Pestilence by Laura Thalassa

Chapter 42

We’re out by dawn, and it isn’t long after that Pestilence starts prodding me to recite another poem.

What are the chances that I’d find a man who likes poetry?

Since he liked “The Raven,” I dredge up “Lenore.”

“‘… Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung! An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young …’”

I don’t even get all the way through the end of the second stanza of Poe’s “Lenore” before I realize that Pestilence isn’t paying attention. And after he made such a fuss about hearing a poem, too.

“And so,” I continue, “the banging chick Lenore died and people apparently weren’t super sad because she was the shit and they hated her for that and now you want to kill everyone because we’re all A-holes of epic proportions.”

I pause, waiting for Pestilence to say something, anything, but he doesn’t.

I sigh.

The horseman strokes my belly absently with his thumb, lost in thought.

“Have you thought about children?” he says, rousing from his reverie.

The question takes me by surprise. “I’m sorry?”

“Children,” he repeats.

“What are you talking about?”

“We’ve had unprotected sex—twice. I may be new to these parts, but even I know the purpose of reproduction is to reproduce.”

A sick wave of vertigo washes over me. I put a hand to my head.

I hadn’t once thought about using protection.

And now …

Oh, shit.

“Can that happen?” I ask. “Between us, I mean.”

He’s not human, I reassure myself, and a bit of my unease retreats. Biologically, we’re not programmed the same way.

Right?

“I don’t see why it can’t,” he says. “I can eat and drink and make love just like a mortal. Perhaps I can sire a child just like one too.”

Whelp, there goes my nice, calm morning.

“But you don’t know?” I ask, my voice rising.

There’s a brief silence, then, “Sara, I sense you’re afraid of the possibility.”

Ding—ding—ding! You guessed correctly.

He continues. “For a woman who so eagerly takes my flesh into hers—”

Jesus. My cheeks heat.

“—you’re awfully reluctant to deal with everything else that comes with the act.”

I am, aren’t I? But in my defense, we’re talking about a child.

He would protect it, just as he has you.

That’s beside the point, brain. Don’t be an idiot on me now.

Awesome, I’m debating with myself. Pretty sure that makes me certifiably crazy.

“Have you thought about it?” I ask Pestilence, rather than addressing his comment.

“I have.”

I wait, but he doesn’t say more.

“And?” I finally prompt.

“And I find the possibility … thrilling.”

It thrills him? My lady parts are waaaay too happy about that.

“As you might imagine,” he says, “my excitement greatly disturbs me. I am killing your kind. What happens if I am father to one?”

I really want to clear my throat because, uh, dude’s also banging one, and isn’t that reason enough?

“It could be immortal,” I say, though I’m more asking this than anything else.

“It could be,” he agrees, and my stomach bottoms out at that.

I could give birth to a deity-thingy. A godspawn.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Noooooooooope.

This conversation is quickly going from uncomfortable waters to my-vagina-is-mutinying-it-doesn’t-matter-that-you’re-sex-on-legs-well-okay-maybe-it-does-a-little-nevermind-my-vagina-is-cool-with-it.

That’s what happens when you’re upsettingly pretty. My libido gets stupid—correction, stupider (because let’s face it, on a normal day my libido is still a bimbo).

“But it could also be mortal. Human,” he says. “And I will have created it, I who have been tasked with the destruction of your kind.”

That boy out there has seen a lot of human nature, the bulk of it ugly. He’s only now seeing the beauty of it, and largely through you. … Show him humanity is worthy of redemption.

Ruth’s final words ring in my ears.

Pestilence is straddling two warring natures—his divine one, which demands we all die, and his mortal one, which doesn’t want to kill us, perhaps it even wants to save us … And each day that he’s with me, his mortal nature strengthens. I am strengthening it. The thought fills me with no little wonder.

“So, what are you going to do about it?” I ask.

His lips brush the shell of my ear. “What shall come to pass is to be seen. One thing is certain: I cannot stay away from you.”

