My brows come together. “Who?”
Shouldn’t indulge the man. Fever is likely making him hallucinate, and his disheveled state suggests that he might not have been all that healthy before the plague struck.
“Winged Death,” he hisses.
I try not to be spoked, but my skin pebbles anyway. This is Year 5 of the Horseman. The supernatural exists, and it is wrathful.
Death still sleeps.
Giving his hand a final squeeze, I pull away from the man and make my way back to Pestilence. He still sits on his mount, waiting solicitously for me.
“He’s coming for me!” the man shouts at my back. “He’s coming for us all—” His words cut off as a hacking fit starts up.
My eyes meet Pestilence’s. “You’ve already been here,” I say.
The truth is written all over the dying man.
The horseman inclines his head. “I rode here a few nights ago,” he admits. “I did not want a repeat of Vancouver.”
I don’t know how I feel about that. Grateful, I suppose. I know he did it more for my benefit than for his. But then, what kind of person does that make me to feel grateful for death coming early to these people?
Dazed, I get back onto his steed.
The two of us ride deeper into Seattle, the city’s ominous silence settling into my bones. A few sheets of paper scatter in the wind. I catch a glimpse of one. Evacuate Now, it reads in thick red font before blowing away.
The place gives me the heebie jeebies. You can feel Death here, his hand pressed to the walls of this place, his shadow eclipsing the sun. I see several more individuals—some leaning against the wall like the last man, others collapsed in the middle of the road, like their bodies gave out before they could get where they needed to go. Already I can smell rot on the wind.
For every person I come across, I have Pestilence stop his horse so I can give them aid—if they’re alive to receive it. Most aren’t.
Trixie’s hoof beats echo off the sides of buildings as we move through the abandoned streets.
“I would’ve thought there’d be more … bodies,” I eventually say.
Maybe it’s macabre of me, but now knowing that Pestilence has already made his way through Seattle, I keep expecting to see the dead everywhere. Hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people had to have stayed behind in the city this big. Where are their bodies?
“Humans prefer quiet corners to die,” Pestilence says.
At his words, my skin pricks and my gaze moves up the buildings towering around us. Logically, I know no one lives that high up any longer—the elevators are all busted—but I can’t help but wonder just how many bodies are sequestered away in these goliath structures, bodies that will rot and stink and infect the living for who knows how long.
Pestilence tightens his hold and clicks his tongue. Trixie’s steady trot morphs into a gallop, and the towering structures begin to blur by.
Up the street is another prone body, but this time, the horseman shows no signs of stopping.
“Pesti—”
“Enough, Sara. You cannot help everyone.”
Obviously, I can’t. I already tried that route and it landed me here, in the company of a trick-turning horse and his tragic, monstrous master.
My stomach twists as we pass the person by—an elderly woman.
She looks dead, I reassure myself.
But not all of them do. Some cry out as we pass, begging for help or death—whichever they prefer. It hurts a deep and fundamental part of me to do nothing.
In the end, though, that’s exactly what happens. We leave the city of Seattle and the horrible, icy rainstorm behind, until they are nothing more than a grim shadow at our backs.
Chapter 37
The next week is a miserable series of days as we move south from Seattle to Tacoma to Olympia, the endless stretch of cityscape keeping me on edge.
At night, most of the houses Pestilence and I bunker down in are empty, but in one instance the recently deceased was still lying in her bed, her body a wasteland of sores.
As Pestilence and I travel through the unending urban centers and I come across more dead and dying people speckling the streets, it becomes clear that the horseman is making a habit of leaving me after I fall asleep to race ahead and spread his damnable plague. He makes no further mention of it, but he doesn’t need to, the proof is right in front of me.
It’s not until Olympia is far behind us and fields and forests replace the dilapidated buildings that I feel I can breathe again.
That night, the cabin we squat in is obviously a bachelor pad. There are posters of sports teams and half naked women and beer brands all over the place. Shit from before the Arrival.
Real tasteful.
Pestilence eyes it all with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion.
At least the owner made himself motherfucking scarce. He might like his titties to look like flotation devices, but the dude’s got enough practical sense to get the hell out of town before the reaper comes knocking. Literally.
After I light the few candles and oil lamps I can find, I move to the kitchen. Unfortunately, Bachelor Dude only has a jar of beets (Seriously man—beets? Beets?), some greasy leftovers in his icebox that will definitely give me food poisoning, tabasco sauce, and beer. Lots and lots of beer. Moonshine, fancy ales, bottled brews, and even some pop-top pre-Arrival stuff.
Whelp, guess I know what I’m having for dinner.
While I rummage around, Pestilence forgoes starting a fire and instead heads out to the back of the house, where a huge balcony showcases a view of the thick evergreens that skirt the property.
I keep an eye on the horseman as I grab things from the kitchen. He hasn’t said much all day. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say Pestilence was a bit … melancholy.
It’s hard to pity the very force that’s ruined your world, yet that’s exactly what I feel. He sits down at the edge of the balcony, letting his feet dangle through the rails. I can’t read his emotions based on that broad back of his, but I have a feeling they’re stormy.
