Pestilence (The Four Horsemen Book 1)

by Laura Thalassa

  Once I follow him inside the empty home, he rounds on me. “Why won’t you speak to me?”

  Not so long ago he wanted nothing more than for me to be silent. But that was when the horseman didn’t know there were better things than riding in solitude.

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” I say.

  Taking a few quick strides, he closes the distance between us and grabs my jaw. “Last time I checked,” he says, tapping my cheek with his finger, “I wasn’t keeping you prisoner because you wanted it.”

  A bitter smile twists my face, but I still can’t find it in me to fight with him.

  He releases my jaw in a huff. “Fine. Pout, human. It will do you no good. They’re still going to die.”

  Why does he have to keep bringing that up?

  I rub my temples. “You wanted me to suffer, and I’ve been suffering. So take your victory and leave me be,” I finally say.

  Pestilence’s eyes harden. “This isn’t even the beginning of suffering, human. I could make this worse. So much worse.”

  I’m sure he could, but right now I don’t really give a fuck.

  I begin to walk away from him. All I want is to find an empty room away from the horseman where I can curl up and pretend I’m not seeing those faces every time I close my eyes.

  I’m just about out of the room when I pause. “For all your righteousness,” I say over my shoulder, “you really are a heartless bastard.”

  Chapter 16

  I’ve gotten used to stealing from the Pestilence’s victims. Every time we squat in someone’s house, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Stealing their beds, stealing their food and water, stealing their homes and—if they’re unfortunate enough to linger—their time. Pestilence might take their lives, but I take everything else.

  And I’m starting to be okay with this. Well, as okay as anyone can be in my situation.

  I pad into the kitchen the next morning, eyeing the snowshoes and vintage skis hanging on the wall across the way. Outside, rain beats ferociously against the windows and wind shakes the trees.

  I rub my arms, grateful for the roaring fire Pestilence started. The weather might be a mess outside, but in here, it’s downright toasty.

  The rainstorm nearly drowns out the sound of muffled splashing coming from down the hall. Pretty Boy needs his monster baths.

  Icy monster baths, I amend as I head over to the cupboards. The electricity—and thus, the hot water—doesn’t work here.

  My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since yesterday. One by one I open the cupboards. In sum total, I find two jars of pickles, one can of beans, and a moldy onion.

  Yum.

  There’s also a refrigerator in the kitchen, but judging from the fact that the electricity is out, I doubt it works. Still, you never know; people have fashioned these things into good ol’ iceboxes.

  I open it up and—

  “Whoa.”

  Moonshine. Rows and rows of moonshine. I stare at them all as a river of what was probably once ice spills onto the ground.

  Out of curiosity I grab one of the bottles from the shelf and, unscrewing the lid, sniff the contents.

  I make a face. Not just moonshine but bad moonshine.

  “And you expect me to willingly drink your beverages.”

  I shriek at Pestilence’s voice, the bottle slipping out of my hand. Quick as lightning, the horseman lunges forward and catches the glass container, saving us both from being covered in fermented piss.

  “Careful, Sara,” he says as he straightens, setting the drink on a nearby counter.

  That smoky, rolling voice of his twists my name into something intimate and exotic. I think I hate how lovely he makes it sound.

  His hair is dripping with water, and I find myself staring first at the darkened strands, which are the color of wheat, before my attention moves to his high cheekbones, where a few droplets of that icy water kiss his skin. My gaze dips to his mouth, with his full, sculpted lips.

  My cheeks warm at the sight of them.

  He moves beyond me, oblivious to my thoughts, checking out the kitchen with mild interest. His bare feet splash into the puddle of melted ice as he peers inside the fridge.

  “Not much here, is there?” he says, moving the jars around. As he does so, I catch a glimpse of …

  “Oh my God! Pie!”

  It’s mostly gone, probably older than my grandpa, and it’s probably breaking at least three different etiquette rules to go for it before noon, but who gives a crap? It’s pie.

