Pestilence (The Four Horsemen Book 1)

by Laura Thalassa

  Slowly, he nods. “With my life, I swear it.”

  Something warm and uncomfortable spreads through me.

  She gives him another one of her sweet smiles. “Now, if you would be a dear, I’m awfully thirsty.”

  She has to no more than utter the request for Pestilence to do her bidding. The two of us watch him leave, and it’s only after he closes the door behind him that Ruth calls out to me.

  “Come closer, Sara.”

  I almost don’t. Now that it’s my turn to sit on the bed and hear Ruth’s final words I find I really don’t want to. A childish part of me believes that if I avoid doing so, she might live longer, like this ailment is a spell that can be broken.

  Reluctantly, I sit down on the mattress and take her hand in mine.

  She peers at me closely. “My, are you young.”

  Now that we’re alone, she seems fainter, weaker. No matter how many deaths I sit through, I always forget how alarmingly fast the end comes to the plague’s victims.

  “Only on the outside,” I say. It feels as though I’ve lived a hundred different lives, each one of them violent and bloody. I guess that’s what sorrow does to you—it fast tracks your soul.

  Ruth gives a sad chuckle. “If that isn’t the truth …” Her eyes wander off before returning to me. She squeezes my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “What you’re doing … ” she begins.

  Immediately, my pulse begins to hammer away. I have a horrible feeling I know where she’s going with this.

  “It’s … good,” she finishes.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Just like Pestilence, I’m hiding from the truth in Ruth’s words. And just like Pestilence, I’m shaken by how perceptive she is.

  Ruth gives me a sly look. “But I think you do.”

  I squirm under her gaze.

  “I’ve been around long enough to see the signs,” she continues.

  The signs of what?

  “It’s alright to care about him—even to love him,” Ruth says.

  “I don’t love him,” I say too fervently. My words ring false even to my own ears, and I don’t know why. I am not in love with him.

  She pats my hand. “Well, in the case that you eventually do, you should know it’s not wrong, and it’s definitely not something to feel guilty about.”

  But isn’t it? To love the thing that’s destroying your world? That seems tasteless at best, unforgiveable at worst.

  “Love is the greatest gift we can give or receive,” Ruth continues, unaware of my turbulent thoughts, “and I have a feeling,” she says quietly, “love is the only thing that can get us out of this mess.” Her eyes squint. “Do you understand me?”

  Of course I understand her. It’s the slogan every religious busybody has been bleating from the top of their lungs since the Arrival. Except when Ruth says it, a woman who doesn’t just utter the sentiment but has lived it, I finally take the words somewhat seriously.

  She nods to the door. “That boy out there”—only Ruth would have the wherewithal to call ageless Pestilence a boy—“has seen a lot of human nature, the bulk of it ugly. He’s only now seeing the beauty of it, and largely through you.”

  She gives my hand another squeeze. “Show him what we shine with. Show him humanity is worthy of redemption.”

  Chapter 35

  Ruth expires less than two hours after our talk. She gives into death almost eagerly, like an old friend reunited at last.

  As soon as she’s gone, the house feels cold and lonely, as though its soul slipped away with that of its owners.

  Unlike the other families we’ve stayed with, Pestilence won’t allow Rob and Ruth’s bodies to molder in their own homes. Instead I see him out in their backyard, a shovel in his hand, as he digs one large grave.

  I walk out there and help him move their bodies into the ground. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge, touching them. The dead feel perverse. Now that whatever animated Ruth and Rob are gone, I find what’s left of them nearly unbearable to touch.

  “It’s alright, Sara,” Pestilence says, seeing my unease. “Go inside. I will finish tending to them.”

  My gaze travels to the bodies, their forms entwined. I should be thinking of how appropriate it is that they’re buried in each other’s arms, but to me the sight has me swallowing back bile.

  Pestilence’s hand clasps my shoulder. “Go inside,” he repeats, gentler than before.