Grabbing the goods I’ve gathered, I head outside. A chill wind rustles my hair, carrying with it the scent of pine. I sit down next to Pestilence and hand him a beer, the cap already popped off. It’s been a long day. Beers are good for these kinds of things.
“You don’t like killing people, do you?” I ask.
It’s an almost unfathomable thought, but I don’t know, Pestilence just seems … upset.
He frowns at the tree line. “It’s not about what I like.”
It’s about the task he was sent to complete.
“You don’t have to do it,” I say, so very, very softly.
“And what do you know about my choices?” He turns to me, his expression tumultuous.
“I know you have them,” I say.
We all have them. Even I do. That’s why I carry this guilt around despite the fact that situation was thrust upon me. Because I have been complacent when I don’t need to be.
“Do I?” Pestilence says it challengingly, as though I don’t have the first fresh shit of an idea what choice he actually has in the matter. He glares down at the bottle in his hands, like he only just realized it was there. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asks, lifting it up.
I lift a shoulder. “Drink it, pour it out, blow a freaking tune across its rim. I don’t really care,” I answer, bringing my own beer to my lips.
Done giving advice to Pestilence; it only ever backfires anyway.
The anger fades from his expression, leaving him looking bleak. He watches me with those sorrowful blue eyes before facing forward again. After a moment, he brings the beer to his lips and takes a long swallow of it. He winces at the taste, then takes an even longer pull from the bottle.
He lowers it. “I cannot let my feelings get in the way of my task.”
Of course he can’t.
“But it is kind of you to care about my feelings, no matter your motives,” he a
dds.
The sound of the wind whistling through the trees fills the silence that follows.
I rub my thumb over the glass shoulder of my beer.
“Who are you, really?” I ask, lifting my gaze to his.
The horseman is right, I do care about his feelings. I care about him, and I want to get to know him and understand why it is he cannot waver from his purpose. Maybe then it will make sense to me. Maybe then I’ll stop pushing him.
Pestilence’s brows furrow. “That is a strange question, Sara.”
He always says my name with such strange inflection, and I always get a small thrill from it.
“I am Pestilence,” he finally answers.
“No, that isn’t who you are, that’s just …” I struggle to find the right words, “your task.”
Those full lips of his pull down at the corners. “I do not work like you think I do,” he says, his features troubled. “My past is a series of impressions completely removed from this body and experience. And since I came to earth in this form, well, I am my task and it is me—it is the sum total of my existence.”
But it isn’t, and it hasn’t been for who knows how long. Probably ever since the horseman picked me up and started getting a taste for the very things he’s destroying.
And that makes me wonder: is Pestilence impervious to God’s wrath? Ever since Ruth brought the topic up, I keep coming back to this question. I mean, Pestilence is carrying out the Big Dude’s task, so he should be, and yet … his deeds are weighing on him. I can see it now more than ever. There’s uncertainty there, like he’s no longer sure whether what he’s doing is right. Even though God must’ve decreed it, and even though it’s been branded onto his skin, Pestilence is wavering.
On a whim, I take his hand and squeeze it, threading my fingers through his.
He glances down at our joined hands, then lets out a breath.
His eyes meet mine. “My favorite possession is my steed.”
At first I don’t really understand what he’s saying. But then, it clicks.
I soften. He’s trying. Trying to tell me about himself.
“The steed you won’t name?” I ask.
“The steed you already have,” he corrects. “And you’ve given him a terribly ignoble name at that.” He takes a drink of his beer, clearly unsettled about having an opinion and voicing it.
“And why is Trixie Skillz your favorite thing?” I prod.
He sets his beer down. “Because he is a faithful, steady, and constant companion.”
“Those are good reasons,” I say.
“You’re talking down to me,” he says, his gaze thinning.
“I’m not.” I’m really not.
He must see the truth because his attention turns to the view and he continues. “I love the dawn—the birth of day. Snow makes everything easier on the eyes. Human food is either surprisingly terrible or surprisingly good—” he lifts his beer, “though sometimes, I will admit, it can be both at the same time.
“I find human clothes to be coarse, I like making fires, falling asleep is a troubling experience—but it is oddly enjoyable when you have someone to hold onto—”
Color rises in my cheeks.
“—and my favorite person is you.”
Now my face is flaming in the darkness.
“I’m the only person you know,” I respond. I could be the shittiest person out there, and I might still be his favorite.
“I have met many people. I assure you, you haven’t won the title by default.”
I don’t know what to say in the face of that kind of flattery. Not to mention that every time Pestilence admits something like this, my body goes haywire.
Hate having a crush.
But this is more than just some crush, and there’s no pretending otherwise. I like the way Pestilence talks, the way he thinks. I like his compliments, I like his consideration. I like his gallantry, his gentleness. I like him despite the fact that he’s bringing about the end of the world—and that is immensely troubling.
He looks down at his drink. “I don’t want to talk about myself anymore,” he says. His focus swivels to me.
“What?” I say.
“It’s your turn to tell me about yourself.”
