Pestilence (The Four Horsemen, #1)

by Laura Thalassa

Pestilence, his crown perched upon his brow. War, with his steel blade held high. Famine, a scythe and scales at hand. And Death, blighted Death, his dark wings folded at his back, a torch of bilious smoke tight in his grip.

The whole world ought to be different. But it isn’t, and that’s what matters.

I wake to the feel of a hand at my throat. “Of all the vile humans who’ve crossed my path, you just might be the worst.”

“Do I look worried, human?” he asks, giving the knot a final yank. “I can’t tell, too many bits are missing.”

Note to self: this fucker is strong.

“It’s called privacy,” I say. “I’m aware of the term, conniving human,” he says, crossing his arms. “Why you think you deserve it is a question for a higher power.”

“I need help.” Pestilence leans against the door. “I’m disinclined to give you any.” “Oh, for the love of—” “God?” he finishes for me, raising his eyebrows. “Do you really think He is going to help you?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but if this fucking bothers you, then you can step outside.” And let me pee then escape in peace. “Empty yourself, human. I’m tired of standing here.” Muttering several curses beneath my breath, I do just that. A horseman of the apocalypse is watching me pee. Of all the sentences in the English language I could’ve come up with, that is not one I ever imagined thinking. I bite back a crazy laugh. I’m going to die, but not before my dignity is murdered first.

It’s obviously a curse, you dumb bimbo. He ain’t saving you to romance your ass.

Because naming things humanizes them. And once you humanize something, you are essentially recognizing its existence.

I might be the one Canadian who can’t stand the cold. Everyone else is like, “Hey look, I can see the sun today, and even though it’s cold enough to freeze water, by God, I think this is T-shirt weather!” Meanwhile, I’m what happens when a human and an ice cube have a baby.

Sometimes it’s the little details that cut the deepest.

“You haven’t eaten,” he explains. I turn the item over and over in my hand. “Did you … make this for me?” “I like the taste of jam. I thought you might as well.” So, yes, he did make it for me. The same man that just delivered death made me a sandwich because he noticed I hadn’t eaten.

After I put Pestilence’s crown on my head (motherfucking queen right here),

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.

I lean away from him nervously. “What?” “I don’t know,” he admits. “I feel … something when I look at you.”

“I cannot figure out what that something is,” he continues. “And hear me Sara, it is driving me mad.” Join the motherfucking club. We’re taking applicants. “You’re human,” he says. “I don’t like your kind. I’m not supposed to like you.” I don’t breathe for a second. Don’t ask the question, Burns. Don’t— “But you do?” I say. His eyes drop to my mouth. He touches my lower lip with his thumb, rubbing it gently. “God forgive me, I do.”

Pestilence smiles as my eyes rove over him, and I swear he presses his shoulders back just a little at my inspection. “Are you enjoying what you’re looking at?” I ask, even as I drink him in. The comment is supposed to be snarky, but it comes off more like bait for a compliment. “Your form is oddly pleasing to me.” Like just about everything else Pestilence says, his words bring out two opposing emotions. My blood heats, and yet … pleasing? A painting is pleasing. And oddly so? A woman should not be oddly pleasing. She should be a ball-busting, skull-crushing, badass motherfucker who is impossible to forget.

“I cannot decide if you are a toxin or a tonic,” he says, lifting a hand to my cheek. “Only that you plague my thoughts and fill my veins.” Pestilence really could work on his compliments.

“Sara,” he says, nearly breathless, “I feel … I feel I am losing myself to this sensation—to you.” His eyes search mine. “Is this … is this love?” I sober up fast.

“This is not lust I feel, dear Sara. And I hope you are half as frightened of it as I am.” But I was probably just dreaming.

“You have woken in me things I did not know slumbered,” he continues. “Now that I am aware of them, I cannot ignore their existence. I fear I am becoming … like you. Human and full of want. I need this longing to go away.”

My face heats. Is it wrong to feel flattered when Pestilence is clearly having an existential crisis? No? Alright.

“This is misery, Sara,” he repeats. “But it is the sweetest misery I have ever felt. I don’t want it to stop.”

“It is one thing for you to insult me,” Pestilence growls, ignoring the woman altogether, “another for you to insult her.” He jerks his head my way. “One will earn you my ire, the other, a painful death.” He squeezes the man’s neck tight enough to hear him choke. “Do you understand?”

“If I know any mercy,” he says, “it’s Sara’s doing.”

Pestilence’s blue eyes are luminous. “You came … too close to death for my liking.”

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.”

I don’t think anyone has ever told me anything so genuine...

“Amongst my growing list of flaws is cowardice,” Pestilence says in the darkness. “I come to you now like a thief in the night, for I fear you’ll never listen to me under the light of day,” his voice is whisper soft, “and I must confess all the things in my

heart.” Allllright. This should be interesting. And now I’m fucking wide awake. “I find you beautiful, dear Sara, so beautiful. But it’s such a sharp, scathing beauty—like the edge of my arrowheads—because I remember you are not like me. One day, you will die, and I am growing anxious of that fact.”

“I admit,” he continues, “I have no idea what’s come over me. Never in my long existence have I felt this way. Not until I came to your world in this form could I feel. And before I met you, even that was limited to the vitriol that burned thick in my belly. All I once wanted was to raze civilization to the ground.

“It was not until I met you, hated though you were, that I understood the meaning of God’s words. Of mercy.” He says this as though it’s of paramount importance. “And now I understand why there is hope yet for your kind. Because along with the bad, there is this.” Okay, I’m pretty sure this dude has no effing clue I’m awake. “And I cannot figure out what this is,” he continues, “only that I feel it when I see you and when I think of you. When we ride together and I hold you, I feel as though all is right. And when you laugh, I think I might truly die. This is an agonizing sort of pleasure, and it’s ever so perplexing. I don’t understand how pain and affection can coexist alongside one another.”

“When you ignore me, I burn with restlessness; it feels as though the sun has turned its back on the world. And when you smile at me—when you gaze at me like you can see my soul—I feel … I feel like I am lit on fire, like you have been called by God to raze my world.”

“For good or for ill,” he says over his shoulder, “I have been indelibly changed by you.”

“We only get so many minutes alive,” I say. “When you find someone worth spending that time with, you don’t want to share those minutes with anyone else.”

“They are in love.” Now it’s me who isn’t following. When Pestilence sees this, he explains, “This is the first time I’ve seen humans in love. It’s … curious, compelling, to see a side of human nature that has been previously hidden from me.”

“You have managed what no one else has: you have awoken my heart. So, no, Sara, of all the words I’d use to describe you, fascinating would definitely be one of them.”

“I like making love to you, Sara Burns.” My stomach somersaults. “I think it might be my new favorite thing in the world, next to this.” His hold briefly tightens. I run my hand over his chest and down his abs, smiling softly. “You prefer this to my mad conversation skills?” I tease. “Ask me again tomorrow when we’re in the saddle,” he says, grinning. “I’m sure my answer will change.” That smile! The sight of it causes my breath to hitch. “You’re just saying that to get on my good side.” “Sara, you only have good sides. I’m saying this because each moment with you is my new favorite.”

“What’ve you done to me?” I whisper, searching his face. I set out to destroy this man, not to protect him. “The same thing you have done to me, I imagine,” Pestilence says, brushing a lock of my hair aside. “You want your people to live, but you’re unwilling for me to be harmed. I want your people to die, but I cannot harm you. Each of us is trapped between our minds and our hearts.”