Pestilence (The Four Horsemen Book 1)

by Laura Thalassa

  I stare, transfixed. I’ve seen tattoos before, but none that glow. If his undying nature weren’t proof enough of his otherworldly origins, this would be.

  His biceps bulge as he reaches for the edge of his toga-loincloth blanket, and I look away before I can see anything else.

  A minute later, Pestilence returns to my side, duct tape in hand. The outfit he wears now—jeans and a flannel top—is a far cry from the outfit he wore when I first saw him, but it does fit him surprisingly well, considering that most men aren’t nearly as tall or as broad shouldered as the horseman.

  He levels those piercing blue eyes on me as he begins to unroll the tape. “Because you were so kind as to lay out your intentions—” He wraps the duct tape around the rope he’s tied to the railing, then around my wrist bindings, sabotaging any hope of me escaping. “I think this should keep you immobile for now.”

  Pestilence rips the last of the tape off, then tosses the roll aside.

  I glare at him, but the look is wasted. He’s no longer even paying attention to me.

  The horseman heads to the wood burning stove and begins to build a fire.

  “So what now?” I ask. “You’re just going to keep me captive until I die of plague?”

  Plague that I most definitely haven’t been feeling—or maybe I have. It’s hard to say when you feel like three-day-old roadkill anyway.

  Pestilence turns his head just slightly in my direction, then continues to tend to his fire. It takes mere minutes to get the flames roaring, and another few minutes to really feel the heat.

  Pestilence sits down in front of the fire, his back to me, and he rubs a hand over his face.

  “I begged,” he finally says. “Broken and bleeding, I beseeched you for mercy, and you gave me none.”

  My gut twists.

  “You can’t make me feel sorry,” I lie, because he can. He already has. I was sorry before I even pulled the trigger, and sorry again when I dropped the match. It doesn’t change anything, but still—I was sorry. I am sorry. And it leaves a bitter, brackish taste in my mouth.

  “I dare not hope for so much from the likes of your kind,” he says, still not bothering to turn around.

  “It was you who came to destroy us,” I remind him.

  Like I even need to defend myself. I don’t know why I’m bothering.

  “Humans have done a perfectly fine job of destroying themselves without my help. I am just here to finish the job.”

  “And you wonder why I showed you no mercy.”

  “Mercy.” He spits the word out like an oath. “If only you knew the irony of your predicament, human …”

  He turns his attention to the fire and rests his chin on his fist and I guess the conversation’s over. He stares and stares into those flames, and at some point, I think he forgets I exist altogether.

  My mind drifts to my family. More than anything, I hope they’re far enough away from the horseman to avoid his plague.

  Unlike normal viruses, Messianic Fever doesn’t follow the laws of science. You can be kilometers away from Pestilence, quarantined in your own home and somehow still catch it. It’s not clear how far away one needs to be to avoid the plague altogether, only that if you linger in a city Pestilence passes through, you’ll die. It’s as simple as that.

  You haven’t died yet, my mind whispers.

  It’s been over a day since I first came face to face with the horseman. Surely I should be feeling something by now.

  Speaking of feeling something …

  I shift my weight. It’s not just my wrists and legs that are hurting. My stomach has been growling for who knows how long and my bladder is about ready to explode.

  I clear my throat. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  “Then go where you stand.” Pestilence continues to stare into those flames like he can read the future from them.

  He’s making it easier and easier for me to not feel guilty about shooting and burning him.

  “If you’re hoping to keep me alive,” I say, “I’ll need to eat and drink and sleep and shit and piss.”

  Any regrets yet, buddy?

  He sighs, then gets up. Pestilence strides over to me, his stature commanding; he’s hardly the monster who woke me this morning, and that bothers me like no other.

  Wearing the flannel shirt, jeans and boots, he looks painfully human. Even his eyes, which had seemed so alien when I first caught sight of him, now look full of life. Life and agony.