  I none-to-gently hipcheck Pestilence out of the way and grab it. Closer inspection reveals it’s apple pie (my favorite because duh) and there’s about a fourth of it left. Enough for a single girl to tuck away without too much guilt …

  The horseman watches me carefully as I set it out on the kitchen table, leaving it only long enough to rummage around for a fork.

  He follows my lead, grabbing a fork from the drawer and heading back to the table.

  “What are you doing?” I ask when he sits down across from me, the metal utensil in hand.

  Pestilence studies my lips as he answers. “You wanted me to try your human food.”

  My eyes move between the pie and his fork. “Are you serious?” I suppose this is his way of smoothing over yesterday’s unpleasantness. My enthusiasm just plummets at the thought.

  You’d been ready to share your hot chocolate with him, Sara.

  But apple pie is a cut above even hot chocolate.

  He’ll just take a bite.

  He won’t even like it, he’s just trying to prove a point.

  Wordlessly, I push the pie over to his side of the table.

  The horseman stares down at the pie for a moment before gingerly scooping out a forkful of it. He brings it to his lips like he’s done this a thousand times before, and after a brief hesitation, he takes a bite of the apple pie.

  I watch him with a strange sort of fascination. It takes a helluva lot to distract me from pie, but Pestilence eating food for the first time just happens to be that. His face stays expressionless the entire time.

  He doesn’t like it. Praise Jesus, he doesn’t like it.

  He sets his fork down and looks at me, his face serious. “You were right.”

  I was? About what? My forehead crinkles in confusion.

  “Not needing something doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it.” With that, he picks his fork back up and scoops out another bite.

  “What are you doing?” I’m embarrassed at how alarmed my voice sounds.

  “Eating.”

  “So … you like it?” I probe.

  “Do you want a formal apology?” Pestilence asks me. “Would you like for me to admit I was wrong?”

  I’d like for you to not enjoy my stolen pie, thankyouverymuch.

  “I thought you mentioned that food was a slippery slope into mortal depravity?” I say, sliding the pie pan back to my side of the table and taking a bite of it.

  It’s a bit stale, and I prefer my pie hot, but it is, in a word, heaven.

  The horseman drags the pie back to his side of the table. “I mused on the matter.” He scoops another forkful. Another bite just … gone to this beast. “Food in and of itself is not wicked.”

  I slide the pan back to me. “Indulgence probably is.”

  Now that I know he can eat food, the suspense is over. Just give me back my pie. That’s all I ask.

  “Perhaps,” he agrees. It doesn’t stop him from continuing to eat the flaky dessert, and he happens to take the world’s biggest freaking bites.

  The pie quickly disappears, most of it going to the man across from me, the man who doesn’t even need to eat.

  This is such bullshit.

  After he’s finished, Pestilence sits back in his seat, slinging one booted foot over his other knee. There’s something so terribly normal about this situation. A man and a woman sharing breakfast together. It’s easy to imagine the horseman without his golden crown and his armor and
weapons. It’s easy to imagine him as just a man.

  And that’s very, very dangerous.

  “I was wrong,” he says softly, his blue eyes finding mine.

  “About what?” I ask distractedly, scraping up the last of the crumbs from the bottom of the tin.

  Yeah, I am that pathetic.

  “Consumption.”

  My eyes rise to his.

  His stare is too direct. I don’t know what he wants from me.

  I lift a shoulder. “Cool.”

  Pestilence’s eyes go to my lips. “You use such strange language sometimes.”

  This from a guy who calls the bathroom a latrine.

  I break eye contact for no other reason than I’m noticing just how handsome he is when he’s kind.

  My gaze drifts to the storm outside. It’s been raging this entire time. I know from experience that if it’s as cold as I think it is outside, the rainwater will burn like ice.

  “Please don’t make us travel today.” The request just kind of slips out of me.

  “Please?” His eyes alight with fire.

  Crap.

  He just loves that word.