  Now I’m the weak one, the one who can’t stomach the sight, and Pestilence is the strong, steady one.

  I do as he says and go inside, and I end up making a bath for myself in Rob and Ruth’s master bathroom. The process taking a ridiculously long time since I have to boil water to heat the tub. On the flipside, the lack of electricity gives me an excuse to gather all the candles and lamps I can find and scatter them around the bathroom.

  I sigh when I finally slip into the tub, the water just on this side of scalding. I filled the already large basin excessively full because today I’m fucking treating myself.

  Right in the middle of my bath, Pestilence comes back inside. He must be looking for me because he eventually makes his way to the master bathroom.

  My first thought when I see him is that it’s just not fair to be that good-looking. Even covered with streaks of mud, he’s the most handsome thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  His gaze softens when he sees me. “Are you feeling better?”

  I shrug, and the action draws his eyes down. The first time he saw me naked, there was a clinical sort of detachment in his gaze.

  Definitely not the case now. The longer he stares, the more wistful his express becomes.

  Fuck it.

  “Do you want to join me?” I ask because—treating myself.

  Rather than responding, he begins to unfasten his armor.

  Taking that as a yes.

  This has got to be either my best—or my worst—idea yet.

  Pestilence’s eyes are on me when he takes off the last of his clothing. He’s perfect, his body flowing from one sculpted contour to the next. And now I’m sure I’m the one wearing the wistful expression.

  Pestilence steps into the tub, the water darkening with the mud that rolls off him.

  I thought there was plenty of room for the two of us, but as soon as the horseman sits down, I realize just how large he is, even folded up.

  My foot is brushing against his hip, and his legs have me pinned in place. All sorts of skin is touching and it is majorly distracting. Idly, he runs his hand up and down my leg, slowly setting me on fire. My foot jerks the moment his knuckles graze the arch of it.

  “What are you thinking of, dear Sara?” he finally says.

  That I am one bad decision away from jumping your bones.

  “Why did you bury them?” I ask instead.

  Pestilence picks up my leg, studying it as he places it in his lap. “Let’s not talk about sad things right now.” He deliberately runs a thumb over the arch of my foot, grinning a little when my leg jerks again in response. “Do most humans take baths together?” he asks.

  Just the stupid ones.

  “No.”

  He squeezes my foot. “Then why did you invite me in?”

  “Because I like being close to you,” I say, my voice hushed.

  His eyebrows raise at the admission. I think we’re both surprised by my honesty.

  “Are you going to regret this tomorrow?”

  “Probably,” I answer.

  His eyes return to my leg. For a long minute he runs his hand up and down it. Every time his fingers move high on my thigh, I tense.

  “How does a human choose a mate?” Pestilence asks, out of the blue.

  Rob and Ruth clearly got under his skin.

  “Well, first,” I say, “we don’t call them mates—well, not usually at least. We have all sorts of names for significant others—boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, wife, soulmate.”

  His eyes narrow in a way that suggests he’s tak
ing my words way too seriously.

  All the while his hand moves up and down my leg. Up and down. By the seventh stroke, my nipples are fit to cut glass and my core is aching.

  Does he know how wild his touch is driving me?

  “How does one find a … significant other?”

  I pat the water with my hand, anything to distract myself from Pestilence’s attention. It’s already problematic for my hormones, but in light of what we’re talking about … well, he’s reminding me that it’s a lonely world and this homegirl hasn’t gotten any in a long time.

  “I don’t know,” I say, “anywhere, I guess. It doesn’t really matter how or where or why you meet. It’s more about how they make you feel.”

  “And how should they make you feel?”

  The tone of his voice raises my gooseflesh, and I can’t help but peer up at him.

  A mistake.

  His eyes glitter in a way that is decidedly not helping my heartrate. My eyes keep drifting to his naked torso, his muscled body painfully pleasing to look at.

  Focus, Burns.

