Knowing how he feels about the World Before, I really don’t want to give him this part of me.
“We had science, and that was its own kind of religion,” I say. “At least, for me it was. It explained why the world worked the way it did—it answered the mystery of it all.”
“I know enough about your science, Sara. It never answered the most important mysteries, as you call them. What is a soul, where it goes when you die, what lies beyond—”
I put a hand up. “Point taken, buddy.”
He frowns at the endearment.
“I didn’t need answers to those questions. I assumed that this life was all anyone got and we were all deluding ourselves to think there was more.”
“But you’ve changed your mind?” he prods.
I give him a sad smile. “It’s hard not to when the Four Horsemen show up and all the world goes to hell.”
I can hear the fire station’s T.V. in my head, the unending newsreel playing. Political pundits had been replaced with religious leaders and scholars, each one explaining their take on the Bible, the Quran and the Hadith, the Sutras, the Vedas, the Tanach, the Mishnah, the Talmud and Midrash, and a thousand other biblical texts that suddenly pointed The Way to redemption. I half listened as each preacher and priest, rabbi and imam beseeched the world to find God before it was too late.
“It’s just … religion up until now has been a matter of faith. It hardly seems like religion for me to believe now that there’s proof.”
What I don’t say is that it’s still hard for me to believe in religion now that our proof comes in the form of four beings who want to kill us. If we’re suddenly all lambs up for slaughter, what is the point of life? And more importantly, if a painful and untimely death is what I’m to expect from life, then what should I expect from the afterlife?
I half assume Pestilence is going to proselytize to me, but he doesn’t. He just continues to give me that unnerving stare of his.
I meet his gaze, and I hold it. The smoke makes sleek ribbons between us and the rain dapples our clothing. Even in the firelight, I can see his blue eyes clearly. They’re an appropriate color; I feel like I’m drowning in them, in him.
A bubbly, warm sensation spreads beneath my skin.
I once heard that you can fall in love with someone simply by staring them in the eyes long enough. This is not that (please God let it not be that), but it is something.
Like lightning striking, the realization hits me: despite every wound we’ve inflicted on one another, despite him trying to end my world and my world trying to end him, he wants me …
And I want him.
I don’t know who moves first, only that I’ve set my tea aside and he’s getting to his feet. There is no rush to our movements.
I’ve had plenty of those nights, where you can’t possibly move fast enough because the moment you slow the rush, you’ll realize what you’re doing is desperate and stupid and you really think the other person is annoying but you just want to feel the press of their skin against yours, so you’ll forgive it all until morning.
Both of us have plenty of time to turn away. To draw that line in the sand where he’s some biblical entity that’s come to end the world, and I’m a human simply trying to stop him. But right now, he doesn’t hate humans nearly so much as he wants to believe, and I don’t wish to defy him as much as I want to believe.
Before I have a chance to get up, he kneels in front of me. The fire that was once a barrier between us now sits like a sentinel at our side.
“I cannot decide if you are a toxin or a tonic,” he says, lifting a hand to my cheek. “Only that you plague my thoughts and fill my veins.”
Pestilence really could work on his compliments.
His thumb strokes over my skin. “Tell me you feel the same way.”
“I’m your prisoner,” I say, sidestepping an answer.
“That is the least of the wrongs between us.” He leans in closer. “Tell me,” he repeats.
Without thinking, I press my mouth to his.
For one long, agonizing moment, he freezes beneath my lips.
Just when I expect him to pull away, he lets out a small noise, something that sounds like want and defeat and surprise all wrapped into one. And then his lips are pressing back against mine, meeting me stroke for stroke.
Hesitantly, his hands thread themselves into my hair. He cradles my face, his kiss soft, so exceedingly soft.
Taking my cue from him, I place my palm against his jaw, my fingers brushing the skin of his cheek.
He pulls away, his eyes bright with heat.
“Sara …”
My skin puckers, even as my eyes meet his.
I didn’t mean to do that. That’s what I’m supposed to say.
But the words stay locked inside me.
His gaze returns to my mouth, and whatever restraint he has left now crumbles. His lips are back on mine, stronger and surer than before.
The previous kiss could be called a mistake, but not this one.
He kisses me eagerly, leaning into me until his warm chest presses against mine. I let my hands drift over his face like I’m trying to memorize him by feel. My thumbs brush over his closed eyes and those enviable lashes, they skim over his temples and cheekbones.
The smell of the earth and smoke and pine needles fill my nose, the falling rain chilling my exposed skin. We’re so far from humanity that right now Pestilence feels more like magic than some ancient blight.
His arms go around me, and without breaking the kiss, he carries me to the tent. I don’t have time to fear that small space before he brushes the flaps aside and lays me down on the blankets. He kneels between my legs, taking a moment to set aside his crown, his gaze rooted to my face.
Languidly, he drapes himself over my body, his mouth finding mine once more. I nearly moan as his weight settles over me. It’s been so long—far too long—since I’ve done this, and I find I’m aching for that comfort and connection.
The horseman’s hands tremble as they brush over me, cautiously exploring. I wonder if this is taboo for him—touching a woman, a victim he’s been sparing. I wonder how he feels about that.
I wonder, simply, how he feels. How he thinks. I don’t know when I began caring, but now, with him so close to me, it seems important.
My lips part his, and I begin to explore his mouth.
Another sound escapes him, this one less surprised and more primal. He crushes his mouth to mine, and our sweet kiss is turning darker, hungrier. His hips grind against mine, and I break away from the kiss to sigh out my need.
“Sara,” he says, nearly breathless, “I feel … I feel I am losing myself to this sensation—to you.” His eyes search mine. “Is this … is this love?”
I sober up fast.
My hands have made their way to the small of his back, pressing his body flush against mine, and somehow my legs have wound their way around him.
Got more than a little carried away …
I sit up, gently pushing him off of me. Reluctantly he rolls away. I lick my lips, tasting him on my mouth.
The last of that sensual hazy feeling retreats completely, leaving a creeping coldness in its wake. I made out with Pestilence—and I’d been ready to do more.
I shake my head. “No, this is not love.”
He looks … disappointed. I think.
I can’t exactly say what it is I am feeling, or why. It’s some sick combo between want and wistfulness and the deep certainty that this is wrong. Very, very wong.
“Then what is it?”
“Lust,” I say simply.
I can’t sleep. Not in these woods as the icy sleet pummels our tent. The chill has claws, and I can feel them digging into my skin through my blanket and all my layers of clothing.
I lay in my makeshift bed, shivering and feeling utterly miserable.