A minute or so later, the horseman leaves the living room, the clink of his armor growing fainter and fainter. A door closes and then I hear the sound of bathwater running.
I could use a bath too. I smell like horse and sweat, and who knows how dirty my bandages are. But taking a bath means asking for help removing my bandages, and I’m just not ready to go groveling to Pestilence at the moment.
I light the paper shoved between the logs, then I sit down to watch the fire grow.
For the first time since I drew the burnt match, I have a moment to myself not fueled by adrenaline or fear or pain. I try not to think about what that means. It’s easier to understand where things stand between me and the horseman when he’s actively seeking to hurt me. It’s not so easy when he’s just irksome.
For a long time my thoughts are aimless. You’d think that I’d use the time wisely—to plot my escape or think of ways to incapacitate the horseman, but no. My mind is oddly empty.
There’s a collection of fine porcelain figurines lining the mantel above the fireplace. One by one I scrutinize the painted faces. It’s such a specific interest—to collect these little figurines—and it’s just another reminder of how many people are out there in the world. Right now, whole cities of them are fleeing for their lives.
I imagine all the lonely corners of Canada, each one now home to thousands of displaced individuals waiting for the horseman to pass through. We’re playing a lethal game of whack-a-mole, and we’re all the vermin.
I stare down at my mom jeans and outdated shirt. Amongst all those thousands of people are my parents.
My heart lurches. I don’t know why my mind keeps taking me back to them. Guilty conscience, I suppose.
The plan had been for us all to bunk down at my grandfather’s hunting lodge—a hole-in-the-wall cabin located dozens of kilometers northwest of Whistler.
Deep down, I knew I’d never make it there.
“You go on ahead,” I told my parents. “I need to finish evacuating the city.”
The memory still stings.
“Don’t be a hero,” my dad said. “Everyone is leaving their post.”
“I need to do my job.”
“If you do your job, you’ll die!” he shouted. He never shouted.
“You don’t know that.”
“Damnit Sara, I do. You do. What is the survival rate of this thing?”
There wasn’t a survival rate. People either avoided Messianic Fever, or they succumbed to it. I knew that, my dad knew that, the whole world knew that.
“Someone has to help those other families,” I said.
My father stopped listening at that point. That was one of the only times I’d ever seen him openly cry.
He already believes I’m dead, I remember thinking.
And now, to the best of his understanding, I am.
Absently, I touch my cheek, feeling moisture there.
“What a surprise. I half thought you’d try to escape again.”
Instinctively, my shoulders hike up at Pestilence’s voice.
I clear my throat, then swipe quickly at my eyes.
He doesn’t get the pleasure of seeing me upset.
“I get that you don’t think highly of people,” I say, swiveling to him, “but that’s just—Jesus!”
Standing on the other side of the room, his hair still dripping from the shower, is a very naked Pestilence.
Chapter 12
“Oh my God,” I shield my eyes, “put some clothes on! No one wants to see that!”
He frowns. “Your human sense of propriety is absolutely ridiculous.”
For all this dude’s knowledge, there are very obvious holes in his education—like, for instance, what makes humans as uncomfortable as fuck.
“It doesn’t change the fact that seeing you butt-ass naked is not on my shortlist of things to do during the apocalypse.”
Not that it’s a bad body or anything. I mean, if circumstances were different …
“Why you tell me these things when I want you to suffer is such a quandary,” he says.
“Can you just put some pants on?”
Really that’s all I ask.
He comes up to me, every inch—and I mean ev-er-ry inch—on display. I take in those glowing amber tattoos that are so foreign and beautiful. My eyes move to his massive shoulders and his tapering torso; my gaze dips lower, to his abs, then to …
Maybe it’s just sitting next to the fire, but suddenly, the urge to fan myself is overwhelming.
“Please,” I plead.
“When I begged you for mercy, did you grant it?”
This is so ridiculous.
“No, but—”
“No,” Pestilence agrees. “And for this reason, I too shall overlook your pleas.”
He’s not getting the fact that being shot in the face and staring at an impressive example of the male form are two entirely different tiers of suffering. No, scratch that, they’re not even tiers. They’re like homophones; they sound the same but the words mean two totally different things.
“You’re really all for this eye-for-eye justice,” I mutter.
An Old-Testament God is definitely running the show here.
“You’re seriously going to make me look at you naked?” I ask “Where you look is your concern.” He steps up to the fire and seriously, I can’t even stress how hard it is to not look there.
Really, really hard. (Bet the horseman wouldn’t get that joke.) My brain is slow to process the fact that Pestilence is using the heat of the fire to dry himself off. Which means that he’s going to be standing here for a while.
Time for me to skedaddle.
Just as I’m about to leave, the horseman beats me to it. He turns and begins walking out of the room, his tightly coiled muscles rippling with the movement.
“Lay down on the couch and take off your shirt,” he orders over his shoulder as he retreats.
I freeze at the command.
He’s naked, and now he wants me to undress …
What in the world?
To be honest, I’m more baffled than anything else. I didn’t get sexy-time vibes from Pestilence—despite the fact that he was happy to prance around in his birthday suit. Not that it stops me from grabbing the fireplace poker. I will beat the crap out of this guy if he does try anything.
I’m just … stupefied at the idea.
I tense when I hear the horseman’s footfalls coming closer. A moment later he enters the living room. My muscles relax an iota when I see he’s donned his black clothing. He’s even put his boots back on. The only thing missing is his gold regalia.
For all his threats about remaining naked, the horseman has poor follow through.
In one of his hands he clutches a small item.
Pestilence pauses when he sees me, my shirt very much on, iron poker in my hand.
He sighs. “So be it.” Taking several long strides, he crosses the room.
I swipe at him, and just like all those idiot horror-movie victims, it does nothing. Pestilence plucks the poker from my hand and grabs the back of my neck, hauling me over to the couch. He throws me face down onto the sofa, and then his knee is pressed against my back.
“Humans,” he mutters.
My breathing is coming in heavy pants. I buck, but it gets me nowhere.
A moment later I hear material rip as Pestilence tears the back of my shirt open.
The horseman’s fingers hook beneath my linen bandages, the pressure causing me to jerk from a sudden burst of pain as my wounds wake up, and then he begins ripping through those too. He tears the linen apart like it’s nothing more than tissue paper.
The process hurts. I don’t think Pestilence is deliberately trying to harm me, but every brush of his knuckles or tug against my skin flares up my wounds.
At some point, it ends. Goosebumps break out across my skin as the cold air of the living room kisses my flesh.
There’s a pause, and then the horseman’s warm palm brushes against my skin. His touch is only there for a moment.
“Sit up,” he orders.
What?
Clutching the remaining tatters of my borrowed shirt to my chest, I do as he says.
“Shirt off,” he says, sounding vaguely annoyed.
I let out a shuddering breath.
I don’t want to do as he asks if only because, despite how open he is with nudity, I’m not. But now … I’m remembering the way my body dragged across that asphalt, and the remorseless look in Pestilence’s eyes the last time I disobeyed him.