Pestilence by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 20

After two more bullets pop out of his flesh, I decide it’s time to move. The sun dipped behind the horizon twenty minutes ago, and I’m freezing my butt off.

I cast a few furtive glances towards the beach house just down the way. I can barely make out the dark structure. The lack of light is probably a good thing, seeing as how I am going to be forcing my way in.

Shimmying out from under Pestilence, I grab his battered breastplate and settle it loosely over my chest. Even without the aid of a mirror, I know I look ridiculous wearing his breastplate. It swamps my torso, giving off the illusion that I’m petite. I’m not; it’s the horseman who’s freaking monster-sized.

I decide to leave the rest of his armor and weapons where they lay in the sand. He’ll have to grab them once he’s recovered.

After I put Pestilence’s crown on my head (motherfucking queen right here), I hook my arms under his shoulders.

I brace myself, taking a few fortifying breaths. “This is probably going to hurt,” I warn him—not that he can hear me.

I begin to move, shuffling us back bit by bit towards the house. Pestilence groans, fighting my hold weakly.

“If you can walk, then be my guest,” I say. “Otherwise, stop moving unless you want me to drop you.”

He does stop moving, but even without him resisting my efforts, it takes damn near an eternity to reach the beach house. My God is he heavy. I trip twice along the way, jarring the horseman awake each time. Behind us, Trixie Skillz plods along like the faithful steed he is.

Once I get to the house, I set Pestilence down and survey the place. There’s no light coming from inside, and pine needles litter the stoop. Whoever owns this place hasn’t been here for a while.

Probably someone’s summer home.

I head over to the decorative door. Four square glass panes offer a glimpse inside. Seems cozy. Too bad it’s going to look like a triple homicide by the time we’re done with it.

I try the knob—I mean, you never know. People in my neck of the woods rarely lock their doors. This one doesn’t budge.

My gaze drops to the glass panes.

Going to have to do this the hard way.

I shrug off my jacket and wrap it around my fist. Here’s to hoping this isn’t tempered glass I’m dealing with. Otherwise this bright idea of mine might not go so well.

With one smooth stroke, I strike the glass.

“Motherfucker!” I shout, shaking out my fist. Even with the jacket as a buffer, my hand throbs from the impact. I glare at the still-intact windowpane.

Freaking tempered glass.

And Goddamn did that hurt.

Behind me, I hear laborious breathing and stumbling footfalls. “Move, Sara.”

I swivel around and take the horseman in with wide eyes. I don’t know whether I feel more shock or relief at the sight of him up and awake.

I step aside as Pestilence drags himself to the door, leaning most of his weight against the wall and leaving a smear of blood against the siding.

He reaches out and grabs the knob. With a swift jerk of his wrist, he breaks the lock and the door swings open.

Annoying how easily he broke it—like it was nothing.

I help him inside, letting him lean his significant weight on me as I maneuver him to a plaid couch. Trixie clomps inside after us.

I lay the horseman out on the couch, then remove the breastplate and crown I wear, letting the items clatter onto the floor next to me. In front me, Pestilence’s eyes slide shut and his breaths even out as fades from consciousness once more.

Hooking my fingers in the damp cloth of his shirt, I rip it open, pushing it off of him as best I can. His torso is still a mottled mess of bruises and bullet holes, the injuries distorting the shimmering markings that ring his pecs. My eyes find the other gunshot wounds that dot his shoulders, chest, neck, arms, legs, and in one case, just above his collarbone. I lightly touch the skin beneath this last one.

At the press of my fingers, Pestilence’s eyes flutter open, focusing on me.

“What are you doing?” he asks. There’s both confusion and suspicion written all over his features.

Aside from poking him?

“I’m taking care of you.”

The moment I speak the words, it really registers. I’m helping the horseman recover. Helping him, when only a short while ago I was the person pulling the trigger. I can hardly believe it.

The shock on his face must mirror my own.

He catches my hand, his eyes burning bright as he looks at me. “I’m fine, Sara.”

He doesn’t want my help. Didn’t see that one coming.

“No, you’re not. You got plugged with a small army’s worth of ammunition.”

He begins to sit up. “I’ve endured worse.”

Yeah, I know. I was there. Being burned alive has got to top the “Shitty Situations of the Year” list.

