Pain must be unbearable.
Someone shoots him again—and again, and again—trying to kill an unkillable thing.
I scream at the sound of each bullet, horrified at the way his body dances beneath the gunfire.
I’m still shouting as I’m forced away from the road and into a nearby building. It’s only after someone’s pushed me into a pew, that I realize they dragged me to a church.
The idiot wanted to marry me!
I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe the morning would’ve gone differently had I said yes to Pestilence’s proposal. He’d been so eager, and I’d thrown it in his face like what we did last night didn’t matter when it did. God, it did.
I take in a shuddering breath and glance around. One by one, the people who led me hear disappear into another room to remove their masks. When they return, they no longer appear so menacing.
The men and women that fill the church are civilians, civilians who decided to sacrifice their lives to take down the horseman. Civilians who are bringing me blankets and coffee—civilians who are helping me, an ex-firefighter, the best they can.
Doesn’t change the fact that they hurt him. That they might be hurting him still.
I stand, the woolen blanket sliding off my shoulders, feeling like my emotions have been pushed through a meat grinder.
Where is he?
“The others are dealing with him,” someone says, and that’s the first I realize that I’ve spoken out loud.
“We heard about you, you know,” says one of the women milling about. “The reports kept mentioning that he had a prisoner.”
“She didn’t look like his prisoner,” someone else mutters.
“Shhh!” another hisses.
I wipe my eyes and glance around me. There are eight women and three men, all between the ages of twenty and sixty. All of them now slated to die. (The gasmasks were a cute accessory, but not even they can stop Pestilence’s plague.)
When will the media figure out that the horseman cannot be killed? When will people stop sacrificing their lives to end an immortal thing?
An immortal thing I happen to care for.
Got to get to him.
Got to save him.
I begin to make my way down the center aisle, heading for the exit.
I’ve only gone several feet when I’m intercepted by one of the men. He’s a big, burly guy with a white handlebar mustache and a firearm holstered at his hip.
“Let’s sit you back down,” he says, his tone so damn condescending.
Taking my upper arm, he leads me back to a pew.
“Am I under arrest?” I ask.
“Of course not,” he says, “but you’ve had a trying morning. Why don’t you rest a little?”
I glance at him, then at the others.
They’re not going to let me go. I can see it on their faces.
I don’t know why they care. Then it dawns on me—
I survived the plague. They must be aware of that.
And who wouldn’t want to keep someone like that around? I could know the cure; hell they might think I am the cure.
I return to the pew like a good little girl (ugh), and sit there, letting everyone believe I’m meek.
Five minutes tick by agonizingly slowly.
In the distance, I hear a faint neigh.
Trixie.
I mean to wait longer, but hearing Pestilence’s horse is what breaks the last of my patience. I can’t keep sitting here when have no idea what’s happening to my horseman.
I push myself out of the pew again.
Handlebar Mustache tenses when he sees me back on my feet. Before I can so much as exit the pew, he heads me off.
Don’t look at his belt.
“Is there something you need?” he asks, folding his arms over his chest.
“Yeah, there is.”
Before he has a chance to respond, I make a grab for his gun. My hand cradles cold metal just as he lets out a surprised shout.
I level the firearm at him and flip off the safety. “Get out of my way.”
Around me, I hear gasps.
The man lifts his arms, “Now wait just a second there. Let’s not do anything hasty. We’re just trying to help you.”
I must not look nearly as threatening as I feel because several other people begin to creep in.
Better make your stand before this unravels.
Raising the gun to the air, I fire off a shot. The sound, already deafening, is made all the louder by the church’s acoustics.
People scream, several covering their heads. Above me, plaster rains down.
I train the gun once more on the man I stole it from.
“I’m leaving,” I say. “And you can help me by getting out of my fucking way.”
Handlebar Mustache must see that there’s just a little too much crazy in my eyes for his own well-being. He steps aside.
I swing the gun towards the other people who stand between me and the exit. They back up, their arms in the air.
The church is uncomfortably silent, the only sound my muted footfalls on the worn carpet.
I’m nearly to the double doors when Handlebar Mustache calls out to me, “Why have you forsaken your own people for that thing?”
He has the audacity to ask the question while standing in a church.
I turn back to face the man, my gaze sweeping over the rest of the wide-eyed men and women that watch me.
“I haven’t forsaken you,” I say. “God has.”
Chapter 41
Trixie lingers right outside the church. As soon as he sees me, Pestilence’s steed shuffles over, his snout nudging my cheek. I can almost imagine that he’s greeting me fondly.
I brush my hand over his face, frowning at the dark stain down his side.
The horseman’s blood.
I hoist myself into the saddle and stroke the steed’s mane. “Take me to Pestilence.”
We were ambushed just around the corner of the church, so it doesn’t take long to return to the site. Even still, by the time we arrive, Pestilence is already half buried in a shallow grave off to the side of the road.
The people in gas masks stand around the grave, dumping shovelfuls of dirt into it.
The stolen gun is still hot in my hand. By the time the first man lifts his head in my direction, I’m already aiming it at him. He makes a surprised noise, dropping his shovel. The other men glance at him before looking around in confusion. They, too, startle when they see me astride Pestilence’s horse, weapon in hand.
