percy's breath was thin. He'd sounded like this before, Jax thought, when they were eleven years old. Jax had fallen off a horse and broken his leg; Percy had carried him to the nearest village. Jax had been in an opioid-infused haze, but he could recall the crackle of a fire. The smell of thyme and cinnamon. Percy's sweaty fingers gripping his hand. The healer's warm voice: Your cousin's going to be fine, unless you break his fingers, too.

A lump rose in Jax's throat.

He should have been there for Percy. Should have asked Percy about his painting, or his sword training, or about the boys he fancied. But he'd make up for it, Jax thought, opening his eyes; he'd be there for Percy now, when it mattered.

Jax met his cousin's gaze. "Do it, Perce."

A calmness settled over him. Percy made a choking sound; his cousin was struggling with the sword. Jax raised his chin. He didn't want Percy to think he was scared to die. Which he was, obviously, but there was no point in his cousin feeling guilty about it. Jax braced himself, his hands digging into the grass—

Percy reared back, burying the sword in his own chest.

Fear ripped through Jax. "Percy."

Jax scrambled to his knees. The grass was slick with blood — both his own and Percy's, clumpy, messy, a pomegranate pried open — and his hands left red prints on Percy's white tunic. His cousin was smiling, his breath coming in wheezes. Hot tears tracked down Jax's cheeks.

"Why would you do that?" Jax demanded.

Percy's voice was ragged. "Didn't— Want— You— To play— The hero."

"Hush," Jax said. "Save your breath."

Jax pressed his hands to the wound, although there was no point; Percy was already dead. He'd been dead all along, and the realization struck Jax with such force that he trembled, his hands shaking. Percy's eyes fluttered.

"Your writing," Percy rasped. "Share it. Promise me."

"I— How do you know about my writing?"

Percy let out a wet laugh. "You're crap. At hiding things." Blood burled on his lips. "Really good. Laughed. A lot."