Pestilence’s face darkens at the reminder. “Unfortunately, this night I missed the danger right in front of me.”
I think that’s his weird way of apologizing.
I bite my inner cheek and nod. “Well, … be careful.” The words sound horribly awkward. Why do I even want my inhuman and undying captor to be careful? What could possibly happen to him?
Pestilence hesitates, his features softening at my words. “I cannot die, Sara,” he says gently.
“You can still get hurt.”
Really, where is all this sentimentality coming from?
The corner of his mouth curves up. “I swear I will do my utmost to not get hurt. Now rest. I know you need it.”
I do. My body feels leaden now that the last of the adrenaline is finally exiting my system.
Once Pestilence leaves, I peer into each of the bedrooms. There are two beds, both which I can use, but there’s just something about them that’s intensely unappealing. Maybe it’s the strong smell of dog coming from them, or the moldering piles of old clothes, broken plates and scraggly dolls that are heaped around them. I don’t particularly want to sleep in either of these rooms.
I grab a few blankets I find folded on the couch and lay down in front of the wood burning stove.
You’d think after the night I had, I’d be lying awake for hours, replaying those fateful minutes in the woods behind Nick’s house. But no sooner have I laid down than I drift off.
I don’t know how long I sleep for, only that I’m awoken by the sound of footsteps.
Going to kill you. He’s going to kill you.
A burst of fear floods my system, and I scramble to sit up, forcing my eyes to focus on the noise.
Pestilence comes over to me, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Be calm,” he says, kneeling at my side. He tucks a strand of my chestnut hair behind my ear. “It’s only me.”
It’s only Pestilence, the one being the rest of the world fears. And the sight of him brings me an embarrassing amount of relief.
I take a deep, stuttering breath. “It’s been a long day.”
The horseman’s wet hair drips between us, and rivulets of water cut down his chest. I feel a rush of heat at the sight of his bare skin. The firelight caresses every dip and curve, and not for the first time, I notice the exquisiteness of his form. His high cheekbones and full lips look all the more extreme as the shadows dance along them. And then there’s the rest of him, which is all so distinctly male, from his sculpted, powerful shoulders to his thick, cut biceps.
My eyes drop to his chest, where his rounded pecs flow into rippling abs. But it’s impossible to look at his torso without noticing the strange, glowing marks that shimmer in the darkness, illuminating the surrounding skin.
I reach out and run my fingers over the letters that curve beneath his collarbones like a necklace. They glow with a golden fire, their form strange and beautiful.
Beneath my touch, Pestilence’s skin jumps. He holds very still, letting me explore his body.
“What are these?” I ask. It’s obvious it’s writing, but it’s a language unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
He stares down at me, his eyes bright. “My purpose, written into flesh.”
The horseman places a hand over mine, effectively trapping it against one of the symbols. Steering my hand with his, he has me trace the marking.
“This one means ‘divinely ordained,’” he explains, releasing his grip.
I raise my eyebrows at him before my attention drops back to his chest. I move my hand over several characters, stopping on one that lays to the left of his heart.
“And this one?” I ask.
“‘Breath of God.’”
I trace the word. Beneath my touch, Pestilence’s skin pebbles.
“What language is this?” I ask.
“A holy one.” His eyes are on me, tracking my movements.
If I had a little more courage, my hand would drop lower, where another band of characters ring his hips, the lowest of the symbols dipping well beneath his towel.
But alas, my courage fails me.
“Can you speak it?” I ask.
His hand presses over mine once more, holding my palm against his heart. “Sara, it is my native tongue.”
I stare at the writing wondrously. I feel a presence here in this dark room. It presses in close. I can see it in the back of the horseman’s steady gaze, and I can feel it in the very beat of his heart.
My gaze lifts to his. “Say something for me.”
His eyes shine. “I cannot,” he says gently. “To speak the holy language is to press divine will upon the world.”
I pull my hand away, removing myself from him. “Isn’t that what you’re already doing?” How else am I supposed to interpret Pestilence riding across the world and spreading his plague?
He leans forward, looking lupine and feral as he comes in close. “What is spoken cannot be unheard. It is not for mortal ears. But … I am not above sharing a word or two with you.”
I forget to breathe as his own breath fans against my cheeks, his lips—and the rest of his nearly unclad body—so very, very close.
Just when I think he’s going to share one of these sacred words, he says, “Go back to sleep. I will watch over you.”
I don’t want to sleep, not when I still feel the press of his supple skin beneath my fingers, marked with figures strange and holy. I’m unbearably lonely, my body aching at the lack of a partner, and damn it all, but the partner it wants is him. I want him. All of him. In me, around me, next to me, filling my mind, my body, my life—and that’s so many different kinds of fucked up, and I’m so over it, so over feeling torn.
Pestilence stands, backing away into the darkened recesses of the house. I nearly call out to him. It would be so easy to coax him towards me, to remove that towel and pull him down and feel his weight settle on me.
To my shame, it isn’t my loyalty to humankind that stops me from calling him back. It’s the deep fear that he’ll refuse my advances.
There’s only so many shitty things a girl can take in a single day.
Chapter 30
The good news: this house comes stocked with every food imaginable to man. The bad news: everything apparently expired seven years ago.
That’s what we get for squatting in a hoarder’s home.
At least there’s coffee—and powdered creamer. I greedily drink my cup while sitting in the house’s breakfast nook, the space packed with dirty dishes, mail, and a few more of those empty prescription bottles.
I stare out the window, taking in the yard with its thin dusting of snow, warming my hands on the mug I hold. My gaze drifts from the window to the nearest pile of junk. Resting at the top of it is a flyer with a drawing of Pestilence.
Warning! Pestilence is Coming!
The words are emblazoned in red. Beneath it in smaller print is a paragraph detailing his movements and urging residents to evacuate, preferably for at least a week.
I flip the page over and nearly balk. Staring back at me is my face. It’s not particularly accurate; it has that same look that police sketches have. My face is wider, my cheeks fuller and my chin pointier, but it’s still me.
Traveling with a Mystery Woman!
The paragraph beneath it says that while evidence suggests I’m Pestilence’s prisoner, I’m likely working for the horseman and to keep wide berth.
Lastly, the page has a map of North America, a red line drawn up the East Coast before cutting across Canada, and ending with the tip of the line curved downward, suggesting that the horseman and I are traveling down the West Coast, which seems accurate enough.
Behind me, the door opens, jerking me to attention. I shove the paper away.
Likely working for the horseman. The warning replays itself over and over in my mind, and I feel every inch the turncoat. Because that flyer nailed my situation, hadn’t it?
“Sara!” Pestilence calls, his heavy footfalls making their way to the kitchen.
He grins when his eyes alight on me, the expression so foreign and wonderful that even in the mood I’m in, my heart skips at the sight.
“Knew I’d find you in here,” he says.
I give him a watery smile back.
It only takes him a few moments to see that I’m troubled.