Pestilence (The Four Horsemen #1)(24)

“Forget about it,” I mutter, leaving the horseman to go search for clothes.

In the master bedroom I find a woman’s shirt and pants and everything else in between. It’s all a little too short and tight, but I manage to find a pair of pants that don’t make me feel like an overstuffed sausage and a shirt that covers all the important bits.

Once I’m dressed, I head back into the living room. My breath catches when I notice the horseman. The light from the setting sun shines through the windows, making his hair glitter like spun gold. My heart squeezes the same way it did when I saw pictures of the Sistine Chapel.

A beauty so staggering it makes you feel physically close to God.

I forget that we’ve been bickering and that he’s the enemy. For one single second I feel an odd ache beneath my ribcage.

So close to God …

A God that wants us all gone.





Chapter 14


“Try it.”

“Absolutely not.”

“C’mon, trrrrry it,” I insist.

“I said no.”

As far as mornings post-Pestilence are concerned, this one is off to a great start. The sun is painting the world around us in soft pink light (so pretty), my hands are mercifully unbound for once, and nestled within them is a thermos containing my own version of deliverance.

I nudge Pestilence where he sits behind me with my elbow. “You know you’re curious.”

“I think I would know better than you what I know.”

Someone takes everything way too literally.

I press the thermos closer to the horseman, not dissuaded in the least by his protests. I mean, it’s hot chocolate I’m offering. Also, I really want to see if this guy is capable of drinking fluids. I haven’t seen him touch food or drink so far.

Pestilence’s hand digs into my hip, where he holds me against him in the saddle. “If I try it, will you quiet?”

“No, but you know you don’t really want me to be silent.”

My words are punctuated by the steady clop clop of Pestilence’s horse, who I’ve secretly named Trixie Skillz. I’m pretty sure the steed is a male (haven’t checked because unlike some people I know, respecting one’s privacy is important), but no matter.

I have his whole story figured out too. Trixie Skillz, the noble steed, once lived a life of poverty and fear, turning tricks on the streets for carrots and grain when Pestilence saved him. Now the two are inseparable. The End.

Pestilence takes the thermos from me, lifting the container to better scrutinize it. “If this is poison, human, I will tie you to the back of the horse again and make you run.”

I snort. “Pestilence, if it were poison, I’d have bigger problems than getting another asphalt massage.” Problems like keeling over and dying.

He scowls at me, then scowls at the thermos. “I don’t know why I’m encouraging this … pestering.”

Because you like it, I want to say, but I don’t. I really am pretty sure that a part of Pestilence—perhaps an itsy bitsy part of him, but a part of him nonetheless—is starting to enjoy my company, pestering and all.

Alright, perhaps tolerate is a better word. We’re tolerating each other despite openly hating each other’s guts. It’s an odd relationship, but since he refuses to die and he won’t kill me, we’re stuck with each other.

After eyeing the ever-loving shit out of the thermos, Pestilence brings it close to his lips.

Holy crap, he’s going to do it! He’s finally going to drink something!

The horseman hesitates, then holds the thermos out at his side and overturns it, dumping its contents out.

For a second I stare dumbly at the small brown stream petering out of the mouthpiece, then I jump into action.

“You heathen!” I snatch the thermos from him. “You could’ve just said no.”

“I did.”

“Well, you could’ve meant it.”

“I did.”

I check the warm canteen. There’s still a decent amount of hot chocolate left.

Nice.

Pestilence’s hand settles back at my side as I resume drinking the warm beverage.

“Why don’t you eat or drink?” I eventually ask.

“Because I don’t have to,” he answers curtly.

“So?”

“So?” he echoes, sounding affronted. He peers down at me, maybe to make sure I’m serious. “I’m confused. Why should I eat or drink if I don’t need to?”

“Because it’s fun and it tastes good—well, except for my Aunt Milly’s fruitcake. That shit tastes like a dirty asshole. But yeah, food tastes good, as does the hot chocolate you squandered a minute ago.”

“Tell me,” he says, “if I indulge like a human, how am I better than one?”

Oh geez. “Can we not make everything into some lofty battle between good and evil? It’s just food.”

He doesn’t respond for so long I think he isn’t going to, but then he finally says, “I will think over what you’ve told me.”

After that, the two of us are quiet.

Hate the silence.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m usually comfortable being alone in my own mind. There are always things like philosophy and literature, history and politics to think about. And when those lofty subjects get dull, there’s the normal slew of noise to fill my head, like remembering to do my taxes on time, or figuring out how to, logistically, host a family get together in my matchbox apartment, or mulling over what used books I’m going to blow my paycheck on.