  He hooks his fingers under the duct tape binding my wrists, and with a swift jerk, he rips it in two.

  Note to self: this fucker is strong.

  He tears the rest of the tape away and unties the rope from the railing. Once he has it in hand, he leads me down the hallway, only stopping once we get to the bathroom.

  Problem number one occurs as soon as he closes the door behind us.

  I glance at the massive chest that blocks the exit.

  “It’s called privacy,” I say.

  “I’m aware of the term, conniving human,” he says, crossing his arms. “Why you think you deserve it is a question for a higher power.”

  I huff and turn from him.

  Problem number two occurs after I try to undo my pants. I barely have feeling in my hands, let alone the dexterity needed for the task.

  Damnit.

  “I need help.”

  Pestilence leans against the door. “I’m disinclined to give you any.”

  “Oh, for the love of—”

  “God?” he finishes for me, raising his eyebrows. “Do you really think He is going to help you?”

  The scholar in me is instantly piqued by his words, but now is not exactly the time to learn all the mysteries of the universe.

  I blow out a breath. “Look, if you’re regretting keeping me alive, then kill me, but if you are married to this idea of yours, I’d really appreciate it if you’d pull my goddamned pants down.”

  “Would it make you suffer to mess yourself?” he asks.

  I hesitate. He has to know this is a loaded question.

  Which answer is likelier to not screw me over?

  “Yeah,” I finally say, settling on the truth, “it would.”

  He leans against the door. “As I said, I’m disinclined to help.”

  He doesn’t move to leave, however, and now I’m simply grateful I have a toilet to pee in.

  I grit my teeth as I try again to unzip my pants. The rope digs into my chafed wrists, and they scream in protest. It takes an agonizing amount of time, but I finally manage to unbutton my jeans, then drag them, the long johns beneath them, and my underwear all down.

  Pestilence’s impersonal gaze is on me, looking at my lady goods, which are on full display.

  Kill me now.

  He curls his lip.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “but if this fucking bothers you, then you can step outside.” And let me pee then escape in peace.

  “Empty yourself, human. I’m tired of standing here.”

  Muttering several curses beneath my breath, I do just that.

  A horseman of the apocalypse is watching me pee.

  Of all the sentences in the English language I could’ve come up with, that is not one I ever imagined thinking. I bite back a crazy laugh. I’m going to die, but not before my dignity is murdered first.

  Wiping myself, flushing, then pulling my pants back up takes even longer—as does washing my hands.

  At least there still is water to wash my hands with. Unlike household electricity, running water was hit far less severely. Why beats the hell out of me, though I’m not going to complain. It’s helped put out many a fire since the world ended.

  Once I’m finished, the horseman leads me back down the hall, giving my restraints a jerk that nearly throws me off my feet. And then I’m tied to that damn railing once more and he’s back to the fire.

  “So is this what you do?” I ask. “Go from town to town and invade people’s homes?”

  “No,” he says ov
er his shoulder.

  “Then why did we stop here?” I ask.

  He exhales, like I’m impossibly tedious—which I am, but honestly, homeboy has a long learning curve ahead of him because he ain’t seen nothing yet—and ignores me.

  That’s his main move, I’m coming to find.

  I turn my attention from his back to my injured wrists.

  “What happened to the others?” I ask, more subdued.

  “What others?” he responds gruffly.

  I’m honestly shocked he’s still engaging with me.

  “The others who tried to kill you.”

  The horseman turns from the fire, his icy eyes catching the light from the flames. “I ended them.”

  I don’t see any remorse on his face for those deaths, either.

  “So then I’m your first kidnap victim?” I probe.

  He huffs. “Hardly a victim,” he says. “But I will keep you and make an example of you. Perhaps then your dimwitted kind will think twice about plots to destroy me.”

  Now and only now is my predicament really hitting me.

  I’m not letting you die. Too quick, he’d said. Suffering is made for the living. And oh, how I will make you suffer.