  “Um … they should make you feel good,” I run my hands over the surface of the water. “But again, dating someone—having a girlfriend or boyfriend—is not the same as what Ruth and Rob had. They were soulmates, and as far as I can tell, soulmates bring out the best in each other.” Unlike all my exes, who’d brought out my worst traits.

  “They’re the ones you’d want to spend all of your minutes with,” Pestilence adds, connecting this conversation to the earlier one we had. He’s looking at me like he’s having a lightbulb moment.

  “Uh, yeah,” I agree. I didn’t realize how carefully he’s been hanging onto my words. “I think when you find the one, you’d want to spend all the minutes you have with them.”

  “And how does one know when they’ve found … the one?” Pestilence probes, his gaze searching mine.

  I give him a hopeless look. “Beats the hell out of me. I’ve never met a man who’s made me feel like that.”

  Liar, a traitorous part of my brain whispers. This conversation is getting dangerously close to Things that Make Sara Burns Wickedly Uncomfortable.

  Pestilence scowls at that answer.

  Abruptly I rearrange my body, my leg sliding out of the horseman’s grip. At the action, the horseman’s gaze drops to my exposed breasts.

  He looks utterly transfixed by the sight of them.

  You know, it ain’t half bad, being the first woman this dude has come across. My body is riddled with flaws, yet he stares at it like it was crafted by a master hand.

  What would happen if I gave into that look?

  It’s alright to care about him—even to love him. Ruth’s words echo through my head.

  This isn’t love, but it is something.

  Acting on impulse, I move my slick body onto his thighs.

  Don’t overthink this.

  Leaning forward, I brush a kiss across his lips.

  His hands skim up my torso, his thumbs grazing the underside of my breasts. But that’s as far as he’ll go. I bite back an impatient moan. Moving myself onto his lap should be evidence enough that I want things to progress, but Pestilence doesn’t understand cues, and even if he did, I’m not sure the noble horseman would act on this one anyway.

  Going to have to spearhead this.

  I take his hands, and place them over my breasts.

  He sucks in a breath. “Sara—”

  “You can touch me,” I say. “I would like it if you touched me.”

  His hands remain unmoving.

  Okay, if he doesn’t do something in the next few seconds, I might die of mortification.

  “Please.” It slips out, completely by accident.

  Oh, motherfuckery.

  Pestilence lets out a groan.

  “I shouldn’t,” he says, his eyes transfixed on my chest, “not when you fling that word at me, and not when you offer up your flesh. But I find … I do not have it in me … to resist this plea.”

  Bless all the freaking saints, I nearly climax at the feel of his hands as they kneed my breasts.

  “Never imagined they’d be this soft,” he murmurs. He’s looking at my breasts like he’s a thirteen year old discovering his father’s skin mags for the first time.

  On what seems like a whim, he leans forward and takes one peak into his mouth. A shocked gasp slips out of me at the sensation. The tip of his cock brushes against me, and it feels rock hard. All sorts of illicit thoughts cross my mind.

  What would it be like to have all of this pressed down on me? I’m almost mindless with the need to find out. The two of us are playing a dangerous game. Scratch that, I’m playing a dangerous game. Pestilence probably isn’t even aware there’s a game being played.

  Take it slow, if not for your sake, then for his.

  His hands are beginning to drift down when I pull away, moving back to my end of the tub. His expression still smolders, and he appears to be debating whether to prowl after me or not.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this,” I say, fully aware that I’m giving this guy mixed signals. “Not here, anyway,” I add, like this place is somehow sacrosanct when a minute ago I gave zero fucks.

  “What care do the dead have?” Pestilence says. “They are beyond these things.”

  Good point.

  Still, there’s no rush.

  I pick up Pestilence’s hand and press his knuckles to my cheek. Some of the fevered want in his eyes softens. He tugs on my hand and pulls me to him, but rather than continuing our little tryst, he simply holds me close. Somehow, despite what we were doing seconds ago, the embrace manages to be affectionate, loving.

  It’s hard for him too, I remember. He still has this task, but he understands the horror of it, and now, the loss.

