I click my tongue, attempting the sound Pestilence makes. Beneath me, Trixie leaps forward, charging down the street.
Now the last of the masked men sprint for their lives. Nothing like having an undead steed running you down to get you going. I fire another shot, just to give them a good scare.
Halfway down the street, I pull on the reins, letting the men get away from us, watching their forms grow smaller and smaller.
These people knew before they saw me that I was traveling with Pestilence.
A foreboding shiver passes over me.
If that gets back to the media, the world will soon know I’m no longer his captive.
I force back a cry when I stare down at Pestilence’s makeshift grave. He’s nearly unidentifiable, his body awash in blood, dirt, and pulpy, fleshy things.
I don’t want to move him out of fear that I’ll hurt him.
Townspeople will come back. You may only have minutes.
That’s what gets me going.
Setting the gun aside, I crouch next to the grave and hook my arms beneath Pestilence’s armpits.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
And then I begin to pull.
He lets out an agonized cry, the sound garbled by his ruin of a mouth, as I heave him out of his tomb. A silent tear trickles out of the corner of my eye at the noise.
If only my earlier self could see me now. How far I’ve fallen, crying over a thing that can’t die. Over the very thing I was supposed to kill. And look at me now—I’m pointing guns at anyone who tries to take him from me.
Ever so slowly, I tug Pestilence out of the earth. Trixie kneels next to me, the steed anticipating his rider’s needs. I drag the horseman’s body onto the saddle.
Not going to be very comfortable, but it will have to do.
Settling myself behind him, I again click my tongue. Trixie rises to his feet, the two of us balanced on his back, then the steed takes off.
Several shots ring out, and I flatten myself over the horseman as the bullets whiz by me. I glance over my shoulder. The men that I’d so recently driven away now run back into the street from wherever they tucked themselves away, training their guns on us.
Shit.
I jerk on one side of the reins, pulling Trixie’s head to the side, steering us off course. Pestilence’s body slides a little, and it takes most of my strength to keep the horseman on his horse. But at least the bullets meant for me and Trixie miss us.
I yank on the other side of the reins, forcing the horse to change his trajectory again, zig-zagging across the road until the gunshots fall to silence. When I look over my shoulder again, the men in gas masks are out of range.
Safe. We’re safe—for now.
I don’t dare slow the horse until the town is far behind us. Once I do, it’s only so that I can scour our surroundings for a house. Considering my shitty luck today, I’m probably going to choose a home with the meanest asshole living inside it. Without Pestilence to strike the fear of God in him, who knows just how bad the situation might get.
I suck in a deep breath. There’s just no helping the situation.
I end up picking a home that’s directly off the road, hoping whoever lives there is long gone. It takes an agonizingly long time to get inside, but on a positive note, the place has been vacated.
I lead Trixie through the door after me, careful to not jostle Pestilence’s slumped body in the process. It’s only once I’ve moved the steed next to the couch that I drag the horseman off. He slides into my arms, knocking me off balance, and the two of us collapse in a heap on the couch.
Real smooth there, Burns.
I wiggle myself into a comfortable position beneath Pestilence, feeling his blood begin to seep into my clothing from his various wounds.
Now that I’m holding him, I find I can’t let him go. His face is still mangled, and it’s been further obscured by the dirt matted to his skin.
With a shaky hand, I run my knuckles over a section of cheek that’s still intact.
You fool. You’ve gone and fallen for this thing.
He moves in my arms, and I nearly yelp. I’d almost forgotten that he’s still in there. Still aware of what’s going on. I feel bile rise at the thought.
To think I did worse to Pestilence than even those men.
“Shhh,” I say, gently maneuvering myself out from under him. I arrange him on the couch, his long form barely fitting.
I take one of his hands in mine, brushing a kiss along his dirt-covered knuckles. “Try to sleep,” I say. “I’ll be right here.”
Pestilence mumbles something—I don’t even know how he’s making noise.
I shush him again, and he quiets, settling into something that, if not sleep, must be somewhat like it.
I make good on my promise, I stay by his side—leaving only to start a fire and dig up rags and water, which I use to wipe us down the best I can. Once I’m finished, I take his hand in mine, holding it closely to me.
As the hours tick by, I’m able to watch the slow but miraculous evolution of the horseman from something that ought to be dead to a beautiful sleeping man.
Looks like something straight out of a fairytale.
With a metallic groan, Pestilence’s hole-riddled breastplate bends back into place, the golden armor ever so slowly returning to its original, seamless surface. Just as wondrously, I watch his face rebuild itself, from sinew and bone to muscle and tendons and skin. Eventually, I even see the horseman’s long eyelashes sprout along his newly formed eyelid.
This is magic. This is faith. This is the barest glimpse of the leviathan that is God.
Even after his body has all but healed, Pestilence doesn’t wake. Beneath his closed lids, his eyes move back and forth.
What do horsemen dream about?
It makes me ache to think of him dreaming. He’s so much more human than I ever imagined him to be.
I had a hand in that—more than a hand if I’m being honest. He eats food because I gave him a taste for it, drinks beer because I offered it to him.
Makes love to me because I opened myself up to him.
Makes love. I worry my lower lip at the phrasing.
The hand I hold now tightens, scattering my thoughts. When I glance up, Pestilence’s eyes flutter open.
I sit up straighter, bringing our clasped hands to my lips.
A smile begins to bloom on his face, but then it’s wiped away, his brow creasing instead. “Are you okay?”
Those are his first words. Just when I thought this man couldn’t gut me anymore.
I pinch my lips together so the truth doesn’t leak out. Because no, I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay since Pestilence was shot off his horse. Even before then, I’m not sure how okay I was.
I’m having more than a little trouble dealing with loving liking this horseman.
He begins to sit up, looking increasingly alarmed when he sees the blood on me. “Where are you hu—?”
“It’s not my blood, it’s yours. They … shot you.” I whisper this last part because emotion is chocking up my vocal cords. Already my stupid tear ducts are coming online; as I blink, a couple slip out. Now that Pestilence is awake, I’m having trouble staying strong.
He sits up, a frown on his face as he takes in my hazel eyes.
“Are you crying … for me?” he asks, his voice laced with disbelief.
I want to say something snarky. Instead I wipe my cheeks. “Maybe.”
Pestilence eyes me as though he can’t make sense of the sight. “You know I can’t be killed,” he says quietly.
“But you can be hurt.” And they hurt him so badly.
“That bothers you?” His voice gentles.
I gesture to my wet cheeks and red eyes. “Yes.”
His gaze goes soft. “Sara.” He says my name lovingly, and it’s what undoes me.
I lean forward, and my lips are on his. His arms come around me, half pulling me onto him as his mouth responds to mine, devouring me just as eagerly as I am him.
It’s easy to forget how strong he is when he’s hurt, but now that he’s regenerated, I feel his strength as it envelops me.