I head back to Trixie and, after flipping on a switch and watching the overhead light sputter to life, I begin rummaging through the horseman’s saddlebags. As I do so, one of the bullets drops out of his mount’s side, landing on the floor with a heavy clink. Poor horsie.

Eventually my hand wraps around a bottle of Red Label I lifted from one of our stops. It takes a little longer to find the roll of gauze, but once I do, I return to the couch where the horseman is sprawled out.

Pestilence’s eyes drop to the items in my hands.

“Those are yours,” he says pointedly, like he doesn’t want a thing to do with them.

Mayhap Pestilence is more afraid of my kindness than even I am of his.

“Well, tonight I feel like sharing,” I say, unraveling the gauze as I move back to him.

He begins to push himself up, but I don’t let him get very far. Grabbing his shoulder, I force him back down to the couch.

“I will heal on my own,” he insists, scowling first at the gauze, then the liquor that rest on the nearby coffee table.

“Yeah, you will.” I grab a chair from the kitchen and drag it over.

I sit down on the chair in front of him and unscrew the cap of the whiskey, my eyes trained on his wounds.

“I don’t agree with this,” he says, but he’s no longer trying to flee. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that I see curiosity sparkling in Pestilence’s eyes.

No one’s ever tended to him.

“I didn’t ask whether you did,” I say, grabbing the roll of gauze and pouring some of the whiskey onto it.

“Vexing woman.”

I lift my brows and begrudgingly nod in agreement. I can totally be vexing.

“Don’t you want me to suffer?” he asks ruefully, tracking each of my movements.

“I’ve never wanted you to suffer,” I say, “Not even when I shot you down.”

I move the alcohol-soaked linen to the first of his wounds.

He hisses as it comes in contact with his exposed flesh. “You lie, human. This is suffering.”

He gets shot up a dozen times, and yet he complains about a little alcohol in his wounds?

“This is disinfectant.”

“I can clean my wounds well enough without your crude methods.”

Oh, that’s right.

“Fine.” I stand up and go to the kitchen, rifling through the cupboards until I find two glasses. I bring them back. Pouring a shot into one of them, I hand the glass to him.

He takes it, giving the liquor a tentative whiff before wincing.

“To help with the pain,” I explain.

“What does it matter?” he says, lowering his glass. “It will be over with eventually.”

“Oh, for the love of—” I pour myself a double shot and take a deep swallow of it. I top my drink off, then set the whiskey aside.

Pestilence absolutely sucks at playing patient.

I grab the roll of gauze once more, intending to at least bandage his wounds. But as I reach out for him, he catches my wrist. “Sara,” he says softly, “cease this. I appreciate the gesture, but it is in vain.”

As he speaks, a bullet at his throat oozes out of the hole it burrowed in him.

So freaky.

My eyes meet his. “Alright.” Not going to twist his arm trying to help him if he doesn’t want it.

I get up, grabbing the bottle of Red Label and my glass.

I’m halfway out of the living room when he calls out, “Where are you going?”

“To take a bath.” Need some goddamn alone time.

I close my eyes and lean back against the tub, draping my arms over the rim and idly swirling my glass of whiskey. I can almost forget my life has gone to complete and utter cow shit.

Down the hall I hear the thump and scrape of Pestilence as he makes his way closer to me. A minute later the door creaks open. I crack my eyes just enough to see him limp into the bathroom, holding his midsection gingerly, his still-full glass of whiskey in his hands.

“I want to be alone,” I say, closing my eyes once more. I don’t bother covering myself. He’s already seen me naked. More than once. Also, I doubt he’s feeling all that lusty when he’s barely holding himself together.

“Human, you have clearly forgotten that you’re my prisoner.”

Once, I was—and he had to stand guard over me to make sure I didn’t bolt. But I don’t know if I am any longer. That should bother me, but right now I have no more fucks to give.

I snort. “Do you really think I’m going to run?”

“You did in Vancouver.”

Not going to open my eyes and let him ruin this moment I’m having.

“You would’ve too if you were about to be trampled by a horseman.”

He guffaws, but then falls to silence.

“This drink tastes horrible,” he says after a moment.

So he tried it when I wasn’t looking. Sneaky horseman.