  His chair scrapes back. “Human, I think you just decided our day for us.”

  Chapter 17

  Eff the cold, and the horseman along with it.

  My teeth chatter nonstop as Trixie Skillz trots ever forward. Even under my layers of clothes and the wool blanket I wear, my body won’t stop shaking.

  I might be the one Canadian who can’t stand the cold. Everyone else is like, “Hey look, I can see the sun today, and even though it’s cold enough to freeze water, by God, I think this is T-shirt weather!” Meanwhile, I’m what happens when a human and an ice cube have a baby.

  I’m pretty sure I was switched at birth.

  “H-how much l-longer?” I ask, my shivers making a mess of my speech.

  I’m going to get hypothermia and die out here. And wouldn’t that be ironic? Pestilence’s captive dies of exposure—not to the plague, but to the elements.

  The horseman glances down at me from where he holds me fast against his unyielding metal armor. “I’m not sure,” he says. “You could ask nicely and help me decide.”

  He means I could say please again and screw myself over.

  “Or you can remain quiet and we can ride through the night.”

  I swivel to face him. “Y-you are the m-most prideful jerk I-I’ve ever m-met!”

  I face forward again, pulling my wet blanket closer around me.

  Once this is all over, I’m moving to Mexico. I bet no one dies of the cold in Mexico.

  If I thought Pestilence would react to my outburst, I was wrong. We continue on, the minutes passing laboriously. We pass a few settlements so small that if you sneezed you would’ve missed them. The storm lets up briefly, only to then redouble its efforts.

  At some point throughout the day my shivers lessen, but it’s not because I’ve managed to warm myself up. Distantly I’m aware that this is bad. My fingers are stiff and hard to move, and my eyes keep drooping.

  It’s only when my wool blanket slides off of me and onto the street that I catch Pestilence’s attention.

  “I’m not going back for that,” he says.

  I sway in my seat, my eyelids drifting closed.

  I don’t care. I’m not sure whether I think it or say it, only that the horseman’s arm is suddenly the perfect place to rest my head.

  I close my eyes, barely noticing how tense Pestilence is.

  “Sara?”

  “Mm?” I don’t open my eyes.

  “Sara.”

  Just going to drift off for a bit …

  “Sara.” He turns my face towards him. I blink up at him as his gaze scours my features, lingering on my lips.

  He begins to look alarmed. “You’re not alright.”

  I’m not, am I?

  I think I hear him curse under his breath, then he clicks his tongue, tightening his grip on me. Trixie begins to gallop, his hooves spraying icy water against my legs.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” Pestilence roars. Or maybe it’s the wind and rain that’s roaring …

  “I’m s-supposed to suffer.”

  He huffs, and I swear I hear him say, “Not like this.” But that’s ridiculous because I’m supposed to suffer exactly like this.

  At the next turnoff, the horseman tugs on the reins, turning his steed down a muddy dirt path.

  I glance up at him, rain and sleet plastering his hair to his face. So much for Pretty Boy’s earlier bath.

  “W-where are we going?” I ask. My tongue feels thick and clumsy in my mouth.

  “It seems I’ve once again underestimated just how fragile you are.”

  It’s the closest thing he gives me to an answer.

  Maybe a kilometer or so later, I catch sight of a yellow house that’s seen better days. Pestilence makes a beeline for it, not slowing until we’re nearly at its doorway.

  He swings off the horse and gathers me in his arms. In three long strides he’s at the door. His booted foot slams against the wood, kicking the thing inward.

  Inside, I hear a flurry of screams.

  No, not more people.

  “Out of my way!” the horseman bellows.

  I catch a brief glimpse of a middle-aged couple and behind them, two curious children.

  No.

  Pestilence sets me in front of a wood-burning stove, holding me close as I shiver.

  I clutch his upper arm and force my eyes to open. “We can’t stay here,” I say, my voice weak.

  “I need blankets,” he demands. He’s not even looking at me.