Now that I have their attention—
“You all have five seconds to make yourselves scarce. Then I start shooting.”
No one budges.
“One—”
Now people begin to scramble.
“Two—”
One of the men reaches for his gun.
I fire off a warning shot, the gun kicking back in my hand.
They drop their shovels and abandon the grave. A few of them take off running, but some still loiter, not ready to let a woman scare them off.
“Three—”
The masked men move onto the street, backing away from me, a couple with their hands in the air.
Like that’s going to placate me.
“Four—”
They move back a little faster.
“Five.”
I click my tongue, attempting the sound Pestilence makes. Beneath me, Trixie leaps forward, charging down the street.
Now the last of the masked men sprint for their lives. Nothing like having an undead steed running you down to get you going. I fire another shot, just to give them a good scare.
Halfway down the street, I pull on the reins, letting the men get away from us, watching their forms grow smaller and smaller.
These people knew before they saw me that I was traveling with Pestilence.
A foreboding shiver passes over me.
If that gets back to the media, the world will soon know I’m no longer his captive.
I force back a cry when I stare down at Pestilence’s makeshift grave. He’s nearly unidentifiable, his body awash in blood, dirt, and pulpy, fleshy things.
I don’t want to move him out of fear that I’ll hurt him.
Townspeople will come back. You may only have minutes.
That’s what gets me going.
Setting the gun aside, I crouch next to the grave and hook my arms beneath Pestilence’s armpits.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
And then I begin to pull.
He lets out an agonized cry, the sound garbled by his ruin of a mouth, as I heave him out of his tomb. A silent tear trickles out of the corner of my eye at the noise.
If only my earlier self could see me now. How far I’ve fallen, crying over a thing that can’t die. Over the very thing I was supposed to kill. And look at me now—I’m pointing guns at anyone who tries to take him from me.
Ever so slowly, I tug Pestilence out of the earth. Trixie kneels next to me, the steed anticipating his rider’s needs. I drag the horseman’s body onto the saddle.
Not going to be very comfortable, but it will have to do.
Settling myself behind him, I again click my tongue. Trixie rises to his feet, the two of us balanced on his back, then the steed takes off.
Several shots ring out, and I flatten myself over the horseman as the bullets whiz by me. I glance over my shoulder. The men that I’d so recently driven away now run back into the street from wherever they tucked themselves away, training their guns on us.
Shit.
I jerk on one side of the reins, pulling Trixie’s head to the side, steering us off course. Pestilence’s body slides a little, and it takes most of my strength to keep the horseman on his horse. But at least the bullets meant for me and Trixie miss us.
I yank on the other side of the reins, forcing the horse to change his trajectory again, zig-zagging across the road until the gunshots fall to silence. When I look over my shoulder again, the men in gas masks are out of range.
Safe. We’re safe—for now.
I don’t dare slow the horse until the town is far behind us. Once I do, it’s only so that I can scour our surroundings for a house. Considering my shitty luck today, I’m probably going to choose a home with the meanest asshole living inside it. Without Pestilence to strike the fear of God in him, who knows just how bad the situation might get.
I suck in a deep breath. There’s just no helping the situation.
I end up picking a home that’s directly off the road, hoping whoever lives there is long gone. It takes an agonizingly long time to get inside, but on a positive note, the place has been vacated.
I lead Trixie through the door after me, careful to not jostle Pestilence’s slumped body in the process. It’s only once I’ve moved the steed next to the couch that I drag the horseman off. He slides into my arms, knocking me off balance, and the two of us collapse in a heap on the couch.
Real smooth there, Burns.
I wiggle myself into a comfortable position beneath Pestilence, feeling his blood begin to seep into my clothing from his various wounds.
Now that I’m holding him, I find I can’t let him go. His face is still mangled, and it’s been further obscured by the dirt matted to his skin.
With a shaky hand, I run my knuckles over a section of cheek that’s still intact.
You fool. You’ve gone and fallen for this thing.
He moves in my arms, and I nearly yelp. I’d almost forgotten that he’s still in there. Still aware of what’s going on. I feel bile rise at the thought.
To think I did worse to Pestilence than even those men.
“Shhh,” I say, gently maneuvering myself out from under him. I arrange him on the couch, his long form barely fitting.
I take one of his hands in mine, brushing a kiss along his dirt-covered knuckles. “Try to sleep,” I say. “I’ll be right here.”
Pestilence mumbles something—I don’t even know how he’s making noise.
I shush him again, and he quiets, settling into something that, if not sleep, must be somewhat like it.
I make good on my promise, I stay by his side—leaving only to start a fire and dig up rags and water, which I use to wipe us down the best I can. Once I’m finished, I take his hand in mine, holding it closely to me.
As the hours tick by, I’m able to watch the slow but miraculous evolution of the horseman from something that ought to be dead to a beautiful sleeping man.
Looks like something straight out of a fairytale.