“Common opinion is that you don’t drink liquor because it tastes good.” I take a swallow from my own glass.

He grunts.

I pry my eyes open just enough to see him polish off the shot I gave him.

Grabbing the bottle next to me, I hold it out like a peace-offering.

After a pause where he’s surely considering the wickedness of alcohol and how stained his soul’s quickly becoming, he takes the bottle from me, pouring himself another drink. He’s heavy-handed, probably because he doesn’t realize just how potent the stuff is.

He looks at the label afterwards. “Johnnie Walker Red Label,” he reads. His eyes flick to me. “I saw you give this to that dying man.”

That first nameless man who I watched die of plague, he means. Pestilence noticed me giving him liquor?

“Drinking it helps with the pain,” I say.

“People don’t drink it to take away their pain,” he replies. It’s a statement, and yet I get the distinct impression that he’s probing.

“Sometimes they do.” But then, it’s not always physical pain they’re numbing themselves to. “But no, not always.” I bring the hand holding the glass to my temple and tap on the side of my head with my index finger. “Sometimes they do it simply to alter their state of mind.”

Pestilence is quiet after that. I let my eyes drift closed and pretend like I’m still blissfully enjoying a good soak and not acutely aware of his presence.

“You took care of me the same way you did your humans,” he eventually says. There’s something in his voice …

I open my eyes.

I catch Pestilence studying my face, his eyes bright with what looks like desire. At the sight, my chest begins to rise and fall faster and faster.

What is this reaction? I don’t like him—I don’t. It’s just that he’s handsome, and it’s been awhile since anyone has looked at me like that.

That’s all.

Well, that and the fact that his shirt is still hanging open from collar to navel, exposing his glowing tattoos and muscular torso. You’d have to be dead not to react to that sight.

He tears his gaze away to peer down at his drink. “I don’t know how to feel about that.”

He’s got really nice eyelashes. They’re thick and dark and long. I’m not sure I’ve ever noticed anyone’s lashes.

Why am I noticing Pestilence’s eyelashes?

I force my thoughts away from eyelashes and pretty godspawn.

“I’m not sure how I feel about that either,” I echo. What are we even talking about right now?

He nods companionably and brings his drink to his lips, taking two long swallows before grimacing. “This really does taste awful.”

I give a soft laugh. “Then why are you drinking it?”

He meets my eyes. There’s a lot of weight in them. “You have already altered my mind. I wish to alter it back.”

That’s not how it works, I want to say.

Instead, I take another drink. “I know what you mean.”

He squints at me, swirling the amber liquid around and around in his glass. “You were supposed to kill me, not help me.”

The lingering taste of whiskey sours in my mouth. I wash it down with the last bit of my drink.

“It won’t change anything, you know,” he adds.

“I know,” I say so quietly that I can barely hear the words themselves.

He’s still going to drive us onwards, infecting city after city.

The bath is getting cold, and I haven’t begun to wash off. Polishing off my drink, I set it aside and begin to scrub the blood and grime from my body, feeling Pestilence’s eyes on me the entire time. This time he doesn’t offer help to wash my back, and I don’t bother asking him for it.

When I sneak a glance at him, he’s staring at me in a way that is no longer clinically detached like it once was. In fact, it’s a decidedly human look.

This is what longing looks like, I realize.

My alarm wars with this horrifying giddiness. It’s the same emotion I felt when I heard a rumor that Tom Becker, my high school crush, wanted to ask me out. Turned out, he wanted to ask out Sarah (such is life—it just loves to kick you in the happy sacs), but for a blissful twenty-four hours, I felt like baby angels were fluttering around in my stomach.

Just like I do right now.

I’ve had a decent amount of whiskey, but not enough to block out the sober realization that enjoying Pestilence’s gaze on my naked body is decidedly not an appropriate reaction.

He rubs his face, looking weary and in pain, just how a man recovering from gunshot wounds ought to. Lifting his drink, he downs the second glass he poured for himself (which consisted of at least three shots of hard liquor). He grabs the bottle of Red Label and his now-empty glass and stands, his legs a little shaky.

He grabs the door handle, then pauses, his back to me. “Don’t try to run,” he warns over his shoulder. “I’d hate to catch you. Enough blood has been spilled today.”