Pestilence (The Four Horsemen #1)(78)

He seethes behind me.

“Fine,” he says after several seconds. “I will not marry you today. But this discussion isn’t over.”

“The hell it’s not!” I need to hit something.

We ride in silence after that. Thank fuck.

Ugh. Stop with that word.





Chapter 40


We’ve only traveled a kilometer or so past the church when I hear the gun blast.

I don’t have time to think about the fact that the horseman must’ve stopped riding ahead at night. I jolt just as the air stirs violently next to my left temple. In the next instant, Pestilence’s body whips back, his hold on me slackening even as his blood mists against my skin.

Someone shot my horseman. Oh God, someone shot him.

I swivel in the saddle. “Pestilence?”

His body sways, and I have to catch him to keep the horseman from sliding off his steed.

Pestilence’s head rocks forward, and I see the blood, the blood and— Oh God, oh God, oh God. Where the left side of his face should be, now there’s only a mangled crater.

Going to sick myself …

His blood is dripping everywhere. So much blood.

People in gas masks begin circling us. Trixie rears up, pawing at the air. I scream when I feel the horseman slip through my clutches. He falls off the saddle behind me, hitting the ground with a dull, wet thump. At the sound, I nearly lose the breakfast Pestilence made for me.

I stare down at his prone, lifeless body, unable to rip my eyes away.

“It’s alright, he’s gone.”

“He can’t harm you anymore.”

The townspeople’s words are faint and distorted behind their masks. They’re coming closer, looking strange and sinister.

They hurt him.

Coming to the side of Trixie, they forcibly remove me from the horse. I lunge for Pestilence, only to have them pull me away.

My last words to the horseman were oaths shouted in anger.

I’m fighting to get back to his ruined body, but these people hold me back.

You’d think I’d be used to the sight of him like this, but no matter how much I reassure myself that he’ll be alright, my eyes tell me otherwise.

From the ground he groans.

Jesus. Even though half of his face is gone, he’s still aware. I let out a shriek. He’s aware.

Pain must be unbearable.

Someone shoots him again—and again, and again—trying to kill an unkillable thing.

I scream at the sound of each bullet, horrified at the way his body dances beneath the gunfire.

I’m still shouting as I’m forced away from the road and into a nearby building. It’s only after someone’s pushed me into a pew, that I realize they dragged me to a church.

The idiot wanted to marry me!

I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe the morning would’ve gone differently had I said yes to Pestilence’s proposal. He’d been so eager, and I’d thrown it in his face like what we did last night didn’t matter when it did. God, it did.

I take in a shuddering breath and glance around. One by one, the people who led me hear disappear into another room to remove their masks. When they return, they no longer appear so menacing.

The men and women that fill the church are civilians, civilians who decided to sacrifice their lives to take down the horseman. Civilians who are bringing me blankets and coffee—civilians who are helping me, an ex-firefighter, the best they can.

Doesn’t change the fact that they hurt him. That they might be hurting him still.

I stand, the woolen blanket sliding off my shoulders, feeling like my emotions have been pushed through a meat grinder.

Where is he?

“The others are dealing with him,” someone says, and that’s the first I realize that I’ve spoken out loud.

“We heard about you, you know,” says one of the women milling about. “The reports kept mentioning that he had a prisoner.”

“She didn’t look like his prisoner,” someone else mutters.

“Shhh!” another hisses.

I wipe my eyes and glance around me. There are eight women and three men, all between the ages of twenty and sixty. All of them now slated to die. (The gasmasks were a cute accessory, but not even they can stop Pestilence’s plague.) When will the media figure out that the horseman cannot be killed? When will people stop sacrificing their lives to end an immortal thing?

An immortal thing I happen to care for.

Got to get to him.

Got to save him.

I begin to make my way down the center aisle, heading for the exit.

I’ve only gone several feet when I’m intercepted by one of the men. He’s a big, burly guy with a white handlebar mustache and a firearm holstered at his hip.

“Let’s sit you back down,” he says, his tone so damn condescending.

Taking my upper arm, he leads me back to a pew.

“Am I under arrest?” I ask.

“Of course not,” he says, “but you’ve had a trying morning. Why don’t you rest a little?”

I glance at him, then at the others.

They’re not going to let me go. I can see it on their faces.

I don’t know why they care. Then it dawns on me— I survived the plague. They must be aware of that.

And who wouldn’t want to keep someone like that around? I could know the cure; hell they might think I am the cure.