My stomach clenches at that.

Nor I you.

I’m debating whether I should state my opinion when Pestilence’s hold tightens on me. I look up to him, but he’s staring ahead of us.

I follow his gaze, and my eyes widen. In the distance, between the boarded up buildings that speckle the sides of the highway, is a sea of people all dressed in white.

As we get closer, I stare in wonder at the hordes of them. They line the street, their bodies bowed in supplication.

Bowed for Pestilence.

They waited for him, willingly giving up their lives for this demonstration.

I glance at the horseman just in time to see his upper lip curl in disgust. “Praying to false idols,” he says. “They deserve the plague that will take them.”

Did I think even a second ago that I was making inroads on his bloodlust? Apologies, I was mistaken.

“The same one I deserve?” I say.

“You were touched by the hand of God,” he responds smoothly.

Four more white-robed people stand in the middle of the road, obstructing our way. One of them is an older man with crazy eyes and ashen hair. Next to him are three youthful, beautiful women.

When we get close enough, the man steps forward, ushering Trixie to a halt. I can feel Pestilence seething at my back, but the horseman doesn’t try to get his mount to move again.

“I, the Prophet Ezekiel, come to you in our hour of darkness,” the man says. “I give unto you, the Conqueror, these three women to have and to hold.”

To have and to hold?

Ick.

Ezekiel looks so magnanimous about his offer too, like you should give him a cookie for the effort he went through to procure these women.

The holy roller comes forward, the women at his heels. Something dark and possessive rises in me at the way the women are looking at Pestilence. They seem a little too eager to be the horseman’s servants.

“What is this?” Pestilence asks, his gaze sweeping over the sea of robed men and women.

“We have long awaited your arrival,” crazy-eyed Ezekiel says.

Behind me, the horseman grunts.

“And them?” Pestilence juts his chin to the women.

“They are yours,” Ezekiel says.

“What am I supposed to do with them?” Pestilence asks, his brows pinching in confusion. Out of the six of us here, he’s clearly the only one who is not understanding the delicate subtext of this situation.

He wants you to take them to Bonetown. Obviously.

But I keep my mouth shut because I really want a now slightly uncomfortable Ezekiel to spell it out himself.

“Whatever it is you please,” the prophet (ha!) says smoothly. His eyes flick to me just as Pestilence tightens his grip on my torso. I see Ezekiel smother a frown.

Awww, was he hoping the horseman would trade up? Too bad Pestilence enjoys his old model just fine.

“If you were me, what would you do with them?” the horseman asks.

“It is not for me to assume,” the prophet says humbly. At least, he thinks he’s being humble and demure, with his eyes turned to the ground and his head bowed.

The women are beginning to fidget. I think all of them imagined this exchange going a little differently.

“And in return?” Pestilence presses. “What do you want in return for these women?”

I tense. The horseman is not seriously considering this, is he?

Ezekiel’s eyes rise. They glint with avarice. “I would hope that you might spare us,” His hand sweeps over the sea of people, “your most loyal followers.”

The horseman’s gaze scrutinizes the crowd. “Hmmm.”

The prophet looks thrilled at Pestilence’s deliberation.

Finally, the horseman’s attention falls once more to Ezekiel. “You presume a great deal, holding me up as you have,” Pestilence says, his voice calm.

Ezekiel’s face flushes.

“As for the barter,” the horseman continues, his voice hardening, “you wish to give me three humans in exchange for hundreds—do you think me a fool?”

For the first time since we happened upon him, the prophet is looking a bit unsure of himself. “N-no—”

“Your women would be nothing more than a hindrance to me,” Pestilence says, talking over him. “As for the rest of your people, you should know by now I cannot save. I can only kill.”

My skin prickles at his words.

“If you believe in a God, which you appear to,” the horseman continues, “I would suggest you pray to Him. He’s the only one who can save you all now.”