Pestilence (The Four Horsemen #1)(6)
Hours I run, until my wrists are rubbed bloody and weariness closes in on me.
Can’t keep this up forever.
It doesn’t help that the horseman gives no indication when—or if—he’ll be stopping. Each kilometer feels like an eternity. When he eventually turns off the highway, I want to cry with joy. I don’t give two steaming shits about what horrors he might have in store for me next. So long as it means this run from hell is over, I’ll take them.
We follow a snow-covered road until it tees into a house. And then—praise the good Lord—we come to a stop in front of a house.
Pestilence hasn’t bothered to glance back at me since this morning, and even now as he hops off his steed and ties the reins against a nearby lamppost, I could be invisible for all the attention he gives me. But as soon as he comes back around his mount, it’s clear he hasn’t forgotten about me.
I suck in a breath at the sight of him. The angelic horseman I first laid eyes on is back, the torn up flesh of his face now mostly healed. There are still some red patches and shiny skin where bullet and burn wounds are healing, but he’s got a nose and lips and ears, so all the important bits are back. Even his hair has returned, though the golden waves of it are only just long enough to thread your fingers through.
Now that he’s all put back together, I can’t stop staring at him. I wish it was just horrified wonderment that pulls my gaze to him, but then I’d be lying.
He’s painfully beautiful, with his mournful blue eyes, and his high, proud cheekbones and the deadly set of his jaw. One of my hands twitches as I self-consciously try to tuck a lock of my sweaty brown hair behind my ear.
What is wrong with me?
“Did you enjoy your run?” he asks.
“Fuck you.” I don’t have the energy to put much venom into the oath.
He curls his upper lip anyway as he unties my rope from the saddle.
Like his face, his hands are mostly healed. I see no bone, no cartilage, no veins and arteries or any other manner of innards that several hours ago were outtards. But they do look a little red and scabby.
He turns from me, and I get a good look at the golden bow and quiver at his back.
He’s killed humans with those weapons, and he’ll kill more with them in the future, and the world is fucked to hell because he can’t die, and short of death, he won’t stop the killing.
So much for ending him.
The blanket is still tied around Pestilence’s waist, and that plus his bare feet and legs (also mostly healed) should look comical, but the horseman is a formidable man.
I stare for longer than necessary, and God forgive me, I can’t help but notice that his form is every bit as pleasing as his face. He’s got massive shoulders and narrow hips and I want to stab my eyes out now. There’s got to be some rule against ogling the guy you tried to murder.
Ahead of me, he jerks on the rope. I curse as I trip over myself trying to keep up as he makes his way up to the house.
I take in the two story home. It’s pretty, but fairly unexceptional; stained wood siding, forest green front door, a snow-covered planter box under one of the windows.
Why in the world did the horseman come to this place?
Pestilence strides right up to the front door and, lifting a foot, kicks it inward. That’s one way to open a door. The other way is trying the fucking knob like a normal person.
He drags me inside by the rope, as though I’m a naughty dog he must keep leashed.
From the silence of the house, it’s obvious the owners aren’t around, and they probably haven’t been since the evacuation warnings went out—thank God. Anywhere is better than here at the moment.
Pestilence crosses the living room, pulling me along by this damnable rope. Now that I’m not running for my life, all my other aches and pains are waking up. My wrists are beginning to throb and the sweat that coats me is rapidly cooling against my body. I’m not even going to think about how sore my legs will be in the morning.
The horseman ties the rope to the stairway railing one, two, three times over.
“You do know the moment I’m out of your sight, I’m going to try to escape,” I say.
“Do I look worried, human?” he asks, giving the knot a final yank.
“I can’t tell, too many bits are missing.”
Not true, but he hasn’t seen his reflection yet, so he wouldn’t know.
Pestilence stares at me for a long second, his dislike for me nearly palpable, then heads upstairs, his footsteps echoing throughout the house.
I wasn’t kidding about the escape thing. The moment he’s gone, I attack the maze of knots like my life depends on it, which it does.
I’m desperately picking at the ties that bind me to the railing (When the fuck did this horseman learn to tie a proper knot?), when he comes back down carrying a fresh set of clothes. Clothes and duct tape.
All we need are some assless chaps and a paddle to round this party out. But I doubt Pestilence has that sort of suffering in mind. Probably for the best. I don’t think it’s appropriate to hate-bang the guy you tried to kill. At least not on the first night.
Pestilence tosses the clothes onto the couch, keeping an eye on me as he does so. He removes his armor piece by piece. Beneath it, the last remnants of the shirt he once wore now disintegrate, revealing his naked torso.
Even injured, he’s a pinnacle of the male specimen. He has muscles for days, his arms both thick and cut, his pecs nicely rounded out, and his abs ridiculously defined.