Pestilence (The Four Horsemen #1)(89)

Mac doesn’t bother shooting me again. Instead he laughs with his comrades over his witty last line as he slings the shotgun over his shoulder. Someone begins to pour lighter fluid over dried wood piled at the horseman’s feet.

They’re going to burn Pestilence. Just like I did.

The last thing I smell is smoke.

I don’t know how long I linger on the very edge of life.

The pellets must’ve missed the important bits, part of me thinks. Another part of me thinks that maybe I have already died. I mean, how do any of us really know what death is like?

“Sara …”

“Sara …”

“Sara …”

Someone keeps calling my name. I try to peel open my eyes, but what I see makes no sense.

The gang is gone. All that’s left of their memory is a smoldering pile of ash. That, and the stump of a man who’s blindly dragging himself away from the remains of the fire.

Pestilence …

“Sara,” he croaks. His body is blackened and his face … it can’t be called that. I can’t make out any recognizable features, though obviously there’s a mouth somewhere amongst it all since he’s the one who’s been calling out to me with the mangled remains of his throat.

I make some small sound. I don’t have enough life in me to be sad or surprised or horrified.

My surroundings fade.

When they come into focus again, Pestilence has managed to drag what’s left of himself to my side. He curls his charred body around mine, almost protectively.

“Sara, Sara, Sara …” This time his voice is stronger. Still hoarse, but now he sounds like he has a bad case of laryngitis rather than a charbroiled voice box. “Say something.”

Speaking should be easier for me than it is for him, and yet all I manage is a low moan.

I feel the weight of an arm fit around my torso. I feel it tug me close. And then Pestilence’s body begins to shake.

I never knew the horsemen could cry. Not until I hear his sobs. The sound is awful, even more awful than his screams.

“Forgive me, Sara.”

What’s there to forgive?

That’s what I want to say, but I can’t seem to form the words. My mouth won’t work properly; I’m pretty sure it’s only my mind clinging to life. Even the pain isn’t so bad anymore. It’s just there, like a pulse.

And then I’m relieved I can’t voice my thoughts because there’s really so much that does need forgiving. His cruelty, mine, all that death and violence.

These violent delights have violent ends …

Before it was nursery rhymes; now it’s Shakespeare running through my mind.

But Pestilence wasn’t all that violent in the end, was he? He was sad and strange, and he came to earth with a purpose that I caught him questioning a time or two.

God, please don’t let me die.

Otherwise, Pestilence will be all alone, and that thought cuts deeper than my bullet wounds.

We lay there together, our limbs entwined. A peaceful sort of darkness licks at the edges of my vision. I rally against it.

But eventually I lose the fight against the darkness, and I slip softly into it.





Chapter 46


I’m jostled awake by the pain. A cry slips out of me, weak and pitiful.

Can’t be dead if it hurts. Right? You’re not supposed to feel pain in death …

Unless I’m burning in the fiery pits of hell. That’s always a possibility.

My eyes crack open, and I stare up at mottled skin.

It takes me a moment to focus my vision, and then I’m staring up at Pestilence’s still very damaged face. His eyes have reformed but not his nose yet—it’s just a blackened pit—and not much of his lips. But there are areas where the dark flakes of skin are sloughing off. Underneath them, his flesh is a healthy pinkish hue, which I know in a day will deepen into a golden tan.

My horseman.

He stares down at me. “Stay with me, Sara. Stay with me, beloved.”

My body rocks again, the pain stealing my breath away. It’s only then that I realize he’s walking. I can’t look down to see the burned remains of his legs and feet, but they must still be grisly. He’s walking and—even more astounding—he’s doing it while carrying me in his arms.

I still catch no sign of the people who hurt us, though they must be around here somewhere. Or maybe they’re like my childhood dog, who crawled beneath our deck to die, heading back to their own quiet corner of the universe to wash off the stink of murder and let the plague take them.

A pained whiney pulls me from my thoughts. I manage to turn my head just enough to see Pestilence’s mount. Trixie Skillz lays on his side, his body mostly burned.

They didn’t spare the horse?

Bastards.

Trixie is looking at his master, pawing weakly at the ground. I didn’t think I had energy left in me to grieve, especially not for an undead horse, but I do. I pinch my eyes shut and lean into Pestilence’s chest, my body screaming in protest as a silent sob racks my body.

The horseman’s arms tighten around me. When he gets to Trixie’s side, he lingers there for a moment. Then he begins to walk again, leaving his steed behind.

The world loses focus as I fall asleep and wake up, fall asleep and wake up.