Pestilence (The Four Horsemen #1)(92)

The words have my stomach knotting up.

Had a doctor said that? It seemed like it from the bits I remember of the conversation. And we are in a hospital. It would make sense that Pestilence spoke with a doctor … a doctor who wanted Pestilence to understand a thing or two about loss.

That’s about when the screams began. I thought maybe they’d been in my head, those screams, but now I look around again. These people have blood coming out their ears and their eyes, their noses and their mouths. Plague victims don’t look like that.

“What happened?” I repeat, staring at the bodies.

Something is not right here.

“They would not heal you.” Pestilence’s voice is cold, so cold.

My eyes sweep the hallway before returning to him. “All of them?”

“Enough.”

My eyes linger on what used to be a nurse, her eyes, ears, and nose bloody. These deaths weren’t from plague. They were revenge killings.

I’m beginning to shake, and I think it’s from horror.

“If they all died, then who did heal me?” I ask.

“There were a handful whom I found, and I kept them alive long enough to tend to you.”

Long enough.

“Come,” he says, cutting off the rest of my questions so that he can help me onto the cart.

He helps lay me down, and I have to pinch my eyes shut because he’s being so gentle, so careful. Even though he recently mass exterminated a hospital, he handles me like I’m delicate.

“Don’t do that, Sara,” he says quietly.

He’s not going to spare humanity, just me.

“Do what?” I force my eyes open.

“Don’t act like I’m the monster. They were going to let you die.” His gaze burns, like he’s still trapped in the flames.

“Not all of them,” I whisper.

“Enough.”

I glance away from the horseman.

“This is what I was created to do!” he says hotly. “They died fast. Doesn’t that count for something?”

It does. And they would’ve died regardless. It’s just that I saw all those bodies, and that is a sight I can never unsee.

It’s one thing to watch a family die in their homes, to talk to them and care for them and witness their deaths. It’s another to see a building full of rotting corpses, their faces awash with terror. I can’t see them for the people they once were, and that makes them all the more grotesque.

I don’t respond. Honestly, I’m too damn tired to argue with Pestilence right now.

“So be it,” he says.

So be it. That’s also what he said right before he pressed his will on a room full of doctors and nurses and sick people.

I shiver again, ignoring the frustrated growl that leaves his throat. He stalks back to his horse and swings himself into the saddle. Even the click of his tongue sounds irritated.

The cart bumps as it rolls over the bodies. I grimace as it jostles my injuries, the pain so intense it closes my throat up, but it’s the thought of all those bodies that causes me to dry heave.

He gave those people a quick death; I shouldn’t be upset. It’s just that this time, he was angry when he killed them.

And I’m to blame for that.

For the first time, a dark, insidious realization creeps up on me— Pestilence’s love for me might not save human lives. It might end them all the faster.





Chapter 48


The more kilometers we put between us and the hospital, the more my horror fades.

Now what I’m remembering most viscerally are Pestilence’s cries as he was tortured, and the way those people had enjoyed his pain. I can still see the charred husk of the horseman moving towards me, calling to me from the wasteland of his body.

What unimaginable pain he must’ve been in, and still he clawed his way to me. But he did more than that. I can remember Pestilence’s broken body as he carried me in his arms. Arms that were undoubtedly burnt away completely in places.

He endured all of that to save me.

By the time Pestilence pulls Trixie to a stop—in front of a mansion no less—I’m feeling sorrowful, penitent.

When he makes his way to the back of the cart, I can tell he’s expecting another argument. His shoulders are rigid, and his mouth is pressed shut. I can almost hear all the arguments and counter arguments he’s spent the ride thinking about.

But I don’t fight him.

Instead I open my arms.

He hesitates, clearly bewildered and unsure where I’m going with this. At last, he kneels and takes me into his arms, embracing me like I’m life itself. I hold him close, even though my chest feels like it’s getting shot all over again.

“I’ve never been more scared in my life,” I whisper.

He nods against me.

“For you, I mean.”

He pulls away to meet my eyes.

“I never want to see that happen to you again,” I say hoarsely.

Pestilence touches my cheek. “Nor I you.” Softer, he says, “I thought you were dead.” His voice breaks upon the last word.

I might’ve been, I think, remembering the strange vision I had of Thanatos.

He searches my face. “Never have I felt such … fear. It’s a horrible emotion.”