And now, even knowing I’m not going to get away, I bolt. I don’t know what drives me to run. Maybe it’s the punishing pace of Pestilence’s steed, maybe it’s the fierce look in the horseman’s eyes. Or maybe it’s that rider and mount look like they bathed in the blood of their enemies.
Pushing my aching thighs for all they’re worth, I sprint down the street, back towards the highway. Trixie’s hoof beats sound louder and louder as the two close in on me. I pump my arms, forcing my legs to move faster.
I don’t make it very far before I feel Pestilence’s arm wrap around my back. With a jerk that has my nearly healed wounds screaming in protest, he lifts me off the ground, setting me smoothly on the seat in front of him.
“Secure yourself, Sara,” he commands, not slowing.
Going as fast as we are, there’s no way I’m going to be able to adjust myself from sitting sidesaddle, so I wrap my arms around Pestilence’s midsection, holding on tight to him as he directs us towards the water. His arm rests almost possessively around me, further securing me to him.
We speed by the large buildings for a second time, and as we race down the street, I catch sight of a few more fallen shooters laying in pools of their own blood, their bodies shot through with arrows. I stop looking when I see one of the golden arrows protruding from a dead man’s eye. The whole thing is so ghastly and violent and sad.
Pestilence didn’t spare them. Not like he spared me. And he may think that I have the worse fate, but at the end of it all, I feel lucky to be sitting here on the horseman’s steed rather than finding out what lies on the other side of death.
Abruptly, the buildings give way to sand, and I have a clear view of the inlet I’ve kept catching glimpses of. I stare out at the water, and beyond it, Vancouver Island.
Trixie’s strides pound against the sand, his hooves spraying the fine grains against me. It’s been years since I’ve been this close to the sea, but I don’t get the chance to enjoy it. The dry sand gives way to wet, and still the horse doesn’t slow.
“What are you doing?” I yell at Pestilence over the pound of hooves, not quite able to tear my gaze from the water.
Other than securing me even closer against him, Pestilence doesn’t respond.
My breath catches as the beach ends, and then, quite suddenly, we’re thundering through the water.
Wait, that’s not quite right …
I glance down.
“Oh my God,” I say, staring at the rippling waves. “Oh my God.” The steed is not wading through the water, he’s galloping on top of it.
Trixie’s hooves splash against the water’s surface as though the inlet were nothing more than a puddle, kicking up a few stray droplets of sea spray onto me and the horseman.
We’re riding on water.
I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again.
Still on top of the water.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. Pestilence can spread plague just by moving through a city, and he’s impervious to death. What’s one more freakish power?
Once we’re well away from land, Pestilence’s steed slows to a reasonable gait. Only now am I able to—awkwardly—throw one of my legs over the saddle and face forward. (I still nearly fall off in the process.)
Land hedges us in on all sides as we move across the water, chilly droplets splashing against my thighs.
Pestilence leans against me, his chest pressing against mine with enough force to lean me forward.
Goddamn but he’s heavy.
“Can you let up a little?” I say.
So close to elbowing his ass.
He ignores my request.
Typical.
As the minutes tick away, a little more of his weight presses down on me. It happens so gradually that I’m bent substantially forward before I realize this might not be intentional.
“Pestilence?”
No response.
“Pestilence?” I say, a bit more urgently this time.
Nothing.
Damn me, but my stomach is churning with worry.
I begin to rotate around when I notice the blood dripping off the wrist that holds the reins.
Something is wrong with him. Very wrong.
I face him as best as I can. His eyes are closed, his face is slack, and his crown sits slightly askew on his head. This last one makes him look—contradictorily—both more rakish and more innocent.
I put my fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse, but I can’t get a read on him with the way our bodies are rocking on his horse.
“Pestilence, can you hear me?” I try to pull him away enough to get a response.
His head rolls backwards until it appears he’s staring at the sky, and I have to catch his crown before it slides off.
His body sways in his seat, then he pitches forward again, his face burying itself in the crook of my neck. I wrap my arms around him as his body begins to list sideways.
What happens if he falls off? Will he land on top of the water, or will he sink? What will happen to Trixie—and to me—if he does so?
Really don’t want to find out.
I cradle him awkwardly in my arms as I steer his steed towards a nearby island. Of course, once the land looms large enough for me to see the details, I can make out streets and buildings—lots and lots of them.
Shit.
I tug on the reins, changing our trajectory, all while trying to stabilize Pestilence, who may or may not be dead. Temporarily dead, but dead nonetheless.
How had I missed this until now? I’d heard the gunshots and seen the smeared blood on him when he came for me. And now that I’m looking for it, I can see that he’s bleeding from a dozen different wounds, and the fluid is all over him and all over me.
For Christ’s sake, he’d been bleeding on me, and I’d still been unaware. Lulled by the steady trod of his horse’s gait and distracted by the fact that we were traveling on water.
Eventually, Trixie heads towards another section of land. By the time the horse nears the shore, my arms are shaking from the strain of keeping Pestilence in his saddle.
It’s only once his horse is clomping through the sand that I allow myself to relax my hold. The horseman’s body cants to the side, and then the two of us topple off his mount.
Pestilence groans weakly when we hit the sand, our limbs tangling.
Alive.
I let out a breath, relief flowing through me. I don’t know what else I expected from an immortal man.
And I definitely don’t know why, of all things, I feel relief.
I drag my body from under his, then lay him out on the sand, pulling his weaponry off of him and tossing it aside. He’s in even worse shape than I thought, his clothes saturated in blood. It seeps out from beneath his armor and drips onto the sand. And his armor …
Some of these bullets blew straight through the metal, making the golden breastplate look like a slice of Swiss cheese.
Piece by piece, I unfasten the armor, grimacing as trapped blood drips onto the sand. My eyes move to Pestilence’s face. The normally tan skin is now pale and wan.
I skim my fingers over a cheek, feeling the chill that now clings to his flesh.
His chest rises and falls as he takes in shallow breaths. At least he’s breathing.
Since when did you want him to breathe?
I peel back what I can of the horseman’s wet clothes. Bullet holes litter his arms, his legs, and his chest. His face, however, had been left untouched. That’s why I hadn’t noticed. I’d been so transfixed by his beauty and his intensity—intensity he’d focused on me—that I hadn’t noticed.
I pause when I see blood congealing in the sand around his head.
Dare I?
Before I can think twice about it, I lift his head and probe the back of his skull. I nearly gag as I come into contact with something soft. He makes a plaintive noise at my touch. It’s clearly painful for him.
Of course it’s painful—it’s a head wound you’re poking, you moron.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, not sure why I’m whispering.
I glance around. Trixie Skillz is lingering nearby and, like his owner, the horse is dotted with bullet wounds.
And still the horse carried not one, but two riders across an ocean.
I take a shuddering breath and look down the beach. On either side of me, the shoreline is thick with trees. Far down the beach to my left, a lone house is nestled amongst them.