“The steed you won’t name?” I ask.
“The steed you already have,” he corrects. “And you’ve given him a terribly ignoble name at that.” He takes a drink of his beer, clearly unsettled about having an opinion and voicing it.
“And why is Trixie Skillz your favorite thing?” I prod.
He sets his beer down. “Because he is a faithful, steady, and constant companion.”
“Those are good reasons,” I say.
“You’re talking down to me,” he says, his gaze thinning.
“I’m not.” I’m really not.
He must see the truth because his attention turns to the view and he continues. “I love the dawn—the birth of day. Snow makes everything easier on the eyes. Human food is either surprisingly terrible or surprisingly good—” he lifts his beer, “though sometimes, I will admit, it can be both at the same time.
“I find human clothes to be coarse, I like making fires, falling asleep is a troubling experience—but it is oddly enjoyable when you have someone to hold onto—”
Color rises in my cheeks.
“—and my favorite person is you.”
Now my face is flaming in the darkness.
“I’m the only person you know,” I respond. I could be the shittiest person out there, and I might still be his favorite.
“I have met many people. I assure you, you haven’t won the title by default.”
I don’t know what to say in the face of that kind of flattery. Not to mention that every time Pestilence admits something like this, my body goes haywire.
Hate having a crush.
But this is more than just some crush, and there’s no pretending otherwise. I like the way Pestilence talks, the way he thinks. I like his compliments, I like his consideration. I like his gallantry, his gentleness. I like him despite the fact that he’s bringing about the end of the world—and that is immensely troubling.
He looks down at his drink. “I don’t want to talk about myself anymore,” he says. His focus swivels to me.
“What?” I say.
“It’s your turn to tell me about yourself.”
Shit, he’s putting me on the spot.
I rub my thumb over the neck of my beer bottle. “You already know so much about me.” I talk about myself all the time when we’re in the saddle together, often simply to fill the silence. “What else could you possibly want to know?”
“Quote me more of your favorite poems. Tell me more of your life. It is all so very fascinating.”
See, that right there is proof that this dude needs to get out more.
“It’s not that fascinating. I am not that fascinating.”
Even in the darkness, I see Pestilence’s eyes squint as he scrutinizes me. “Do you honestly believe that?”
Do I?
Sure, I had a cool job as a firefighter, but what really was there to my life other than work and my humble collection of books?
I let out a gruff laugh. “Yeah, I do.”
“Then you are wrong.” Pestilence states this with such certainty. “You are compassionate to even the worst of your lot. You give aid to the dying. You care fiercely, so fiercely. These are no ordinary feats. And this is not touching on what you mean to me.”
My breath hitches.
“You have managed what no one else has: you have awoken my heart. So, no, Sara, of all the words I’d use to describe you, fascinating would definitely be one of them.”
Chapter 38
You have awoken my heart.
There it is, out in the open, what I have desperately been running from.
A shiver runs through me as I take in Pestilence’s form. He’s not the only one who’s been affected by the other’s presence.
I begin to lean towards him, ready to do all sorts of stupid and ill-advised things because I’m just so tired of fighting this.
Before I get the chance, the horseman reaches out and runs a hand up and down my arm. “You’re cold,” he says. “Forgive me, Sara, the elements do not affect me the same way.” He rises to his feet, then reaches out for me.
Grabbing my beer, I let him help me up and follow him inside, my body tightly wound in anticipation. It doesn’t dissipate—not when Pestilence leaves my side to start a fire, not when I move the candles and oil lamps into the living room. The only thing that seems to have any effect on my giddy nerves is my beer … and I wouldn’t exactly say that it’s helping the situation either.
Not that it stops me from grabbing another two from the icebox—one for me, one for Pestilence.
By the time I return to the living room, the fire is just blooming.
I pass the horseman one of the drinks, feeling a twinge of guilt for giving him a taste for the stuff. But then my eyes meet his and my nerves rise and I praise God in all His wrathful glory that alcohol exists.
Taking a long swallow, I sit down next to the fire. Pestilence lounges across from me, leaning his weight on one of his forearms, his new beer sitting untouched next to him. His gaze moves from the fire to me, flames dancing in his eyes.
“Do you ever wish things were different?” I ask. “That you and I weren’t supposed to be mortal enemies?”
“What good does wishing do, Sara?” he says.
I want to tell him that wishing makes all the difference, but it sounds too cheesy, like something people used to say before the Four Horsemen landed, back when the world made sense. Wishing doesn’t fill your belly, or stop your house from burning down. It doesn’t make your car drive, or save you from the plague.
“I don’t know,” I finally say. “I just want to stop feeling this way.” I hate this guilt that’s eating me up. “When I used to look at you, I’d see a monster,” a beautiful monster, but a monster nonetheless, “but I don’t anymore.”
“What do you see when you look at me?”
Rather than answering him, I lean forward and brush my lips softly against his. He seems content with that, his hand coming up to cup my cheek.
Gently, I push his shoulder back until he falls against the floor. He pulls me down with him, our bodies pressed together.
My mouth finds his once more, and suddenly, the fire isn’t simply at my back. It’s beneath me, in me, searing through my veins.
I pause to run a finger down the horseman’s face. He really is problematically beautiful, with his high cheekbones, sharp jaw, and his guileless eyes.
“Right now,” I say, finally ready to answer his question, “I see a man.”
A man to kiss, to touch, to lose myself in.
“I am ageless, Sara.”
If that’s supposed to make any sort of sense, then it’s lost on me. Maybe that’s his way of protesting my answer. Whatever.
I return to his lips and fall into the kiss. He might be ageless, he might be a force of nature rather than a human, but in the end, I find I don’t really care. Pestilence is Pestilence, and that’s all that really matters to me right now.
The hard planes of his body fit just right against mine, and his touch feels like it was made for me. I reach for the straps of his armor, hopelessly confused about how to remove it. His hand covers mine, and for a split-second, my stomach plummets.
He’s going to stop me.
Instead, Pestilence moves my hand and unfastens his metal breastplate himself. He makes quick work of the rest of the armor, until it all litters the floor around us.
The problem with armor, I’ve now come to realize, is that even after all the fanfare of getting it off, there’s still his clothes to deal with.
Then again, the longer it takes to undress him, the greater the anticipation …
He watches me wondrously as I grab the edge of his shirt and slip it over his head.
Glorious man. I could stare at him for hours, trying to memorize every inch of his strange, beautiful skin.
Tentatively he reaches for my jacket, and I help him shrug it off. The two of us make quick work of my layers of clothing until I’m down to just a bra and jeans. I slide the straps off my shoulders, then reach around and unclasp the hooks holding it fast.