Pestilence (The Four Horsemen #1)(17)

He downs the liquid in five solid swallows.

“More,” he croaks, and his voice sounds stronger.

Again I fill the cup halfway up, and again he downs it. And then once more.

It’s enough alcohol to send me to the hospital, but I guess that’s the point. There’s no beating this plague. The kill rate of this thing is a hundred percent. At this point all either of us can do is manage this man’s pain.

Once he empties the third cup, I reach for the bottle again, but he lifts his hand up, just slightly. No more.

“Thank you,” he wheezes.

I nod, swallowing down the thickness in my throat. I take his burning hand and I hold it between my own. “Would you like me to stay?” I ask. I don’t bother adding, for your last few hours. Even staring death down, I can’t seem to acknowledge it by name.

The man closes his eyes, his body already relaxing from the effects of the whiskey, and he squeezes my hand once, which I take for a yes.

My thumb strokes circles into his skin, and softly I begin to recite Poe. “‘Lo! Death hath reared himself a throne, in a strange city, lying alone …’”

The words to “City in the Sea” rush out of me, words I’d read and memorized long ago. Once I finish reciting the poem, I move on, quoting Lord Byron’s “And Thou art Dead, as Young and Fair” and then a few passages from Macbeth, pieces of poetry and prose I picked up here and there. The world might’ve stopped caring about these poets long ago, but their immortalized words are appropriate now more than ever.

Next to me, the man doesn’t open his eyes again, but every so often he tilts his head just a little in my direction, letting me know he’s listening.

At some point, he stops turning to me. His wheezy breaths slow as he nods off. I sit on my heels, holding his hand, and watch until the rise and fall of his chest fades to nothing. Even then, I hold his hand, not releasing it until his skin begins to cool.

I never got his name. I held his hand and eased his suffering, and the sight of his plague-riddled body will haunt me for the rest of my days, but I never got his name.

That’s going to bother me.

On a whim, I grab the bottle of Red Label and take several swallows of it. I tuck the bottle under my arm. I already know I’m going to need it again, and soon. There will undoubtedly be more torments ahead.

After all, my suffering is just beginning.





Chapter 11


We leave not an hour later after the nameless man expires. Pestilence leads me out with a hand on my shoulder, his golden bow and arrow never far from my sight.

Just a reminder of what he can do to me.

His steed waits for us, its reins not tied to anything, just standing there like the creature has nothing better to do then wait on its master.

Pestilence grabs the rope that’s been shoved into one of the saddlebags. Unwinding it, he wraps one end around my wrists, which are still covered in bandages.

All my aches and pains come roaring back at the sight of my bound hands.

Running again. I should’ve known.

But instead of tying the other end to the back of his saddle, he threads it through one of his belt loops.

I raise my eyebrows. That’s unexpected.

Pestilence makes careful work of avoiding my eyes as he turns to me and grabs either side of my torso. Even though he’s carted me to and from the bathroom for the last two days, I still jolt at the press of his palms beneath my armpits. Before I can do more, he hoists me onto his horse. A second later he swings himself on behind me.

The leather creaks as Pestilence settles himself in the saddle. I hiss out a breath at the pain that flares up as I’m pressed against his armor. His left hand loops around me, his hand splayed across my lower stomach. His other hand takes the reins.

He leans in close. “You jump,” he warns, his breath hot against my ear, “I’ll make you run behind me again.”

I don’t doubt him, but right now, all I can think about is how repulsive and intimate it is having him this close.

Pestilence clicks his tongue, and his horse is off.

I’m riding with one of the horsemen of the apocalypse.

Holy shit.

I’ve now got front row seats to the end of the world.

Even with all the aches and pains that pull at me, riding is a far better means of travel than running, wrists bound, behind a horse.

“I was really close to death, wasn’t I?” I ask, referring to when Pestilence dragged my already injured body down the highway.

“Must you talk?”

So pleasant, this one.

“Must you spread plague?”

He doesn’t respond, though I can feel him brooding at my back.

“Why did you save me?” I prod.

“I didn’t save you, human. I kept you alive. There’s a difference. And I kept you alive to make you suffer. I thought I had made myself clear about this.”

I touch my chest. Beneath my layers of borrowed clothes are the bandages that bind my wounds.

“You went to an awful lot of trouble to keep me alive.”

“True,” he says, after a moment’s pause. “But then punishing you over and over again brings me great joy.” His words are bitter, and yet— I don’t believe them. God, how I want to because oh, how I despise him, but I don’t believe him. Not wholly. And I don’t know why.