I sit down on the chair in front of him and unscrew the cap of the whiskey, my eyes trained on his wounds.
“I don’t agree with this,” he says, but he’s no longer trying to flee. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that I see curiosity sparkling in Pestilence’s eyes.
No one’s ever tended to him.
“I didn’t ask whether you did,” I say, grabbing the roll of gauze and pouring some of the whiskey onto it.
“Vexing woman.”
I lift my brows and begrudgingly nod in agreement. I can totally be vexing.
“Don’t you want me to suffer?” he asks ruefully, tracking each of my movements.
“I’ve never wanted you to suffer,” I say, “Not even when I shot you down.”
I move the alcohol-soaked linen to the first of his wounds.
He hisses as it comes in contact with his exposed flesh. “You lie, human. This is suffering.”
He gets shot up a dozen times, and yet he complains about a little alcohol in his wounds?
“This is disinfectant.”
“I can clean my wounds well enough without your crude methods.”
Oh, that’s right.
“Fine.” I stand up and go to the kitchen, rifling through the cupboards until I find two glasses. I bring them back. Pouring a shot into one of them, I hand the glass to him.
He takes it, giving the liquor a tentative whiff before wincing.
“To help with the pain,” I explain.
“What does it matter?” he says, lowering his glass. “It will be over with eventually.”
“Oh, for the love of—” I pour myself a double shot and take a deep swallow of it. I top my drink off, then set the whiskey aside.
Pestilence absolutely sucks at playing patient.
I grab the roll of gauze once more, intending to at least bandage his wounds. But as I reach out for him, he catches my wrist. “Sara,” he says softly, “cease this. I appreciate the gesture, but it is in vain.”
As he speaks, a bullet at his throat oozes out of the hole it burrowed in him.
So freaky.
My eyes meet his. “Alright.” Not going to twist his arm trying to help him if he doesn’t want it.
I get up, grabbing the bottle of Red Label and my glass.
I’m halfway out of the living room when he calls out, “Where are you going?”
“To take a bath.” Need some goddamn alone time.
I close my eyes and lean back against the tub, draping my arms over the rim and idly swirling my glass of whiskey. I can almost forget my life has gone to complete and utter cow shit.
Down the hall I hear the thump and scrape of Pestilence as he makes his way closer to me. A minute later the door creaks open. I crack my eyes just enough to see him limp into the bathroom, holding his midsection gingerly, his still-full glass of whiskey in his hands.
“I want to be alone,” I say, closing my eyes once more. I don’t bother covering myself. He’s already seen me naked. More than once. Also, I doubt he’s feeling all that lusty when he’s barely holding himself together.
“Human, you have clearly forgotten that you’re my prisoner.”
Once, I was—and he had to stand guard over me to make sure I didn’t bolt. But I don’t know if I am any longer. That should bother me, but right now I have no more fucks to give.
I snort. “Do you really think I’m going to run?”
“You did in Vancouver.”
Not going to open my eyes and let him ruin this moment I’m having.
“You would’ve too if you were about to be trampled by a horseman.”
He guffaws, but then falls to silence.
“This drink tastes horrible,” he says after a moment.
So he tried it when I wasn’t looking. Sneaky horseman.
“Common opinion is that you don’t drink liquor because it tastes good.” I take a swallow from my own glass.
He grunts.
I pry my eyes open just enough to see him polish off the shot I gave him.
Grabbing the bottle next to me, I hold it out like a peace-offering.
After a pause where he’s surely considering the wickedness of alcohol and how stained his soul’s quickly becoming, he takes the bottle from me, pouring himself another drink. He’s heavy-handed, probably because he doesn’t realize just how potent the stuff is.
He looks at the label afterwards. “Johnnie Walker Red Label,” he reads. His eyes flick to me. “I saw you give this to that dying man.”
That first nameless man who I watched die of plague, he means. Pestilence noticed me giving him liquor?
“Drinking it helps with the pain,” I say.
“People don’t drink it to take away their pain,” he replies. It’s a statement, and yet I get the distinct impression that he’s probing.
“Sometimes they do.” But then, it’s not always physical pain they’re numbing themselves to. “But no, not always.” I bring the hand holding the glass to my temple and tap on the side of my head with my index finger. “Sometimes they do it simply to alter their state of mind.”
Pestilence is quiet after that. I let my eyes drift closed and pretend like I’m still blissfully enjoying a good soak and not acutely aware of his presence.
“You took care of me the same way you did your humans,” he eventually says. There’s something in his voice …
I open my eyes.
I catch Pestilence studying my face, his eyes bright with what looks like desire. At the sight, my chest begins to rise and fall faster and faster.
What is this reaction? I don’t like him—I don’t. It’s just that he’s handsome, and it’s been awhile since anyone has looked at me like that.
That’s all.
Well, that and the fact that his shirt is still hanging open from collar to navel, exposing his glowing tattoos and muscular torso. You’d have to be dead not to react to that sight.
He tears his gaze away to peer down at his drink. “I don’t know how to feel about that.”
He’s got really nice eyelashes. They’re thick and dark and long. I’m not sure I’ve ever noticed anyone’s lashes.
Why am I noticing Pestilence’s eyelashes?
I force my thoughts away from eyelashes and pretty godspawn.
“I’m not sure how I feel about that either,” I echo. What are we even talking about right now?
He nods companionably and brings his drink to his lips, taking two long swallows before grimacing. “This really does taste awful.”
I give a soft laugh. “Then why are you drinking it?”
He meets my eyes. There’s a lot of weight in them. “You have already altered my mind. I wish to alter it back.”
That’s not how it works, I want to say.
Instead, I take another drink. “I know what you mean.”
He squints at me, swirling the amber liquid around and around in his glass. “You were supposed to kill me, not help me.”
The lingering taste of whiskey sours in my mouth. I wash it down with the last bit of my drink.
“It won’t change anything, you know,” he adds.
“I know,” I say so quietly that I can barely hear the words themselves.
He’s still going to drive us onwards, infecting city after city.
The bath is getting cold, and I haven’t begun to wash off. Polishing off my drink, I set it aside and begin to scrub the blood and grime from my body, feeling Pestilence’s eyes on me the entire time. This time he doesn’t offer help to wash my back, and I don’t bother asking him for it.
When I sneak a glance at him, he’s staring at me in a way that is no longer clinically detached like it once was. In fact, it’s a decidedly human look.
This is what longing looks like, I realize.
My alarm wars with this horrifying giddiness. It’s the same emotion I felt when I heard a rumor that Tom Becker, my high school crush, wanted to ask me out. Turned out, he wanted to ask out Sarah (such is life—it just loves to kick you in the happy sacs), but for a blissful twenty-four hours, I felt like baby angels were fluttering around in my stomach.
Just like I do right now.