  An unbidden shiver runs down my spine. Bloody wrists and aching legs might be the least of my concerns.

  The worst, I’m sure, is yet to come.

  Chapter 6

  I’m still not sick.

  And I’m still alive—albeit, I’m not exactly enthusiastic about it.

  Everything hurts so much worse the next day. My wrists are one sharp, burning throb, my shoulders are stiff and sore from all the hours they’ve been stuck in this bound position, my stomach is actively trying to eat itself, and my legs are useless with pain.

  Oh, and I’m still chained to this shithole railing.

  The only silver lining has been the few glasses of water Pestilence brought to me (one of which I accidently poured all over myself rather than in my mouth because my hands are still bound and God legit hates me), and the fact that the horseman has been kind enough to take me to the bathroom again so that he doesn’t have to “smell my vile stink”.

  I hate the pretty bastard.

  “‘This above all: to thine own self be true,’” I mutter under my breath. The line from Hamlet comes to me from memory. The meaning of it has been worn down like river rocks from time and overuse, but the words still affect me all the same. “‘And it must follow, as the night the day—’” My voice cuts off when I see Pestilence.

  Last night he wore jeans and a flannel shirt, but this morning he’s clad in a black ensemble that fits him like a glove. Both the fabric and cut of his clothes manage to look simultaneously archaic and futuristic, though I can’t say precisely why. Maybe it’s not even the clothes—maybe it’s his crown or the bow and quiver slung haphazardly over his shoulder. Whatever he is, he’s looking distinctly otherworldly.

  “I am going to untie you from the railing, human,” he says by way of greeting, “but mark me: if you try to flee, I will shoot you, then drag you back here.”

  I stare at the deep V of his dark shirt, catching just a glimpse of one of those glowing tattoos.

  “Did you hear me?” he asks.

  I blink, and my gaze moves to his face.

  The last of the horseman’s wounds have healed—even his hair has fully regrown. Only took a day for him to completely regenerate. How disheartening.

  “If I bolt, I’m dead meat. Got it.”

  His brows furrow and he studies me for a second longer before grunting. With that, he pulls me along to the kitchen.

  Using one of his booted feet, he kicks out a chair. “Sit.”

  I grimace at him but do as he commands.

  Pestilence strides away from me, opening cupboard doors seemingly at random before closing them and moving on. Eventually, he opens the home’s icebox and pulls out a loaf of bread (Who refrigerates their bread?) and a bottle of Worcestershire sauce from it.

  “Here is your sustenance,” he says, tossing them to me. By some miracle I manage to catch the bottle of Worcestershire sauce in my bound hands. The bread beans me in the head.

  “You’ll have to eat while you run,” he continues. “I’ll not be wasting time for human breaks today.”

  I’m still stuck on the bottle of Worcestershire sauce. Does the horseman actually think I can drink this?

  He gives a yank on my bindings, making for the door, and I have to scramble to grab the fallen bread loaf from the ground. While Pestilence ties me to the back of his saddle, I manage to stuff two thick slices of bread into my mouth and shove another few into my pockets. And then we’re off, and I’m forced to drop the rest of the bread so that I can focus my attention on keeping up.

  Immediately, I’m aware that today will not be like yesterday. My legs are too sore and my energy too depleted. Each step is agonizing, and no amount of fear can force me to run as fast or as long as I need to.

  I make it twenty, maybe twenty-five kilometers before I fall, hitting the road hard.

  The horse jerks against my weight, and I let out a scream as my arms are violently jerked nearly out of their sockets. The rope digs into the flesh of my wrists and I shriek again at the blinding pain.

  It doesn’t end. The pressure in my shoulders and wrists is nearly unendurable. I gasp out a breath, ready to scream some more, but it’s all so violent and sudden that it takes my breath away.

  Pestilence must know I’ve fallen, he must feel the resistance, and I know he’s heard my screams, but he doesn’t so much as glance back at me.

  I hated him before now, but there’s something about this cruelty that cuts more sharply than a knife.