  And yet, he’s giving me comfort. I lean into him and I let him hold me. He cradles my head to him, and I feel him brush a kiss along my hairline. I didn’t even know this was what I wanted the entire time, but it is.

  “Be at ease, Sara.”

  And the terrible truth is that, in his arms, I am.

  Chapter 36

  By the time we leave Ruth and Rob’s house, there’s a stillness to the surrounding neighborhoods and a faint scent in the air. This is death settling in for a long stay. It’s unnerving as fucking hell.

  It rains as we ride out—which really isn’t all that surprising considering that we’re traveling along the Pacific Northwest, the birthplace of the rainstorm.

  When the horseman and I are alone, we can pretend away each other’s faults. He can be my dashing, noble knight, and I can be his strange companion, but once we’re on open road where it’s impossible to ignore signs of the apocalypse, we both remember how things really are.

  For the millionth time I hope my parents are alright. I’ve resigned myself to the reality that I’ll never see them again, but now, after watching Ruth and Rob die, I’m more aware than ever that my mom and dad could’ve endured the same fate. And that possibility utterly terrifies me, so I choose instead to hope they escaped the Fever unscathed.

  Pestilence drives Trixie Skillz at a gallop, forcing the tireless horse to race kilometers on end. That’s how we enter Seattle proper—with houses and streetlamps, newly abandoned stables and long dead storefronts all whizzing by in a blur.

  I appreciate the speed. Most of my focus is on remaining on the horse, rather than what sort of nasty welcome is waiting for us in one of the U.S’s big cities. Yet, despite the distraction, I can’t fool my body into relaxing. My muscles are locked up to the point of pain, and my limbs shake—both from the dreadful chill and from my mounting anxiety.

  The longer the two of us go without something—anything—happening, the more apprehensive I become. There’s not a soul in sight. Not a single, frightened soul.

  It’s not until the squat, rundown buildings and defunct shopping centers give way to the taller, decaying skyscrapers that I realize this is unusual. Really, really unusual. Evacuated citie
s are livelier than this, especially when they’re this big. You’re bound to run into someone.

  “Where is everybody?” I ask.

  Probably waiting to ambush your ass, Burns.

  At my back, Pestilence is quiet, almost contemplative. A wave of trepidation washes through me. Did something change while the two of us stayed at Ruth and Rob’s house? Did the Big Man throw in the towel and decide none of us were worth redeeming?

  If that were true, Einstein, you’d be dead too.

  Eventually I see a man with a scraggly beard and dirty brown hair leaning against the wall of a high-rise. I feel so oddly relieved just to see another human being that it takes me a minute to realize that something is still very wrong. There are several open sores on his face, and he stares listlessly at the street.

  “Stop the horse.” I’m surprised by the vehemence in my voice.

  Pestilence pulls on the reins, and Trixie comes to a halt. Slipping off the steed, I run for the man.

  Even several feet away he smells like rot and bodily fluids, and his eyes don’t move from the street.

  Dead. That’s my professional assessment.

  Only, when I place two fingers against his neck, his pulse beats weakly.

  I rock back on my feet.

  Shit, he’s alive.

  Not for long.

  His fevered eyes slowly move to mine, and his cracked lips move. “Help.”

  My gut clenches at his plea. I don’t have the heart to tell him that there isn’t much I can do at this point.

  Instead, I head back to Trixie and grab a few painkillers I swiped from Ruth and Rob’s place, along with a canteen of water.

  When I return to the man, I show him the pills. “They won’t heal you,” I explain, “but they may take the edge off the pain.”

  He opens his mouth weakly, too tired to even reach for the medicine. I place them on his tongue, then hold my canteen to his mouth. Behind me, I hear Trixie’s impatient whinny, and I sense Pestilence’s burning gaze.

  The man takes a few weak swallows, nearly choking in the process. I’m just about to stand when he grips my hand with surprising force. His feverish eyes are pinned to mine.

  “I see him,” he says.