Beneath my touch, Pestilence’s skin jumps. He holds very still, letting me explore his body.

“What are these?” I ask. It’s obvious it’s writing, but it’s a language unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

He stares down at me, his eyes bright. “My purpose, written into flesh.”

The horseman places a hand over mine, effectively trapping it against one of the symbols. Steering my hand with his, he has me trace the marking.

“This one means ‘divinely ordained,’” he explains, releasing his grip.

I raise my eyebrows at him before my attention drops back to his chest. I move my hand over several characters, stopping on one that lays to the left of his heart.

“And this one?” I ask.

“‘Breath of God.’”

I trace the word. Beneath my touch, Pestilence’s skin pebbles.

“What language is this?” I ask.

“A holy one.” His eyes are on me, tracking my movements.

If I had a little more courage, my hand would drop lower, where another band of characters ring his hips, the lowest of the symbols dipping well beneath his towel.

But alas, my courage fails me.

“Can you speak it?” I ask.

His hand presses over mine once more, holding my palm against his heart. “Sara, it is my native tongue.”

I stare at the writing wondrously. I feel a presence here in this dark room. It presses in close. I can see it in the back of the horseman’s steady gaze, and I can feel it in the very beat of his heart.

My gaze lifts to his. “Say something for me.”

His eyes shine. “I cannot,” he says gently. “To speak the holy language is to press divine will upon the world.”

I pull my hand away, removing myself from him. “Isn’t that what you’re already doing?” How else am I supposed to interpret Pestilence riding across the world and spreading his plague?

He leans forward, looking lupine and feral as he comes in close. “What is spoken cannot be unheard. It is not for mortal ears. But … I am not above sharing a word or two with you.”

I forget to breathe as his own breath fans against my cheeks, his lips—and the rest of his nearly unclad body—so very, very close.

Just when I think he’s going to share one of these sacred words, he says, “Go back to sleep. I will watch over you.”

I don’t want to sleep, not when I still feel the press of his supple skin beneath my fingers, marked with figures strange and holy. I’m unbearably lonely, my body aching at the lack of a partner, and damn it all, but the partner it wants is him. I want him. All of him. In me, around me, next to me, filling my mind, my body, my life—and that’s so many different kinds of fucked up, and I’m so over it, so over feeling torn.

Pestilence stands, backing away into the darkened recesses of the house. I nearly call out to him. It would be so easy to coax him towards me, to remove that towel and pull him down and feel his weight settle on me.

To my shame, it isn’t my loyalty to humankind that stops me from calling him back. It’s the deep fear that he’ll refuse my advances.

There’s only so many shitty things a girl can take in a single day.

Chapter 30

The good news: this house comes stocked with every food imaginable to man. The bad news: everything apparently expired seven years ago.

That’s what we get for squatting in a hoarder’s home.

At least there’s coffee—and powdered creamer. I greedily drink my cup while sitting in the house’s breakfast nook, the space packed with dirty dishes, mail, and a few more of those empty prescription bottles.

I stare out the window, taking in the yard with its thin dusting of snow, warming my hands on the mug I hold. My gaze drifts from the window to the nearest pile of junk. Resting at the top of it is a flyer with a drawing of Pestilence.

Warning! Pestilence is Coming!

The words are emblazoned in red. Beneath it in smaller print is a paragraph detailing his movements and urging residents to evacuate, preferably for at least a week.

I flip the page over and nearly balk. Staring back at me is my face. It’s not particularly accurate; it has that same look that police sketches have. My face is wider, my cheeks fuller and my chin pointier, but it’s still me.

Traveling with a Mystery Woman!

The paragraph beneath it says that while evidence suggests I’m Pestilence’s prisoner, I’m likely working for the horseman and to keep wide berth.

Lastly, the page has a map of North America, a red line drawn up the East Coast before cutting across Canada, and ending with the tip of the line curved downward, suggesting that the horseman and I are traveling down the West Coast, which seems accurate enough.

Behind me, the door opens, jerking me to attention. I shove the paper away.

Likely working for the horseman. The warning replays itself over and over in my mind, and I feel every inch the turncoat. Because that flyer nailed my situation, hadn’t it?

“Sara!” Pestilence calls, his heavy footfalls making their way to the kitchen.

He grins when his eyes alight on me, the expression so foreign and wonderful that even in the mood I’m in, my heart skips at the sight.

“Knew I’d find you in here,” he says.

I give him a watery smile back.

It only takes him a few moments to see that I’m troubled.

His grin falls away. “What’s wrong?”

We’re supposed to be enemies, but despite everything, I kind of like you. Oh, and the rest of humanity has figured that bit out too.

I shake my head. “Just … tired.”

He comes over to me, clad in all his accoutrements. There’s nothing like seeing Pestilence dressed in his finery to make a girl feel like three-day-old road kill.

He bends down and, studying my face, presses his thumb right beneath my eye.

“You’re getting exhausted,” he notices.

Scratch that—seven-day-old road kill. We’re talking the really fucked-up bits of critters that remain plastered to the asphalt long after they’ve expired.

“All the traveling has taken a toll on me,” I admit.

The stress, the long days stuck in the saddle, my mounting injuries, the relentless winter chill, the unreliable meals—I’ve done my best to muscle my way through it, but it only takes Pestilence’s notice for it all to come crashing back into my awareness.

Exhaustion probably won’t be what kills you, I remind myself.

Pestilence frowns. “Then you shall rest. We’ll linger here for—” he glances out the window, taking in the weak winter sun, “two more days.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him that two more days isn’t going to make much difference. That it hasn’t made much of a difference. We’ve been pausing for days at a time.

It’s never going to get easier with Pestilence. Care though he might, he’s always going to be impervious to the things that will kill me, and so he’ll always push me harder than what I’m capable of.

But I don’t say these things. Instead I nod and give him another weak smile.

His frown deepens. “I don’t like this look,” he says, studying my features. “You lie with your face. Do you need more time? Three days? Four? You shall have it—only remove this sad, defeated look. I cannot stand it.”