“Sara …”
“Sara …”
“Sara …”
Someone keeps calling my name. I try to peel open my eyes, but what I see makes no sense.
The gang is gone. All that’s left of their memory is a smoldering pile of ash. That, and the stump of a man who’s blindly dragging himself away from the remains of the fire.
Pestilence …
“Sara,” he croaks. His body is blackened and his face … it can’t be called that. I can’t make out any recognizable features, though obviously there’s a mouth somewhere amongst it all since he’s the one who’s been calling out to me with the mangled remains of his throat.
I make some small sound. I don’t have enough life in me to be sad or surprised or horrified.
My surroundings fade.
When they come into focus again, Pestilence has managed to drag what’s left of himself to my side. He curls his charred body around mine, almost protectively.
“Sara, Sara, Sara …” This time his voice is stronger. Still hoarse, but now he sounds like he has a bad case of laryngitis rather than a charbroiled voice box. “Say something.”
Speaking should be easier for me than it is for him, and yet all I manage is a low moan.
I feel the weight of an arm fit around my torso. I feel it tug me close. And then Pestilence’s body begins to shake.
I never knew the horsemen could cry. Not until I hear his sobs. The sound is awful, even more awful than his screams.
“Forgive me, Sara.”
What’s there to forgive?
That’s what I want to say, but I can’t seem to form the words. My mouth won’t work properly; I’m pretty sure it’s only my mind clinging to life. Even the pain isn’t so bad anymore. It’s just there, like a pulse.
And then I’m relieved I can’t voice my thoughts because there’s really so much that does need forgiving. His cruelty, mine, all that death and violence.
These violent delights have violent ends …
Before it was nursery rhymes; now it’s Shakespeare running through my mind.
But Pestilence wasn’t all that violent in the end, was he? He was sad and strange, and he came to earth with a purpose that I caught him questioning a time or two.
God, please don’t let me die.
Otherwise, Pestilence will be all alone, and that thought cuts deeper than my bullet wounds.
We lay there together, our limbs entwined. A peaceful sort of darkness licks at the edges of my vision. I rally against it.
But eventually I lose the fight against the darkness, and I slip softly into it.
Chapter 46
I’m jostled awake by the pain. A cry slips out of me, weak and pitiful.
Can’t be dead if it hurts. Right? You’re not supposed to feel pain in death …
Unless I’m burning in the fiery pits of hell. That’s always a possibility.
My eyes crack open, and I stare up at mottled skin.
It takes me a moment to focus my vision, and then I’m staring up at Pestilence’s still very damaged face. His eyes have reformed but not his nose yet—it’s just a blackened pit—and not much of his lips. But there are areas where the dark flakes of skin are sloughing off. Underneath them, his flesh is a healthy pinkish hue, which I know in a day will deepen into a golden tan.
My horseman.
He stares down at me. “Stay with me, Sara. Stay with me, beloved.”
My body rocks again, the pain stealing my breath away. It’s only then that I realize he’s walking. I can’t look down to see the burned remains of his legs and feet, but they must still be grisly. He’s walking and—even more astounding—he’s doing it while carrying me in his arms.
I still catch no sign of the people who hurt us, though they must be around here somewhere. Or maybe they’re like my childhood dog, who crawled beneath our deck to die, heading back to their own quiet corner of the universe to wash off the stink of murder and let the plague take them.
A pained whiney pulls me from my thoughts. I manage to turn my head just enough to see Pestilence’s mount. Trixie Skillz lays on his side, his body mostly burned.
They didn’t spare the horse?
Bastards.
Trixie is looking at his master, pawing weakly at the ground. I didn’t think I had energy left in me to grieve, especially not for an undead horse, but I do. I pinch my eyes shut and lean into Pestilence’s chest, my body screaming in protest as a silent sob racks my body.
The horseman’s arms tighten around me. When he gets to Trixie’s side, he lingers there for a moment. Then he begins to walk again, leaving his steed behind.
The world loses focus as I fall asleep and wake up, fall asleep and wake up.
I’m not sleeping. The thought cuts through my groggy mind. I’m losing consciousness.
At some point, the smell of smoke is replaced by that of strong antiseptic. I rouse at the odor, too weak to lift my head or open my eyes.
“ … heal her …”
“ … could, there’s still infection to worry …”
“… care … or die …”
“No.”
“No?” This, from Pestilence.
I moan a little. In response, Pestilence’s lips press to my forehead. “Stay with me, Sara,” he whispers against my skin.
Weakly I press a hand to his chest, my fingers touching the warm skin at the base of his throat.
I want to tell him I’m alright. To not worry about me, but there’s a wall of pain I need to break through first, and I just can’t seem to.
“Do you care about her?” the stranger’s voice says.
“I love her.”
My fingers flex against his skin.
I need to open my eyes. I need to see the look on his face as he says those words. I need to hear them again while he gazes down at me.
Despite my best efforts, my eyes stay firmly shut.
“You love her?”
“That’s what I just said, human.”
Through my dim awareness I can already tell Pestilence is losing his temper.
“Then I hope it hurts to watch her die.”
A horrible, yawning silence follows.
“So be it,” the horseman says solemnly.
Even through my haze of pain I get chills from his tone.
The stranger—a woman I think—begins to scream. The sound echoes down the corridor, gaining strength. Strength, or … Are those other voices?
Stop. I try to say it, but all that comes out is a moan.
And then the voices are in my head, giving sound to my pain. It builds and builds in my ears and beneath my skin, burning me from the inside out.
I fall into the darkness again, and this time, it’s not so easy to claw my way awake.
I blink my eyes, taking in the muted light. It’s everywhere—above me, below me, to either side of me.
I touch my stomach, but it no longer hurts. I’m no longer hurt; there’s no blood, no broken skin, nothing.
“So this is the mortal my brother has fallen in love with.”
I squint in front of me, at the muted glow of light. From it, a shadow begins to appear, its outline blurry.
“Pestilence?” I call.
“Not quite.”
With each passing second, the shadow deepens, its form sharpening until I can make out the dark shape of a disfigured man.
Wait, not disfigured, I think as I take in the lumps at his back. Winged.
Thanatos.
The Fourth Horseman.
He stares down at me, and that’s the first I realize that I’m lying on the ground—if you can call this insubstantial thing beneath my body ground.
After a moment, the horseman reaches out a hand for me.
“Am I dead?” I ask, ignoring his hand.
“Momentarily.”
I’m … dead.
That should bother me—as should the frightening, winged horseman in front of me—but for whatever odd reason, I don’t mind the situation so much. Maybe it’s this place.
Thanatos’s hand is still extended, and reluctantly, I take it.
“I need to get back,” I say as he pulls me to my feet. “Pestilence needs me.”
“Does he now?” Death cocks his head, his black hair shifting, the waves framing his face like a funeral shroud.
He’s quite handsome, I realize. Just like his brother. Only Pestilence’s beauty is overwhelming; Death has a tragic, cutting face.
He still hasn’t released my hand.
“The last time I saw him, he needed no one.” Thanatos continues to study me. “Seems he’s … succumbed.”