  My eyelids keep closing.

  Body feels heavy. So heavy.

  “Please,” I murmur. I know it’s the wrong thing to say, but I can’t help it. How else should I plead for someone’s life?

  “Sshh. Blankets! And more wood while you’re at it.”

  A hand brushes my hair back, and I want to look and see who the hand belongs to, but my eyelids are too heavy to pry open. I finally feel safe and taken care of, and that’s all my body needs at the moment. I begin to relax, my head finding the crook of an arm once more.

  Such an oddly comfortable place to sleep.

  The children!

  I begin to sit up again, forcing myself to rouse.

  “Sshh, Sara. I’m right here.”

  Who?

  Not the children.

  Not the children.

  I come to gradually, getting my bearings bit by bit. A mound of blankets covers me, and in front of me is a wood-burning stove, a fire cheerily burning inside it. I stare at it like it holds the answers to all my questions.

  I move slowly, feeling like I drank my weight in bad moonshine then decided to run a marathon before getting hit by a freight train. Yesterday was not my best day.

  I groan, beginning to roll away.

  As soon as I shift, I feel the wind brush against my bare skin.

  What in the world?

  Am I naked?

  An arm tightens around my stomach, feeling like a band of steel.

  … Waitonefuckingmoment.

  My mind screeches to a halt.

  No.

  Nononononononono.

  Nooooooooo.

  I glance over my shoulder, and sure enough, there’s Pestilence, spooning me like we’re lovers. From what I can tell, he doesn’t have a shirt on.

  Deep breath, Burns.

  “Did we … ?” I can’t even finish that sentence.

  “You were hypothermic.”

  Oh. Of course. That would be the logical sequence of events. Not screwing the world’s most hated being. Because that would be so far out of the question that—

  Why am I even dwelling on this?

  I gather the blankets around me, clutching them against me, and sit up with as much modesty as I can manage.

  “Where are we?”

  Pestilence sits up next to me, and now it really looks like the two of us were
up to some hanky-panky.

  “In a house,” he replies.

  Ask a silly question …

  In the distance I hear hushed voices.

  “No you can’t go out there.”

  “But I’m hungry.”

  “Is that really the horseman?”

  “I want to pet his horse!”

  “Go back to your rooms, both of you.”

  Little feet pitter patter against the floor.

  My stomach contracts. Children. That’s right. I rub the heel of my hand against one of my eyes, willing the last twenty-four hours to just go away.

  Children. Under the same roof as Pestilence.

  “Don’t let them die,” I whisper.

  “Everyone dies, Sara.”

  I close my eyes. Everything hurts so damn much. My body, my heart, my mind.

  They’re going to die.

  I twist to face him, pressing the blanket close to me. It has racecars printed all over it. A little boy’s blanket, sacrificed so that I’d be warm. Sometimes it’s the little details that cut the deepest.

  “Honestly,” I say, “that is the biggest load of horseshit I’ve heard from you.”

  He squints at me. “Every human dies,” he amends, completely missing my point.

  “It doesn’t mean they need to die today!” I hiss, trying to keep my voice down for the family’s sake.

  “They won’t. They still have at few days yet.”

  Suddenly I can’t look at him, and I can’t stand to be near him.

  He’s going to kill children. Children.

  Of course, he already has killed children. Thousands upon thousands of them. But now the reality of it is being shoved in my face and I can’t stand it.

  Wordlessly, Pestilence hands me a pile of clothes, undoubtedly something he swiped from the owner’s. This might just be the worst part of the whole thing. The horseman can think to collect clothes for me even as he lets his damnable plague kill kids.

  Pestilence settles back on his forearms, watching me as I dress, his eyes not quite as disinterested in my body as they were the last time he saw it.

  I must be imagining things.

  I finally meet his gaze. “Change your mind.”

  “No.”

  My jaw clenches as I stare at him, my eyes accusing. He meets my gaze unflinchingly.