Pestilence (The Four Horsemen #1)(37)

Typical.

As the minutes tick away, a little more of his weight presses down on me. It happens so gradually that I’m bent substantially forward before I realize this might not be intentional.

“Pestilence?”

No response.

“Pestilence?” I say, a bit more urgently this time.

Nothing.

Damn me, but my stomach is churning with worry.

I begin to rotate around when I notice the blood dripping off the wrist that holds the reins.

Something is wrong with him. Very wrong.

I face him as best as I can. His eyes are closed, his face is slack, and his crown sits slightly askew on his head. This last one makes him look—contradictorily—both more rakish and more innocent.

I put my fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse, but I can’t get a read on him with the way our bodies are rocking on his horse.

“Pestilence, can you hear me?” I try to pull him away enough to get a response.

His head rolls backwards until it appears he’s staring at the sky, and I have to catch his crown before it slides off.

His body sways in his seat, then he pitches forward again, his face burying itself in the crook of my neck. I wrap my arms around him as his body begins to list sideways.

What happens if he falls off? Will he land on top of the water, or will he sink? What will happen to Trixie—and to me—if he does so?

Really don’t want to find out.

I cradle him awkwardly in my arms as I steer his steed towards a nearby island. Of course, once the land looms large enough for me to see the details, I can make out streets and buildings—lots and lots of them.

Shit.

I tug on the reins, changing our trajectory, all while trying to stabilize Pestilence, who may or may not be dead. Temporarily dead, but dead nonetheless.

How had I missed this until now? I’d heard the gunshots and seen the smeared blood on him when he came for me. And now that I’m looking for it, I can see that he’s bleeding from a dozen different wounds, and the fluid is all over him and all over me.

For Christ’s sake, he’d been bleeding on me, and I’d still been unaware. Lulled by the steady trod of his horse’s gait and distracted by the fact that we were traveling on water.

Eventually, Trixie heads towards another section of land. By the time the horse nears the shore, my arms are shaking from the strain of keeping Pestilence in his saddle.

It’s only once his horse is clomping through the sand that I allow myself to relax my hold. The horseman’s body cants to the side, and then the two of us topple off his mount.

Pestilence groans weakly when we hit the sand, our limbs tangling.

Alive.

I let out a breath, relief flowing through me. I don’t know what else I expected from an immortal man.

And I definitely don’t know why, of all things, I feel relief.

I drag my body from under his, then lay him out on the sand, pulling his weaponry off of him and tossing it aside. He’s in even worse shape than I thought, his clothes saturated in blood. It seeps out from beneath his armor and drips onto the sand. And his armor …

Some of these bullets blew straight through the metal, making the golden breastplate look like a slice of Swiss cheese.

Piece by piece, I unfasten the armor, grimacing as trapped blood drips onto the sand. My eyes move to Pestilence’s face. The normally tan skin is now pale and wan.

I skim my fingers over a cheek, feeling the chill that now clings to his flesh.

His chest rises and falls as he takes in shallow breaths. At least he’s breathing.

Since when did you want him to breathe?

I peel back what I can of the horseman’s wet clothes. Bullet holes litter his arms, his legs, and his chest. His face, however, had been left untouched. That’s why I hadn’t noticed. I’d been so transfixed by his beauty and his intensity—intensity he’d focused on me—that I hadn’t noticed.

I pause when I see blood congealing in the sand around his head.

Dare I?

Before I can think twice about it, I lift his head and probe the back of his skull. I nearly gag as I come into contact with something soft. He makes a plaintive noise at my touch. It’s clearly painful for him.

Of course it’s painful—it’s a head wound you’re poking, you moron.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, not sure why I’m whispering.

I glance around. Trixie Skillz is lingering nearby and, like his owner, the horse is dotted with bullet wounds.

And still the horse carried not one, but two riders across an ocean.

I take a shuddering breath and look down the beach. On either side of me, the shoreline is thick with trees. Far down the beach to my left, a lone house is nestled amongst them.

At least there’s a place to stay if we need it.

I move Pestilence’s head so that it rests in my lap. I don’t know why I do that, or why I remove his crown so that I can stroke his matted hair. Even with blood and seawater tangling it, the blond locks are so soft, softer than hair has any right to be.

My thumb smooths over one of his annoyingly perfect eyebrows. Battered and broken like he is, my stupid heart actually aches for him.

It’s just because he’s stupidly pretty, I tell myself.

I run my knuckles over his brow.

“I’m sorry they did this to you,” I admit. Just as I’m sorry for everything he has done to them. It’s a catch twenty-two.