Pestilence (The Four Horsemen #1)(73)

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 adds.

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.”