  He’s here to kill humankind, what else did you expect?

  I have to lift my head as my body drags along behind the horse to prevent it from getting injured. Yesterday’s snow has mostly melted away, and the bare asphalt now acts like sandpaper against my back. I can almost feel the layers of my thick coat disintegrating under the force of it. Once it goes … I don’t know how long a human can last like this.

  I never get the chance to find out.

  Before I feel the bite of the road against my bare skin, Pestilence stops the horse in front of another house.

  I lean my head against my arm, utterly exhausted by the pain. Dimly, I’m aware of the horseman untying my restraints from his mount.

  His footfalls come to my side, then ominously stop.

  “Up.”

  I moan in response. Everything hurts so damn much.

  A second later, he bends down and scoops me up.

  I let out a whimper. Even his touch hurts. I close my eyes and lay a weary cheek against the golden armor of his chest as he carries me to the house’s stoop.

  I don’t see Pestilence batter down the door; I simply hear it. Shouts ring out from inside the house.

  “Oh my God,” a woman says. “Oh my God—oh my God.”

  I force my eyes open. There’s a middle-aged lady staring at us with a look of abject horror.

  Why hasn’t she evacuated? What was she thinking?

  “We’re staying here,” the horseman says as he brushes past her.

  Her head jerks back in surprise as she watches him invade her home.

  “Not in my house!” she says shrilly.

  “My prisoner will need to eat, sleep, and use your amenities,” he continues, as though she hadn’t spoken.

  Behind us, I hear her choke on several words before she says, “You need to leave. Now.”

  Her words fall on deaf ears. Pestilence heads up her staircase. Once he gets to the second floor, he begins kicking doors open, and there’s not a damn thing she can do about it. He muscles us into a sparsely furnished bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

  He sets me on the bed, then backs away, folding his arms over his chest. “You’re slowing me down, human.”

  I glare at him from where I lay. “Then let me go.” Or kill me. Honestly, death might b
e the kinder option at this point.

  “Have you forgotten my words so quickly? I don’t intend to let you go, I intend to make you suffer.”

  “You’re doing a good job of it,” I say quietly.

  His disapproving look only deepens at my words. Strange, you’d think he’d be pleased by that.

  He gestures to the bed where I lay. “Sleep,” he commands.

  Oh, like it’s that simple.

  Even feeling like I’ve been shitkicked to near death, I can’t just up and fall asleep, especially not when the sun is lancing through the window and I can hear the homeowner getting hysterical on the other side of the door.

  “I need you to untie my hands first,” I say raising my bound arms to him.

  His gaze narrows all distrustful-like, but he comes over to me and undoes the rope.

  He leans in close. “No tricks, human.”

  Because I’m so sneaky at the moment.

  Once my wrists are free, blood flows through my hands, the sensation agonizing. A low groan escapes my throat.

  “If you want my pity, expect to be disappointed,” Pestilence says, backing up to the door.

  Honestly, this guy is insufferable—even if he is annoyingly handsome. Actually, that might be what’s making it worse. He’s like the most aggressive form of my already most hated male combo: the hot asshole.

  My eyes move over Pestilence as he folds his arms, content to just watch me, a look of mild repulsion on his face.

  Feeling’s mutual.

  “I’m not going to fall asleep with you just staring at me,” I say.

  “Too bad.”

  So that’s how it’s going to be.

  I sit up and stiffly peel off my outer clothes, which are mostly rags at this point anyway. Tossing them aside, I slide under the sheets and try not to shudder at the fact that I’m lying in the guest bedroom of a woman Pestilence’s plague will soon kill.

  This is all so epically twisted.

  Beneath the covers, I rub my wrists, and I have to bite down on my lower lip when I realize it’s too excruciating to touch. Even the soft flannel sheets are agony against the raw skin.

  Pestilence sits on the ground, leaning his back against the door, and his unspoken message is clear: I’m not going anywhere.