Shit, he’s putting me on the spot.
I rub my thumb over the neck of my beer bottle. “You already know so much about me.” I talk about myself all the time when we’re in the saddle together, often simply to fill the silence. “What else could you possibly want to know?”
“Quote me more of your favorite poems. Tell me more of your life. It is all so very fascinating.”
See, that right there is proof that this dude needs to get out more.
“It’s not that fascinating. I am not that fascinating.”
Even in the darkness, I see Pestilence’s eyes squint as he scrutinizes me. “Do you honestly believe that?”
Do I?
Sure, I had a cool job as a firefighter, but what really was there to my life other than work and my humble collection of books?
I let out a gruff laugh. “Yeah, I do.”
“Then you are wrong.” Pestilence states this with such certainty. “You are compassionate to even the worst of your lot. You give aid to the dying. You care fiercely, so fiercely. These are no ordinary feats. And this is not touching on what you mean to me.”
My breath hitches.
“You have managed what no one else has: you have awoken my heart. So, no, Sara, of all the words I’d use to describe you, fascinating would definitely be one of them.”
Chapter 38
You have awoken my heart.
There it is, out in the open, what I have desperately been running from.
A shiver runs through me as I take in Pestilence’s form. He’s not the only one who’s been affected by the other’s presence.
I begin to lean towards him, ready to do all sorts of stupid and ill-advised things because I’m just so tired of fighting this.
Before I get the chance, the horseman reaches out and runs a hand up and down my arm. “You’re cold,” he says. “Forgive me, Sara, the elements do not affect me the same way.” He rises to his feet, then reaches out for me.
Grabbing my beer, I let him help me up and follow him inside, my body tightly wound in anticipation. It doesn’t dissipate—not when Pestilence leaves my side to start a fire, not when I move the candles and oil lamps into the living room. The only thing that seems to have any effect on my giddy nerves is my beer … and I wouldn’t exactly say that it’s helping the situation either.
Not that it stops me from grabbing another two from the icebox—one for me, one for Pestilence.
By the time I return to the living room, the fire is just blooming.
I pass the horseman one of the drinks, feeling a twinge of guilt for giving him a taste for the stuff. But then my eyes meet his and my nerves rise and I praise God in all His wrathful glory that alcohol exists.
Taking a long swallow, I sit down next to the fire. Pestilence lounges across from me, leaning his weight on one of his forearms, his new beer sitting untouched next to him. His gaze moves from the fire to me, flames dancing in his eyes.
“Do you ever wish things were different?” I ask. “That you and I weren’t supposed to be mortal enemies?”
“What good does wishing do, Sara?” he says.
I want to tell him that wishing makes all the difference, but it sounds too cheesy, like something people used to say before the Four Horsemen landed, back when the world made sense. Wishing doesn’t fill your belly, or stop your house from burning down. It doesn’t make your car drive, or save you from the plague.
“I don’t know,” I finally say. “I just want to stop feeling this way.” I hate this guilt that’s eating me up. “When I used to look at you, I’d see a monster,” a beautiful monster, but a monster nonetheless, “but I don’t anymore.”
“What do you see when you look at me?”
Rather than answering him
, I lean forward and brush my lips softly against his. He seems content with that, his hand coming up to cup my cheek.
Gently, I push his shoulder back until he falls against the floor. He pulls me down with him, our bodies pressed together.
My mouth finds his once more, and suddenly, the fire isn’t simply at my back. It’s beneath me, in me, searing through my veins.
I pause to run a finger down the horseman’s face. He really is problematically beautiful, with his high cheekbones, sharp jaw, and his guileless eyes.
“Right now,” I say, finally ready to answer his question, “I see a man.”
A man to kiss, to touch, to lose myself in.
“I am ageless, Sara.”
If that’s supposed to make any sort of sense, then it’s lost on me. Maybe that’s his way of protesting my answer. Whatever.
I return to his lips and fall into the kiss. He might be ageless, he might be a force of nature rather than a human, but in the end, I find I don’t really care. Pestilence is Pestilence, and that’s all that really matters to me right now.
The hard planes of his body fit just right against mine, and his touch feels like it was made for me. I reach for the straps of his armor, hopelessly confused about how to remove it. His hand covers mine, and for a split-second, my stomach plummets.
He’s going to stop me.
Instead, Pestilence moves my hand and unfastens his metal breastplate himself. He makes quick work of the rest of the armor, until it all litters the floor around us.
The problem with armor, I’ve now come to realize, is that even after all the fanfare of getting it off, there’s still his clothes to deal with.
Then again, the longer it takes to undress him, the greater the anticipation …
He watches me wondrously as I grab the edge of his shirt and slip it over his head.
Glorious man. I could stare at him for hours, trying to memorize every inch of his strange, beautiful skin.
Tentatively he reaches for my jacket, and I help him shrug it off. The two of us make quick work of my layers of clothing until I’m down to just a bra and jeans. I slide the straps off my shoulders, then reach around and unclasp the hooks holding it fast.
Pestilence (The Four Horsemen Book 1) Page 22