With a metallic groan, Pestilence’s hole-riddled breastplate bends back into place, the golden armor ever so slowly returning to its original, seamless surface. Just as wondrously, I watch his face rebuild itself, from sinew and bone to muscle and tendons and skin. Eventually, I even see the horseman’s long eyelashes sprout along his newly formed eyelid.
This is magic. This is faith. This is the barest glimpse of the leviathan that is God.
Even after his body has all but healed, Pestilence doesn’t wake. Beneath his closed lids, his eyes move back and forth.
What do horsemen dream about?
It makes me ache to think of him dreaming. He’s so much more human than I ever imagined him to be.
I had a hand in that—more than a hand if I’m being honest. He eats food because I gave him a taste for it, drinks beer because I offered it to him.
Makes love to me because I opened myself up to him.
Makes love. I worry my lower lip at the phrasing.
The hand I hold now tightens, scattering my thoughts. When I glance up, Pestilence’s eyes flutter open.
I sit up straighter, bringing our clasped hands to my lips.
A smile begins to bloom on his face, but then it’s wiped away, his brow creasing instead. “Are you okay?”
Those are his first words. Just when I thought this man couldn’t gut me anymore.
I pinch my lips together so the truth doesn’t leak out. Because no, I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay since Pestilence was shot off his horse. Even before then, I’m not sure how okay I was.
I’m having more than a little trouble dealing with loving liking this horseman.
He begins to sit up, looking increasingly alarmed when he sees the blood on me. “Where are you hu—?”
“It’s not my blood, it’s yours. They … shot you.” I whisper this last part because emotion is chocking up my vocal cords. Already my stupid tear ducts are coming online; as I blink, a couple slip out. Now that Pestilence is awake, I’m having trouble staying strong.
He sits up, a frown on his face as he takes in my hazel eyes.
“Are you crying … for me?” he asks, his voice laced with disbelief.
I want to say something snarky. Instead I wipe my cheeks. “Maybe.”
Pestilence eyes me as though he can’t make sense of the sight. “You know I can’t be killed,” he says quietly.
“But you can be hurt.” And they hurt him so badly.
“That bothers you?” His voice gentles.
I gesture to my wet cheeks and red eyes. “Yes.”
His gaze goes soft. “Sara.” He says my name lovingly, and it’s what undoes me.
I lean forward, and my lips are on his. His arms come around me, half pulling me onto him as his mouth responds to mine, devouring me just as eagerly as I am him.
It’s easy to forget how strong he is when he’s hurt, but now that he’s regenerated, I feel his strength as it envelops me.
Still, he’s bloody and I hate that. And I hate that I hate that, but not nearly enough, and I’m making no sense, but honestly, absolutely nothing in my life makes sense right now, so …
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry for what those people did to you, and for what I did to you—and for what everyone else has done to you since you arrived.”
Pestilence came here with a grisly task, and he armored himself against the atrocity of it by convincing himself that humans were monsters. And we
proved him right every time we attacked him.
That’s what hate does—it brings out your worst.
He’s only caught glimpses of our goodness, and yet that’s all it’s taken for his deeds to weigh on him.
Because that’s what compassion does—it brings out your best nature.
“I’m sorry for every stupid thing I said earlier,” I continue. “What we did together meant something to me. You mean something to me.”
Pestilence holds me close. “Does this mean you’re going to marry me?”
I laugh through my tears. “No, I don’t do pity proposals. But I’m open to make up sex.”
Pestilence kisses me again, one of his hands sliding reverently up my cheek and into my hair.
“It wasn’t a pity proposal, dear Sara,” he murmurs.
He sits up, my body tucked tightly against him, then stands, cradling me in his arms. His lips find mine once more, and we resume the kiss. I’m barely aware that we’re moving through the house until Pestilence lays me out on the bed in the master suite.
I shiver at the sight of the horseman above me as he removes his refashioned armor, his gaze searing me the entire time. He takes his crown off last, setting it on the bedside table.
Stripped bare of his golden adornments, he’s no longer my noble, otherworldly Pestilence, but my flesh-and-blood lover.
He comes back to me, fitting his body over mine.
“Sara, Sara, Sara,” he breathes, kissing my eyelids, my cheeks, my lips, my chin. “I confess, your earlier apologies have moved me, but they are unnecessary all the same. You needn’t ask for my forgiveness—you already have it and more, if you’ll but take what I offer.”
I think he means marriage … and for the first time, the thought intrigues the crap out of me.
I could marry him.
He kisses the column of my throat, right down to the hollow at the base of it. “You have my mercy, my mind, my adoration, my body, my … life.”
I could’ve sworn that for a moment, he was about to say another four letter “l” word, but maybe that’s just my imagination.
And for the first time, I’m disappointed that he didn’t say it. But that makes no sense.
Life is a big enough promise coming from an immortal man.
I’m just a greedy bitch.
Pestilence makes quick work removing his shirt. I almost sigh at the sight of his thick arm muscles and his tapered torso. My hands move first to his pecs, then to his abs, for once ignoring the markings that ring his skin. Beneath my fingertips, his muscles tense, like his skin is hyper-sensitive to my touch.
Pestilence (The Four Horsemen Book 1) Page 24
