Pestilence (The Four Horsemen #1)(27)

Pestilence made me look at each one of them. All those people slated for certain death. It would be a lie to say he enjoyed making me look—he was just as grim as I was—but does that really matter in the end? He still made me stare down those few people stuck inside, just because he knew it would hurt me.

“I hope you’re satisfied,” I say once the hospital is far behind us.

His hold on me tightens. “Human, don’t you know? I am never satisfied, and so onward I ride.”

I don’t say anything to that. Sadness has a way of getting into your bones and settling in for the long haul. And in the end, that’s what I feel. Not anger at Pestilence—though I do harbor more than a little resentment—but sadness at those few faces that will simply cease to be in a few days. The sorrow swallows me up.

I’m quiet for so long that it becomes noticeable.

“I don’t mean for this experience to be pleasant, human. If it were pleasant, you’d be dead.”

One would almost think the horseman was trying to rationalize his actions. But that would mean he feels remorseful about what he did, and I know that’s not the case.

I stare straight ahead, my gaze falling on a rusted washing machine sitting on the side of the road.

“No cutting remarks for me?” Pestilence asks several minutes later, when I still haven’t responded. “I have to say, I’m almost disappointed.”

What does he want from me? Isn’t it enough that every one of these stops kills a little something inside of me?

I don’t speak even once Pestilence approaches a house, this one nestled amongst dozens of others. No one’s inside, but even then, I’m still in too dour a mood to really care.

He dismounts, the movement looking agitated as hell. Obediently, I follow, not waiting for him to help me down. He prowls past the front porch, his armor gleaming in the watery light.

Pestilence brings up a booted foot and kicks down the door in a single smooth stroke. He doesn’t wait for me before heading inside, though I know if I tried to run, he’d be on me in an instant. He probably wants that.

Once I follow him inside the empty home, he rounds on me. “Why won’t you speak to me?”

Not so long ago he wanted nothing more than for me to be silent. But that was when the horseman didn’t know there were better things than riding in solitude.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” I say.

Taking a few quick strides, he closes the distance between us and grabs my jaw. “Last time I checked,” he says, tapping my cheek with his finger, “I wasn’t keeping you prisoner because you wanted it.”

A bitter smile twists my face, but I still can’t find it in me to fight with him.

He releases my jaw in a huff. “Fine. Pout, human. It will do you no good. They’re still going to die.”

Why does he have to keep bringing that up?

I rub my temples. “You wanted me to suffer, and I’ve been suffering. So take your victory and leave me be,” I finally say.

Pestilence’s eyes harden. “This isn’t even the beginning of suffering, human. I could make this worse. So much worse.”

I’m sure he could, but right now I don’t really give a fuck.

I begin to walk away from him. All I want is to find an empty room away from the horseman where I can curl up and pretend I’m not seeing those faces every time I close my eyes.

I’m just about out of the room when I pause. “For all your righteousness,” I say over my shoulder, “you really are a heartless bastard.”





Chapter 16


I’ve gotten used to stealing from the Pestilence’s victims. Every time we squat in someone’s house, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Stealing their beds, stealing their food and water, stealing their homes and—if they’re unfortunate enough to linger—their time. Pestilence might take their lives, but I take everything else.

And I’m starting to be okay with this. Well, as okay as anyone can be in my situation.

I pad into the kitchen the next morning, eyeing the snowshoes and vintage skis hanging on the wall across the way. Outside, rain beats ferociously against the windows and wind shakes the trees.

I rub my arms, grateful for the roaring fire Pestilence started. The weather might be a mess outside, but in here, it’s downright toasty.

The rainstorm nearly drowns out the sound of muffled splashing coming from down the hall. Pretty Boy needs his monster baths.

Icy monster baths, I amend as I head over to the cupboards. The electricity—and thus, the hot water—doesn’t work here.

My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since yesterday. One by one I open the cupboards. In sum total, I find two jars of pickles, one can of beans, and a moldy onion.

Yum.

There’s also a refrigerator in the kitchen, but judging from the fact that the electricity is out, I doubt it works. Still, you never know; people have fashioned these things into good ol’ iceboxes.

I open it up and—

“Whoa.”

Moonshine. Rows and rows of moonshine. I stare at them all as a river of what was probably once ice spills onto the ground.

Out of curiosity I grab one of the bottles from the shelf and, unscrewing the lid, sniff the contents.

I make a face. Not just moonshine but bad moonshine.