Pestilence (The Four Horsemen #1)(38)

I continue to stroke his hair, waiting for him to heal himself.

You could escape right now—vanish while he’s recovering. Then you’d never have to answer to him again.

My legs stay folded beneath his head.

I’m slowing Pestilence down, I reason with myself. I’m giving people more time to escape. The world is caught in a hopeless game of cat and mouse, and I know that in the end the horseman will make his rounds and kill us all anyway, but I’m slowing his progress. That counts for something, right?

The shadows have deepened by the time the first of the bullets makes its way out of Pestilence’s body. It wiggles out of his lower leg for a few seconds, then tumbles harmlessly into the sand.

Several minutes later, the horseman shifts for the first time, a pained breath escaping him.

“I’m right here,” I murmur, continuing to run my fingers through his hair. “I’ve got you.”

Pestilence stills.

“… Sara?” He forces his eyes open. They’re unfocused as he gazes up at me.

“Hi.”

He reaches up, his bloody fingers touching my cheek. “You didn’t run.”

I let out a laugh that’s far too shaky for my liking. “I probably should’ve,” I say.

“Probably,” he agrees.

His hand drops, and he closes his eyes again.

“Pestilence? Pestilence.” But he’s unconscious once more.





Chapter 20


After two more bullets pop out of his flesh, I decide it’s time to move. The sun dipped behind the horizon twenty minutes ago, and I’m freezing my butt off.

I cast a few furtive glances towards the beach house just down the way. I can barely make out the dark structure. The lack of light is probably a good thing, seeing as how I am going to be forcing my way in.

Shimmying out from under Pestilence, I grab his battered breastplate and settle it loosely over my chest. Even without the aid of a mirror, I know I look ridiculous wearing his breastplate. It swamps my torso, giving off the illusion that I’m petite. I’m not; it’s the horseman who’s freaking monster-sized.

I decide to leave the rest of his armor and weapons where they lay in the sand. He’ll have to grab them once he’s recovered.

After I put Pestilence’s crown on my head (motherfucking queen right here), I hook my arms under his shoulders.

I brace myself, taking a few fortifying breaths. “This is probably going to hurt,” I warn him—not that he can hear me.

I begin to move, shuffling us back bit by bit towards the house. Pestilence groans, fighting my hold weakly.

“If you can walk, then be my guest,” I say. “Otherwise, stop moving unless you want me to drop you.”

He does stop moving, but even without him resisting my efforts, it takes damn near an eternity to reach the beach house. My God is he heavy. I trip twice along the way, jarring the horseman awake each time. Behind us, Trixie Skillz plods along like the faithful steed he is.

Once I get to the house, I set Pestilence down and survey the place. There’s no light coming from inside, and pine needles litter the stoop. Whoever owns this place hasn’t been here for a while.

Probably someone’s summer home.

I head over to the decorative door. Four square glass panes offer a glimpse inside. Seems cozy. Too bad it’s going to look like a triple homicide by the time we’re done with it.

I try the knob—I mean, you never know. People in my neck of the woods rarely lock their doors. This one doesn’t budge.

My gaze drops to the glass panes.

Going to have to do this the hard way.

I shrug off my jacket and wrap it around my fist. Here’s to hoping this isn’t tempered glass I’m dealing with. Otherwise this bright idea of mine might not go so well.

With one smooth stroke, I strike the glass.

“Motherfucker!” I shout, shaking out my fist. Even with the jacket as a buffer, my hand throbs from the impact. I glare at the still-intact windowpane.

Freaking tempered glass.

And Goddamn did that hurt.

Behind me, I hear laborious breathing and stumbling footfalls. “Move, Sara.”

I swivel around and take the horseman in with wide eyes. I don’t know whether I feel more shock or relief at the sight of him up and awake.

I step aside as Pestilence drags himself to the door, leaning most of his weight against the wall and leaving a smear of blood against the siding.

He reaches out and grabs the knob. With a swift jerk of his wrist, he breaks the lock and the door swings open.

Annoying how easily he broke it—like it was nothing.

I help him inside, letting him lean his significant weight on me as I maneuver him to a plaid couch. Trixie clomps inside after us.

I lay the horseman out on the couch, then remove the breastplate and crown I wear, letting the items clatter onto the floor next to me. In front me, Pestilence’s eyes slide shut and his breaths even out as fades from consciousness once more.

Hooking my fingers in the damp cloth of his shirt, I rip it open, pushing it off of him as best I can. His torso is still a mottled mess of bruises and bullet holes, the injuries distorting the shimmering markings that ring his pecs. My eyes find the other gunshot wounds that dot his shoulders, chest, neck, arms, legs, and in one case, just above his collarbone. I lightly touch the skin beneath this last one.