“Forget about it,” I mutter, leaving the horseman to go search for clothes.
In the master bedroom I find a woman’s shirt and pants and everything else in between. It’s all a little too short and tight, but I manage to find a pair of pants that don’t make me feel like an overstuffed sausage and a shirt that covers all the important bits.
Once I’m dressed, I head back into the living room. My breath catches when I notice the horseman. The light from the setting sun shines through the windows, making his hair glitter like spun gold. My heart squeezes the same way it did when I saw pictures of the Sistine Chapel.
A beauty so staggering it makes you feel physically close to God.
I forget that we’ve been bickering and that he’s the enemy. For one single second I feel an odd ache beneath my ribcage.
So close to God …
A God that wants us all gone.
Chapter 14
“Try it.”
“Absolutely not.”
“C’mon, trrrrry it,” I insist.
“I said no.”
As far as mornings post-Pestilence are concerned, this one is off to a great start. The sun is painting the world around us in soft pink light (so pretty), my hands are mercifully unbound for once, and nestled within them is a thermos containing my own version of deliverance.
I nudge Pestilence where he sits behind me with my elbow. “You know you’re curious.”
“I think I would know better than you what I know.”
Someone takes everything way too literally.
I press the thermos closer to the horseman, not dissuaded in the least by his protests. I mean, it’s hot chocolate I’m offering. Also, I really want to see if this guy is capable of drinking fluids. I haven’t seen him touch food or drink so far.
Pestilence’s hand digs into my hip, where he holds me against him in the saddle. “If I try it, will you quiet?”
“No, but you know you don’t really want me to be silent.”
My words are punctuated by the steady clop clop of Pestilence’s horse, who I’ve secretly named Trixie Skillz. I’m pretty sure the steed is a male (haven’t checked because unlike some people I know, respecting one’s privacy is important), but no matter.
I have his whole story figured out too. Trixie Skillz, the noble steed, once lived a life of poverty and fear, turning tricks on the streets for carrots and grain when Pestilence saved him. Now the two are inseparable. The End.
Pestilence takes the thermos from me, lifting the container to better scrutinize it. “If this is poison, human, I will tie you to the back of the horse again and make you run.”
I snort. “Pestilence, if it were poison, I’d have bigger problems than getting another asphalt massage.” Problems like keeling over and dying.
He scowls at me, then scowls at the thermos. “I don’t know why I’m encouraging this … pestering.”
Because you like it, I want to say, but I don’t. I really am pretty sure that a part of Pestilence—perhaps an itsy bitsy part of him, but a part of him nonetheless—is starting to enjoy my company, pestering and all.
Alright, perhaps tolerate is a better word. We’re tolerating each other despite openly hating each other’s guts. It’s an odd relationship, but since he refuses to die and he won’t kill me, we’re stuck with each other.
After eyeing the ever-loving shit out of the thermos, Pestilence brings it close to his lips.
Holy crap, he’s going to do it! He’s finally going to drink something!
The horseman hesitates, then holds the thermos out at his side and overturns it, dumping its contents out.
For a second I stare dumbly at the small brown stream petering out of the mouthpiece, then I jump into action.
“You heathen!” I snatch the thermos from him. “You could’ve just said no.”
“I did.”
“Well, you could’ve meant it.”
“I did.”
I check the warm canteen. There’s still a decent amount of hot chocolate left.
Nice.
Pestilence’s hand settles back at my side as I resume drinking the warm beverage.
“Why don’t you eat or drink?” I eventually ask.
“Because I don’t have to,” he answers curtly.
“So?”
“So?” he echoes, sounding affronted. He peers down at me, maybe to make sure I’m serious. “I’m confused. Why should I eat or drink if I don’t need to?”
“Because it’s fun and it tastes good—well, except for my Aunt Milly’s fruitcake. That shit tastes like a dirty asshole. But yeah, food tastes good, as does the hot chocolate you squandered a minute ago.”
“Tell me,” he says, “if I indulge like a human, how am I better than one?”
Oh geez. “Can we not make everything into some lofty battle between good and evil? It’s just food.”
He doesn’t respond for so long I think he isn’t going to, but then he finally says, “I will think over what you’ve told me.”
After that, the two of us are quiet.
Hate the silence.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m usually comfortable being alone in my own mind. There are always things like philosophy and literature, history and politics to think about. And when those lofty subjects get dull, there’s the normal slew of noise to fill my head, like remembering to do my taxes on time, or figuring out how to, logistically, host a family get together in my matchbox apartment, or mulling over what used books I’m going to blow my paycheck on.
But right now my mind isn’t that old, reliable friend it once was. Every time the silence roars in, my mind drifts to that plague victim I tended to, or the fact that more are dying with every kilometer we travel. Worst of all is when I ruminate on the man at my back. I’m still his prisoner, but the longer I’m around him, the more muddled my feelings are.
I press my hand against his horse’s neck. “‘Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before …’” I murmur to myself.
“What are you speaking of?” Pestilence asks.
“I’m quoting ‘The Raven.’ It’s a poem by Edgar Allan Poe.”
Pestilence makes a noise at the back of his throat. “I should’ve known that brief flash of eloquence was not your making.”
“Do you even have the ability to speak without insulting me?” I say.
I swear this bastard is just trying to kill my morning buzz.
“Of course.” I can hear the smug smile in his voice. “It is just that there are so very many things about you worth insulting.”
If this hot chocolate weren’t so precious to me, I’d dump the rest of it on Pestilence’s pig head, consequences be damned.
I think the horseman is waiting for me to clap back at him—to be perfectly honest, I think he enjoys verbally sparring with me—but he up and ruined Poe, so I’m not going to give him anything else.
When the silence stretches on, the horseman says softly, “I enjoyed that bit of poetry.”
I let out a huff.
Not going to take the bait, pretty boy. Not even when I really want to—because, Poe.
I begin stroking Trixie’s mane, the horse’s white hair silken beneath my fingertips.
“Tell me about yourself,” Pestilence demands.
I bristle at his tone. Said so high-handedly, like I’m here to serve him. Not to mention that the last few times I’ve tried to chat with him, he was rude.
“No.”
That response gives him pause. I can almost feel him studying the back of my head.
“You are such an odd creature,” he says. “One moment you tell me you won’t stop talking, and the next you refuse to.”
He’s so trying to bait me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the horseman was quickly developing an appetite for conversation.
He sighs. “Human, you’ve piqued my interest—a rare accomplishment. Don’t squander it.”
“Squander it?” This guy. “You mean by refusing to talk to you?” That’s real cute. “I’ll tell you a rare accomplishment—pissing me off.”
He guffaws. “You mean this hellcat nature of yours is atypical?”
Bringing out all my stabby tendencies.
“You want to know about me?” I practically shout. “Fine. My full name is not human, it’s Sara Burns. I’m twenty-one years old. And a week ago I was taken by an insufferable horseman. Would you like to argue about that too?”