Pestilence (The Four Horsemen #1)(57)

“I felt God’s hand move me to spare you,” he says.

Surprise washes through me. I imagined that he might feed me his story about making an example of me. But this …

God told him to spare me. I have no idea how to feel about that.

He frowns. “I thought … I came to this world to mete out His wrath, but that night, and every one since then, I have wondered …”

I wait for him to finish the sentence, but this time the silence stretches on until I realize that’s all I’m getting. It’s a whole lot more than he’s given me in the past, so I’ll take it.

“What’s God like?” I ask.

“That is not a subject I can discuss with mortals.”

Of course it isn’t.

“Well, then can you at least tell me what it’s like?” I ask.

“What what’s like?” Pestilence’s grip has moved so that he’s now cupping my arm, his thumb rubbing circles into my flesh.

“I don’t know—death. The Great Beyond.” I hold out my hand to catch a flake of snow “It would be easier to explain sight to the blind,” Pestilence says. “It can’t be understood by description alone; it must be experienced.”

What is the use of having a horseman around if he won’t answer any of the fun questions?

I drop my hand back into my lap. “Can you at least tell me whether humans have souls or not?”

“Of course humans have souls, Sara.” I can hear the amusement in his voice. “I wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.”

Pestilence’s hand moves back to its usual spot—pressed against my stomach—and I can just make out a ring he wears on his index finger, a round, dark stone at its center.

Not for the first time I realize there is so much to this man that I’m completely unaware of, despite kissing him, sleeping with him, living and riding with him.

Ever so gently, I run my hand over his ring. His fingers flex at the touch.

“Tell me about your life,” I say distractedly, still focused on the ring and the hand that wears it.

“What is there to tell?” Pestilence’s voice rumbles behind me.

“I don’t know, tell me a memory.” Anything to know him by so he’s not just some otherworldly horseman.

“My memories would disturb you,” he says curtly.

As opposed to my reality where people die painful, tormented deaths?

“I still want to hear about them.”

He takes a deep breath. I don’t know how he does it, but he manages to make something as simple as drawing in air ripe with reluctance.

“What do you want to know? Shall I tell you about man’s first cities? I remember stirring awake, my attention caught on their attempts to elevate themselves from other creatures. I saw them divert water from rivers and plant the first crops. I watched them build crude houses and tame wild beasts. I admit, I was awestruck at the sight of man molding nature into something pleasing, something he could use.

“Then came towns and cities, kings and law. The world moved faster as man built and created and innovated and conquered. I was there for it all, and I’ve been here ever since.

“I’ve stood in ancient bazaars, I’ve walked through city centers, I’ve lingered in castles and alleyways and everything in between. I’ve stayed in a thousand different houses, and I’ve kissed the brow of countless humans, and I’ve lain with each one.

“I came to earth and I touched and the world knew terror.”

Jesus.

“I am Pestilence, and my memory is longer than recorded history—it is even longer than man. I came before him, and dear Sara, I will outlive his end.”





Chapter 29


It’s still dark out when Pestilence stops Trixie in front of another house. Just the sight of it has my heart galloping. I don’t want to face another family so soon.

The horseman swings off his steed. “Wait here,” he commands.

He heads over to the darkened house, opening the gate to the side yard before disappearing from view.

I rub Trixie’s neck as I wait for horseman. What could he possibly be up to now?

A minute later the front door opens and Pestilence strides back to me.

“We will stay here tonight,” he says.

I hop off Trixie and warily follow him inside the house. It’s only as I catch a whiff of garbage that’s been sitting out too long that I realize the place is empty. My muscles relax.

I head over to a light switch and flick it on. Above me, the entryway light sputters to life.

Electricity. Score.

Tentatively, I begin to explore the house, flipping on lights here and there as I do so. The place is a shrine to junk; heaps of it are piled everywhere. Old prescription bottles and magazines, weather-damaged paperbacks and moth eaten clothes—all of it is stacked into precarious mounds.

I bet whoever lived here had to practically be pried out of their home when the evacuation orders went out. No one just spends this much time hoarding junk to leave it all behind.

I wrinkle my nose at the ripe smell in the air. It isn’t just old garbage, it’s also the smell of animals. I move into the kitchen, where I spot several aluminum bowls, one filled with water and the rest empty.

Mystery solved.

Owner has a dog or three.